God Of football

The players were in place now.

Boots on turf.

A few Shirts tucked in.

Eyes narrowed under the floodlights.

The final pre-match whistles had blown, the coins had been tossed, and now all that remained was the first touch of the ball.

The scoreboard timer sat at 00:00, waiting for life.

Arsenal, playing in their away black with subtle white, red, and green trim, were set to start.

In the center circle, standing tall in the No. 9 role, Izan Miura Hernandez adjusted his footing as the ball rested motionless in front of him.

Just to his left, Ødegaard gave a short nod.

The rest of the side held their shape behind them, calm and disciplined.

On the touchline, Mikel Arteta stood with arms folded, his eyes already scanning the full width of the pitch as his first match of the second half of the season began, and very soon, KICKOFF

Izan tapped the ball back with his left foot after the whistle sounded.

Ødegaard received it cleanly, turned, and nudged it into the deeper midfield where Rice was already on the move.

And just like that, the match was alive.

"And here we go," the lead commentator said as the ball rolled into play, his voice slipping effortlessly into rhythm.

"Arsenal get us underway here at Brentford Community Stadium, and it's the first Premier League fixture of the new year. Welcome Ladies and gentlemen, to 2025."

"They'll want to begin it how they've played most of the season—controlled, confident, and relentless," his partner added.

"You can already see Izan pulling into that false-nine pocket," the lead continued.

"Not sitting up top and waiting like the proper number 9 that he isn't. He's drifting early—looking to drop in, pull defenders out, and link with Martinelli and Saka in those half-spaces."

"It's become a pattern with him," the co-commentator said.

"He starts central, then starts dictating the tempo before anyone notices he's left the line. For a seventeen-year-old, he always plays like someone who's got a full career of experience under the hood but he's only been around for 2 years now."

The ball swung wide to Zinchenko, who took one touch and reset through the back line.

Arsenal weren't rushing.

They were setting their pace.

Brentford stayed compact, lines tight, pressing in coordinated steps—but eyes were already following one figure more closely than the others.

Because somewhere between the whistle and the second pass, Izan had moved again.

Not frantic. Not loud.

Just in position.

Where he always seemed to be.

Waiting.

The tempo settled for all of the following sixty seconds before it changed again.

Down on the touchline, Brentford's manager Thomas Frank was already leaning past the technical zone, voice cutting through the cold afternoon air like a whistle.

"Push higher! Now! Step in—go!"

He clapped twice, sharp and urgent, and the response from his players was immediate.

Brentford's midfield surged forward in unison, not recklessly but with intent—a three-man press tilted diagonally, pinching the ball side where Timber had just received it from Zinchenko.

Timber took his first touch calmly, but the second betrayed him.

Just half a foot too far out, just half a beat too slow.

It was enough.

Brentford's Damsgaard, in the No. 10 role, closed like a shark, lunging to poke the ball off Timber's foot and into Wissa's path at the edge of the area.

And suddenly, everything compressed.

Wissa didn't hesitate.

He dropped his shoulder and struck through the ball low, sending it zipping hard toward the near post before Arsenal's defense could reset.

Saliba read it.

Or maybe just felt it.

He lunged, body fully horizontal, sliding in from an angle no one else could've timed.

His shin caught the strike mid-flight, but not cleanly—it redirected awkwardly, spinning downward and between his legs, skipping along the slick grass.

The ball was still heading for goal.

And that's when Raya exploded off his line.

He left his feet, crashing to the turf with his arms stretched out like wings, and collapsed his body over the spinning shot just as it crossed into the six-yard box.

One bounce.

One grab and he secured the ball as Mbuemo came tumbling down but the whistle didn't come, filling the away end with huge sighs of relief.

"Well, well, well… Timber gets caught, and Brentford are very nearly ahead," the lead commentator breathed, leaning into the moment.

"That's aggressive from Frank's side—and it nearly paid off."

"Fair play to Saliba for getting something on that," the co-commentator added, his voice taut.

"But it still had to be saved. Raya was alert, and he had to be because that could've been 1-0 inside five minutes."

