God Of football

The Emirates was still trembling, the crowd's roar spilling over itself, the image of Rice's strike burned into every mind.

As Arsenal made their way back to the halfway line, Ødegaard came up alongside him, one arm slung briefly over his shoulder.

"What on earth was that?" he asked, his voice carrying a mix of awe and disbelief.

Rice let out a short breath, shaking his head.

"I don't even know," he said. "It just… everything felt sharper. Like I could see the whole picture at once."

"Well, whatever it is, keep doing it," Odegaard said.

Izan, a few paces behind, caught the exchange.

A faint smirk tugged at his lips, and with a small shake of the head, he strode past them, letting the moment belong to Rice.

"Small price for such goals," he muttered just as he passed them.

From the stands, the Arsenal faithful found their full voice again, the chant swelling until it drowned out the lingering Madrid whistles.

"Let's go, Gunners!" rolled in waves, urgent and proud, cascading from tier to tier and across the way, the Real Madrid supporters refused to be outdone — flags whipped in the air, drums thundered, their rallying cries crashing back across the pitch.

Both sides were alive again.

....

A person I know (me) once said, when one star burns too brightly, the rest fade from our sight.

It's not that they've stopped burning.

No, that's actually far from it.

It's just that our eyes can only take so much light before they miss the others.

But a star doesn't stop being a star because someone else is stealing the night sky.

It waits.

And when the moment comes, it blinds you just the same.

"Kylian Mbappé now… look at that, showing his skill—stepovers, so quick, so fluid—Saliba's caught in two minds…"

On the pitch, Mbappé's movement was pure electricity.

Each feint was a dare, each flick of the boot a threat.

Saliba adjusted his stance, wary, but the French captain's hips shifted one way, the ball the other, and with a sudden burst of pace, he glided past, leaving a ripple of tension in his wake.

With barely a glance, Mbappé angled his body and slid a perfectly measured pass diagonally across the grass, threading it behind Jurrien Timber and towards the far touchline.

It was the sort of ball that looked destined to roll out for a throw—until another gery blur appeared in pursuit.

Vinícius Júnior was already at full tilt, his strides long and desperate, the crowd's pitch rising as he gave chase until he caught it.

Somehow, with the merest flick of his boot, he was able to hook the ball back into play before it could cross the white paint.

Momentum carried him half a step off balance, but he recovered in a heartbeat, scanning for an option, and he found one.

In the form of Mbappé, who was already ghosting into the box, hand half-raised, demanding the return.

The pass came—sharp, low, dangerous—and the Frenchman met it without hesitation, opening up his body and driving a vicious strike towards the near post.

For a second, it might as well have been Real Madrid's second, with their fans already on their feet, ready to celebrate.

But!

David Raya, reading it in the blink between thought and movement, lunged across his line.

He didn't catch it—there was no time for that—but he threw a strong fist at it, the ball cannoning away in a spray of moisture from the pitch.

The save was met with a guttural roar from the home fans, the commentator's voice rolling with the noise.

"Raya keeps Arsenal alive… but Madrid aren't done here!"

Because while the save had emptied the air of its first threat, the danger hadn't gone with it.

The rebound spun out towards the edge of the box, where Jude Bellingham—who had hung back rather than following the rush—was already gliding into position like a shadow that had been waiting for the light to change.

He cushioned it with one touch, drawing it in as if nothing else existed, and for a moment, there was only the shape of his body and the space in front of him.

But the moment didn't last.

From the corner of his vision came a streak of red and white—low, quick, relentless.

Izan had read it early, peeling away from his own man the instant the save was made, eating up the ground with a sprinter's hunger.

By the time Jude adjusted his weight to strike, Izan was there, sliding across his path, a blade against the intention.

The ball jarred loose under the challenge, spinning harmlessly away, and the spell Madrid had begun to weave was broken… for now.

The commentator's words followed like an echo in the air, half admiration, half warning.

"And Izan again… stopping what could have been the moment for Madrid. You can't blink in this game, not with these names on the pitch."

From the touchline, Ancelotti's figure cut a sharp one, the old master with his arms folded, eyes fixed on the pitch with cold displeasure that could drain the confidence from any player in his charge.

He said something clipped and decisive to his assistants before a sharp beckon summoned two players from the Madrid bench, his hand slicing through the air as if to say enough; whatever patterns they had tried to weave until now were no longer enough for him.

A ripple of anticipation passed through the crowd as the fourth official stepped forward, the electronic board lifting high to glow in the Emirates floodlights — 19 in bright red, 53 in vivid green.

Leandro Trossard jogged toward the sideline, head tilted slightly down, offering a brief clap to the crowd.

From the opposite direction, a much younger figure moved with quiet energy, the number 53 stretched across his back — Ethan Nwaneri.

He stepped onto the pitch with a focus, searching for one man in particular, and it didn't take long to find him.

Izan was waiting near the halfway line, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the ball rolling lazily nearby under the foot of an Arsenal defender.

Nwaneri came in close, speaking low enough for it to stay between them.

"Boss says shift to the right," he murmured, the words quick but precise, "Valverde's been leaving that side open because Trossard wasn't really pushing him. You on that flank changes everything."

Izan listened, the faintest glint in his eye as he absorbed the tactical tweak.

He gave a single nod and then turned and drifted across the pitch.

The move was subtle at first, almost hidden within the normal ebb and flow of Arsenal's possession — but by the time he had planted himself on the far right touchline, the cameras had found him, and so had the voices in the commentary box.

"They've switched him over," one voice came through, almost with the satisfaction of a man spotting a plot twist before it unfolded.

"Izan Miura now on the left wing… which means we're about to get a head-to-head between him and Valverde — two players who do not know the meaning of taking a step back. This could be… well, this could be something for the ages."

And just as the commentators were still remarking on the switch, the ball came skipping across the pitch and found Izan on the left touchline.

"There's the first touch for him out wide…" Darren Fletcher's voice rose, the sentence almost blending into the noise as Valverde closed in, those long, deliberate strides carrying the menace of a player who didn't just mark but also hunted.

"Yeah, but look at Izan's body shape here," Steve McManaman chipped in without missing a beat, "he's inviting him in—"

The second touch sent Izan gliding away, hips rolling loose, but before he could open his body and drive into the open grass, Valverde bit back with a perfect sliding challenge from behind, the scrape of studs on turf ringing louder than the gasp from the crowd.

"Ohhh… that's excellent from Valverde," Fletcher exhaled.

"Didn't dive in earlier, waited for his moment, and bang — ball's over the line."

Nwaneri was already jogging toward the sideline, ball tucked under his arm, glancing once toward Izan before tossing it back into play.

"Quick throw here," McManaman noted, almost over Fletcher's words. "They want to keep Valverde thinking…"

Izan didn't trap it; instead, he let it drop just enough before flicking it high over the Uruguayan's head, a samba twist so sharp the crowd's noise bent upward like a sudden gust.

"Ohhh, that's cheeky!" Fletcher laughed. "That's just—"That's why I'm still here."

But even before the ball began to fall, Izan's frame stilled, his head tilting in the faintest pause, as though the real move was forming not in his feet, but somewhere deeper — the kind of moment where you could feel an idea crystallising before it even happened.

"Fuck," Odegaard muttered as Izan drew his left foot back.

A/n; Okay, this is the Golden Ticket chapter. Have fin reading and I'll see you in a while with the last of the day.