God Of football

The whistle split the night air like a starter's gun as Havertz stood over the ball, drawing in a slow breath that misted faintly in the cool Madrid evening.

His eyes met Odegaard's for the briefest moment — a silent confirmation — and then his boot nudged the ball backwards.

The second leg of the Champions League quarter-final had begun.

At first glance, it was a safe start.

A pass rolled behind to the security of black shirts, with red, green and white stripes on the sides, as if Arsenal intended to set their rhythm before venturing forward.

But there was nothing safe about the sight of Real Madrid suddenly rushing to meet them.

The press hit like a wave.

White shirts darted in from every angle, cutting off passing lanes before they had even properly opened.

Boots slammed the turf as the Real Madrid players moved with the intent of a wrecking train.

Every Arsenal touch was under siege, and the roars of the Santiago Bernabéu, swelling and bending with each attempt at an interception from their players, were not helping the way side.

But Arsenal had come ready for this.

There was no panic in their play.

The passes were short, sharp, deliberate, with each one a statement that they wouldn't be bullied off the ball.

Saliba switched it across the backline to Gabriel.

Then Gabriel angled it forward into midfield, where Declan Rice turned away from danger with a drop of the shoulder so smooth it would have made Busquets proud.

"Well, they said they wanted to play through the press, and look at this — Arsenal trying to take on Real Madrid at their own game," Ian Darke's voice came over the broadcast.

Robbie Savage, sounding half-wary, half-impressed, replied, "Yeah, but they're not just copying it, Ian. This is measured. This is precise. But it's risky — especially here."

Seconds dripped away into a couple of minutes, and still Arsenal passed.

The ball zipped between them like it was connected by invisible threads, pulling Madrid's press apart stitch by stitch.

Slowly, the initial fire from the home crowd dimmed to a low rumble, but with things going so well for them, the Arsenal players started getting a bit more lax.

Saliba spotted a wide-open lane and pinged a crisp pass toward the right flank of Real Madrid.

Myles Lewis-Skelly took it perfectly under control, lifting his head to find Martinelli stationed far out on the touchline.

The teenager wound his body to send the ball forward — but suddenly Federico Valverde's shadow loomed into view, cutting off the route before Lucas Vázquez joined him, stepping just close enough to choke the angle down to nothing.

Lewis-Skelly hesitated, unsure of himself because ahead of Martinelli was space, but Ascensio was there too.

After a split-second of deliberation, he turned inwards and sent it back to Rice in midfield.

Rice collected it on the half-turn, planning to recycle it backwards, keep the rhythm alive.

But behind him, Saliba's voice cracked the air like a warning shot.

"Not clear!"

But it was too late as the ball had already left Rice's boot.

It rolled a few feet and then settled straight into the path of Kylian Mbappé, who stood behind the former and Saliba.

The stadium's collective breath caught and then broke into a deafening roar as the ball got to the Frenchman.

Mbappé, killer instincts sharpened and looking to punish, didn't even pause to gather it.

He cradled the ball inwardly before turning and threading a pass in behind Gabriel.

The Brazilian defender had been stepping forward, arm raised for an offside call.

But Vinícius Júnior had timed his run to perfection.

He was already gone, tearing through the gap like the opening had been drawn for him alone.

Green grass opened ahead as Raya charged out, making himself as big as possible, arms wide.

But Vinicius wasn't going to throw away such a gift.

With his head down and hips low, he lashed the ball hard and flat across the keeper's body.

Raya moved, the ball clipping his fingers, but the power was too much as it skipped once on the turf before smacking into the back of the net with a clean thunk.

And from behind, the Bernabeu came alive.

"GOOOOOAAALLLLL", they roared, hands and scarves in the air.

"Real Madrid have started as they mean to — and inside seven minutes, they've levelled the tie on aggregate!" Robbie Savage jumped in, the rush of the moment bleeding into his words.