But before they could finish—

Raya was already up.

Still crouched slightly, arms tight around the ball, eyes scanning for a release.

And then he saw it.

Or rather, he saw him.

Izan.

Now hovering in that left channel between fullback and center-back, just off the shoulder. Still.

Composed.

Not even glancing back.

It looked like nothing.

But Raya had been trained for this.

They all had.

That stillness meant danger.

That posture meant to go.

He wound up and hurled the ball with both hands—an overhead, diagonal throw, flat and fast like a frozen rope.

It whistled through the air and into space thirty yards ahead as the rest of the players on the pitch turned to follow where the ball was going.

"Raya's gone long—and it's him again. He's picked out Izan."

The ball dropped fast.

Nørgaard stepped in to close the space, body angled, expecting a chest down or a lay-off.

But Izan didn't even glance over his shoulder.

Instead, he shifted his left foot, let the ball run across him, and in one fluid touch, flicked it between Nørgaard's legs with the inside of his boot.

Clean.

Intentional.

Surgical.

He spun the opposite way a split-second later, regaining possession on the turn and accelerating into space like he'd rehearsed the entire exchange in his mind the night before.

The crowd gasped.

The sound didn't build—it popped.

And then the energy rose with every step he took.

"He's in—he's skipped past Nørgaard like he wasn't even there."

"And he didn't look once. Not even a glance. Just… pure instinct."

Izan was sprinting now—diagonally toward the center, each stride longer than the last, the ball barely leaving his foot as he pushed past the halfway line.

The Brentford back line, flat moments ago, was already backpedaling, the left center-back stepping up first to meet the threat head-on.

His knees bent.

Arms extended slightly.

He knew what was coming.

But it didn't make it easier to stop.

Izan didn't slow.

He shifted his weight left, drawing the defender into motion.

Then cut right, just enough to unbalance the shape.

And the moment was still growing.

Brentford was reacting.

The first defender came into frame fast—Jarrell Van den Berg, tall and well-positioned, already adjusting his stance with arms slightly out, expecting a change of direction, maybe even bracing for contact.

He knew what he was up against.

Everyone in the league did by now.

But there's a difference between preparing for Izan and actually being in front of him.

"Izan's isolated here—Van den Berg steps in, but this is dangerous territory…"

Izan slowed just slightly, not enough to lose momentum but just enough to make the moment stretch—and then he leaned left, rolling the ball delicately with the inside of his right foot.

It looked like a pass, a feint, maybe just a hesitation.

But it was none of those.

It was a La Croqueta.

Quick and seamless, he shifted the ball from right to left in one sweeping motion—gliding it across his body, just far enough to escape Van den Berg's front foot.

"Oh, he's done him in! That's lovely—La Croqueta through the line!"

Van den Berg lunged with his arm, instinctive, reaching to stop what his legs couldn't catch.

He caught the side of Izan's shirt.

The fabric stretched, but still—nothing.

Izan didn't stumble.

He didn't break rhythm.

He didn't even glance at the hand pulling him back.

"He's still going! Van den Berg's got a fistful of his shirt and it's not enough!"

Instead, he pushed forward, dragging Van den Berg with him for three full strides like the defender was a misplaced training bib.

His center of gravity stayed low, posture compact, knees churning.

The movement was surreal—not just fast, but balanced in a way that didn't make sense under contact.

Most players would've gone down.

Some might've tried to win the free kick.

But Izan didn't want the whistle.

He wanted the run.

"That's outrageous strength—he's pulled him five yards like a sled dog and still hasn't broken stride!"

Van den Berg finally lost grip and stumbled backward, off balance, and out of the play.

Izan didn't stop to acknowledge it.

He stayed locked in, his boots kissing the turf with each stride, the ball gliding beside him as if it too knew better than to get in his way.

"And he's still going—Brentford haven't laid a finger on him that's counted yet!"

A/n: Sorry for the late update. I'll release the following days own in a bit. Have fun reading and I'll see you. Also don't forget to draw my attention to any mistakes you find so I can correct them