God Of football

The Madrid supporters, who had been halfway to celebrating, sank back with groans and whistles of frustration.

"Magnificent recovery from Izan Miura Hernández," Fletcher's tone carried both admiration and disbelief, "He lost the ball but he sprinted half the length of the pitch to snuff out a Real Madrid counter — that's as good as a goal at the other end."

On the pitch, Izan was already pushing back to his position, a brief raise of the hand to acknowledge the noise before his focus reset.

The night had barely begun.

....

Up in the Emirates' VIP gallery, the glass muffled the bite of the London night, but not the pulse of the stadium.

Even here, the rumble of thousands could be felt through the seats, a reminder that this wasn't some polite dinner — this was a fight.

Hori sat forward with her palms meeting in a few eager claps after Izan's sliding recovery, her grin bright and unfiltered.

"That's my brother," she whispered, half to herself, half to Komi, who sat beside her.

Her mother's eyes followed Izan as he jogged back into position, and though she smiled faintly at Hori's excitement, she didn't clap.

"It's only been a minute," Komi murmured, her voice gentle but a bit critical.

Olivia didn't join either of them.

Her gaze stayed locked on the pitch, chin resting lightly on her folded hands.

She wasn't smiling, wasn't talking — she was simply watching him, her stillness speaking louder than any cheer.

Miranda leaned back slightly in her seat, crossing one leg over the other.

She wasn't about to get swept up this early — not when ninety minutes had so many ways of turning.

Her attention was interrupted by a low voice from just behind her shoulder.

"Are you enjoying the game?"

It was smooth, measured, but with the faintest hint of amusement.

Miranda turned just enough to catch the calm, deliberate smile of Florentino Pérez.

Of course.

The man who rarely travelled for away fixtures, unless it was a final.

The man whose seat was supposed to be far from here, in one of the presidential suites in the Emirates.

And yet, here he was, standing in their row.

"There's only been a minute," Miranda replied evenly, glancing back toward the pitch, "so there's not very much to enjoy yet."

The dryness in her voice earned a chuckle from him, warm but knowing.

He stepped forward, leaning past to offer a polite wave to the others.

Komi nodded with quiet politeness.

Hori gave a quick, shy smile.

Olivia's acknowledgement was nothing more than a brief lift of the chin before her eyes went straight back to Izan.

They assumed he'd continue walking — but instead, Pérez lowered himself into the vacant seat along their row, just a space away.

Miranda's brows rose.

"You're not going to like sitting here," she said under her breath, half warning. "We tend to get… loud when Izan's on the ball."

"I don't mind," Pérez answered smoothly, as if the idea amused him.

And just like that, the pitch demanded everyone's attention again.

Down on the grass, Mbappé had drifted inside from the left, the ball glued to his foot, leaving Declan Rice just behind him with a drop of the shoulder.

Grey shirts surged around him like the tide.

"Here's Kylian Mbappé," Darren Fletcher's tone sharpened, the crowd rising with the danger. "He's got space to work with…"

Then — bang.

A body met him with such force that the Frenchman staggered, momentum cut like a rope.

He turned sharply, almost affronted, to see who had stopped him dead in his tracks.

Was it Partey?

Gabriel? No, the Brazilian was still in front of him.

But all he saw next was a flash of blue eyes, calm and sharp — Izan.

"No fear from Izan Miura Hernández!" Fletcher's voice chased the rising volume of the home crowd.

"Not his jurisdiction as an attacker, but he's just knocked the life out of Mbappé like that!"

Izan didn't linger on the moment.

He nicked the ball free, rolled it to Jorginho for safety, then spun into a sprint on the right side of the central channel.

The pass came skidding out toward the right flank, the kind that begged to be attacked, and Izan met it on the move, first touch pulling it under his control, second touch pushing it forward into open grass.

That's when David Alaba moved in.

Low stance, eyes locked, timing his step to kill the run before it began.

But Izan didn't wait for him.

The ball was nudged — just the faintest push — not toward Alaba's front, but just around his hip.

For a split second, it looked like the Austrian might still have the angle… and then Izan was gone.

The burst was frightening.

His acceleration wasn't a run so much as a detonation, legs snapping forward like pistons, each stride ripping up more ground than it should.

Even from the stands, you could feel the difference — that extra gear footballers talk about but almost never see.

"Miura Hernández turns on the jets!" Fletcher's voice was nearly drowned out by the ripple of gasps and shouts swelling from both ends of the stadium.

Alaba gave chase for three desperate steps before giving up the outside, head twisting to track a blur that was already tearing down the flank.

The white touchline blurred under Izan's boots as he drove forward another five yards before snapping the run inward, cutting diagonally toward the heart of the box where Havertz was waiting just inside the arc, drifting between Madrid's midfield screen and their defensive line.

With a sharp, La croqueta, Izan got away from Camaving, and then a pass zipped through at shin height, weighted to die just at the German's feet, followed.

Havertz's touch was instinctive.

He held the ball just until he felt pressure before he flicked it backwards, just enough to bypass Rüdiger's lunging leg.

And once again, the ball spun neatly into the path of the oncoming Izan, who had never slowed.

Now Jude Bellingham was there, locked onto him, shoulder brushing into Izan's arm, trying to muscle him off balance before he could swing.

But the contact didn't even make him flinch.

He adjusted his stride — one, two — then wrapped his left foot around the ball.

The strike came with a whip-crack motion, body leaning over the effort with the inside of his boot carving the ball into a vicious, bending arc toward the far top corner.

"And Miura—!" Fletcher's voice climbed high, then suddenly cut off, as if the breath had been stolen from him.

For a heartbeat, the stadium went silent.

All you could hear was the hiss of the ball slicing through the air, a perfect white shape screaming toward the goal.

Courtois reacted late, almost wrong-footed, but his size made up for it.

He sprang, a full stretch of muscle and reach, hand straining… until his fingertips found leather.

The contact wasn't enough to stop it clean, but enough to send it just off its perfect line.

The ball slammed into the underside of the crossbar with a sound that made thousands of fans jolt in unison—

CLANG!

The ball ricocheted down into the six-yard box, chaos erupting as Courtois scrambled and grey shirts collapsed toward it, but a red shirt had gotten there before anyone could.

And without hesitation, he drew his foot back.

"And it's Trossard!" Fletcher's voice punched through the noise as the Belgian read the bounce before anyone else, surging in from the left.

He met it clean on the half-volley, boot slicing through leather — thud! — and the net rippled in a blur of white, and then, the Emirates detonated.

GOOOOOOAAAAAAALLLLLL!

Red scarves shot into the air, the roar of the home crowd swelling into a tidal wave that shook the very frame of the stadium.

"Right place, right time!" Fletcher's tone carried pure adrenaline over the noise, "as quick as you'd like. The fans don't have to wait long as they have gotten their goal and Arsenal lead in the first leg of the Champions League quarter-finals!"

Players in red swarmed toward Trossard, fists raised, the Belgian grinning as if he'd just torn a hole in the tie itself.

The noise was deafening — until it wasn't.

A sharp blast of the referee's whistle cut through the celebration like a blade.

"Oh, wait, what do we have here?" Darren Fletcher's voice came through.

One by one, the Arsenal players' expressions shifted from triumph to confusion, heads turning toward the touchline.

There it was.

The assistant referee's flag — held high, unmoving.

And just like that, the explosion of joy in the stands faltered into a rumble of groans, disbelief rippling through the crowd.

A/N: Ok guys. Here it is, the last of the day. I had a bit of things going on during the day and that's the reason for the late release so have fun reading and I'll see you in a bit with the first of the day. Bye for now.