"And it's the nightmare combination — Mbappé with the interception, Vinícius with the finish. These players might not have had the best of games at the Emirates, but they have put Real Madrid up, here in the Spanish capital."

On the pitch, Vinícius was already on his knees by the corner flag, one hand slapping the Madrid badge on his chest, the other raised to kiss it.

He stood for a while, taking in the applause and then turned before waving to Jude Bellingham, who was sprinting back to halfway with the ball hugged tight under one arm.

"Two of the world's most expensive players combining for the opener," Ian Darke added, his tone measured but heavy. "It's early, but right now… Arsenal's night is looking a little awry."

The scoreboard flickered,

Real Madrid 1 – 0 Arsenal, while the Los Blancos continued to bask in the reverie of the goal.

"This match is barely minutes old, and already it has the feel of a storm rolling in. It's now 2-2 on aggregate and could go either way, but for now, Real Madrid have the momentum and Arsenal should be finding a way out soon, or else, they might dread coming to the Bernabeu tonight."

The roar from the Madrid goal was still rattling around the stands when Izan's own voice cut through it on the pitch, sharper, louder and angrier.

Arms out wide, chest heaving, he barked at his teammates, his words quick and clipped, stabbing through the noise while his hands chopped at the air, urging them forward, telling them to wake up, to stop dragging their feet.

On the touchline, Arteta half-stepped toward the edge of his technical area, ready to say the same thing.

But when he saw Izan, already doing what was asked but not demanded from a player his age, he stopped.

There was no point doubling the order when the message had already been sent.

Havertz restarted play with a short pass backwards as the White shirts surged forward again, Madrid looking to smother Arsenal before they could take a breath.

But this time, it was Izan calling for the ball, and when it came, he owned it.

The ball stuck to his feet as he turned in tight circles, drawing defenders toward him like moths to light.

Valverde lunged; Tchoumeni closed in; even Bellingham edged near, all of them taking little bites at the space around him.

But Izan just kept moving, dragging the ball with him, never letting them close enough.

He released it with a single, sharp pass — but didn't stop.

He slipped into a pocket of space, demanded it back on the turn, and then was gone, exploding away from Valverde in midfield.

"Look at him go!" Ian Darke's voice rose with the run. "Izan has just ripped through the heart of that Madrid press!"

Lucas Vázquez stepped up to confront him — and was instantly made to look heavy-footed as Izan knocked the ball one way, darted the other, and was past him without breaking stride.

"He's taken Vázquez to pieces there," Robbie Savage added, a grin audible in his voice. "He is on a mission and he is going solo!"

Izan pivoted after going past Vasquez, and suddenly, it was just open green between him and the penalty area.

He kept driving, the white shirts retreating in a desperate stagger.

He angled his run toward the box, eyes fixed ahead — until David Alaba, shifting all the way across from left-back, slid in.

It was a perfect 50–50, Alaba's timing inch-perfect, his boot brushing the ball just before it clipped Izan's shin.

The Arsenal midfielder stumbled, pushing off the ground for support as the ball rolled out of play, but he managed to stay upright.

The referee waved it off for a throw-in.

"Well, they've finally stopped him," Ian Darke said, his voice still charged from the run. "But if that's a sign of what's to come, it's only a matter of time before Izan finds a way through again."

"Here! Here!" Rice's voice cut through the din, sharp and clear above the rolling chants.

Martinelli had the ball in his hands near the touchline, eyes flicking between the moving shadows in Arsenal's black away kits.

He rocked back and forth on his heels, shuffling for a moment, weighing his options.

Then, with a quick whip of his arms, he hurled it toward Rice.

A/N: Sorry, guys, for the late release. It's exam week next week, and our professors who haven't finished their curriculum want to cram a lot of things in. Not very advisable, but they are doing it anyway, and we are expected to cope with it. This is the first of the day, and I already started on the second, so I will see you in a bit with that one too. Have fun reading.