God Of football

"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 momentarily, weighing his options.

Then, with a quick whip of his arms, he hurled it toward Rice, who took a touch, but that was all it was, a touch, before he swung his boot through the ball, sending it arcing high into the Madrid box.

It dropped into chaos.

Like a pinball machine, the ball ricocheted straight back out, Rudiger rising like a wall of muscle to thump it away with a thunderous header.

Below him, the drop zone erupted into a mess of limbs and jostling bodies, black and white shirts all clawing for the falling ball.

Izan braced himself, eyes on the descending ball.

His legs coiled, ready to leap, to meet it with the crown of his head.

But then—something caught his eye.

Just beyond the chaos, away from the pushing and grappling, stood Kylian Mbappé.

He wasn't leaping with the others or fighting in the scrum.

He was still, his body tensed like a sprinter crouched before the gun.

His gaze was fixed not on the ball above but on the grass ahead, waiting, ready, and when Izan spotted it, his breath hitched.

He knew what that meant as he had done so countless times, and as if scripted, the ball squirmed loose, tumbling awkwardly through legs and shoulders before finding the calmest pair of feet on the pitch—Jude Bellingham.

"Bellingham regains possession now! And suddenly, there's danger here!"

The commentator's voice snapped like static over the roar as Bellingham drew his foot back and released a ball curling into the space behind Arsenal's high back line.

It was a dagger, sliding across the green into the channel Mbappé had been waiting for.

"Look at that—he's picked him out!" Ian Darke croaked, but by the time he finished, Mbappe was already gone.

Like a shadow breaking free, he exploded forward, legs pumping, the ball gliding ahead of him in perfect sync.

Arsenal's defenders spun in panic with Saliba and Lewis-Skelly, both chasing as if dragged by a current, trying to catch up to the fastest player in football.

Well, until recently, because from behind them, a different sound cut through.

A sound that roared more than the chants of the fans to the players.

Izan.

He surged past Saliba, overtaking him with a burst so sharp the Frenchman stumbled a step.

Skelly glanced sideways, startled, only to see Izan's black kit flash by.

"He's chasing Mbappé down! Look at Izan move—my word!"

The crowd's noise bent into a frantic wave, half awe, half dread.

Ahead, Mbappé stretched, that effortless stride eating up ground as the ball rolled on, yet the distance between him and the pursuing seventeen-year-old seemed to shrink.

It was a chase of pure will, speed against speed, instinct against instinct.

The Arsenal defence was broken wide open, dragged back toward their own goal by the French forward's run.

But threading through it all was Izan, cutting past bodies, carrying the weight of every supporter in black, white and red roaring behind him.

The commentator's words chased the moment, rising like the tension in the stands:

"Bellingham's ball… Mbappé's away! But Izan—look at Izan! He's flying back—he's not letting this go!"

And as the ball skidded closer to the penalty box, the two fastest players on the planet raced for control of the same breathless heartbeat of space.

The Frenchman, at full tilt, looked untouchable—yet Izan, driven by something raw and unshakable, ate up the remaining ground with frightening ease.

The roar of the Bernabéu rose like a storm as the duel crystallised: the French world champion and a youngster who had now staked his claim as the best in world football, side by side in a sprint that felt as though time had slowed(and the author was just dragging it out. Pls Forgive me.)

And then Mbappé slowed just enough.

A sharp chop back with the inside of his right boot sent the ball skidding toward his left, his whole body twisting into the motion.

It was the kind of move every kid who had idolised Cristiano Ronaldo tried in their backyard—sudden, ruthless, elegant.

The Arsenal fans in the far corner groaned in unison, while the Madridistas leapt to their feet, sensing blood.

"OH, BRILLIANT FROM MBAPPÉ. VINTAGE CRISTIANO!" Ian Darke's voice cracked over the commentary. "AND NOW IT'S ONE ON ONE!"

The chop had left Izan just half a step behind, his balance threatened, but he recovered instantly, sticking to the Frenchman like a shadow.

Mbappé now stood face to face with him, the Frenchman daring him with a little shift of the shoulders.

He didn't have long; Saliba and Skelly were charging back into frame, their legs pumping desperately.

But in this split second, it was just him and Izan.

Mbappé flicked his ankles into a blur, stepovers snapping left, right, left again, each one faster than the last.

The ball stayed glued to his boots, the crowd "ooooh" -ing louder with each feint.

It was the sort of show he'd built his legend on, dazzling, suffocating, forcing defenders into panic.

But Izan didn't blink.

He shadowed every sway, his feet moving in sync, muscles coiled like a spring.

Out of position or not, he refused to be toyed with.

When Mbappé darted right, Izan exploded into a sprint, his pace matching stride for stride.

He didn't dive in recklessly and just forced him wide, and wider—angling him toward the edge of the box, where the angle for a shot shrank with every step.

"HE'S STILL WITH HIM! IZAN'S NOT LETTING GO!" Robbie Savage roared, and suddenly, Mbappé had no choice.

The defence was closing in, Saliba thundering back into view, the Arsenal keeper rushing across his line, so with that, the Frenchman snapped his foot through the ball with sudden violence, gambling on power and precision before the window closed.

The shot tore through the air, and for a split second, the stadium gasped, convinced it was destined to find the net.

The keeper stretched, the crowd leaned, hearts caught in their throats, but—THUD.

The ball rattled off the near post, ricocheting back into the chaos of bodies as a collective gasp rattled the Bernabéu.

But before Arsenal could breathe relief, disaster struck.

The rebound smacked awkwardly off Saliba's shin, the defender caught mid-sprint with no time to react.

The ball spun wickedly, as though possessed, and rolled straight back across the line into Arsenal's own net.

For a heartbeat, nobody processed what had happened.

Then the noise erupted.

"OH NOOOOO! IT'S AN OWN GOAL! WHAT A PLACE AND TIME FOR THIS OCCASION! IT WAS ALL SQUARE ON AGGREGATE, BUT SUDDENLY, REAL MADRID LEAD" Darke's voice went hoarse, rising above the deafening chaos. "WHAT A TURN OF EVENTS AT THE BERNABÉU!"

Madrid's players scattered, arms aloft, sprinting to the corner flag as if the goal had been handed to them and in truth, it had been.

The fans thundered, white scarves spinning in every direction, the sound like an avalanche sweeping down the stands as Mbappé, chest heaving, pounded his fist into the crest on his shirt, his teammates mobbing him even though the last touch wasn't his.

He had made it. He had forced it and therefore, it was his, at least in the moment.

And then the cameras cut to Izan.

He stood rooted, sweat pouring down his temples, his chest rising and falling like a piston.

For all his effort, for all the ground he had covered, for the duel he had just survived—he was still staring at the ball sitting mockingly in Arsenal's net.

Saliba collapsed onto his knees, hands over his face, disbelief written in every line of his body, while Raya pounded the turf, screaming at the cruel fortune of it all.

The Arsenal bench froze in horrified silence.

Meanwhile, Madrid's bench had exploded. Carlo Ancelotti, normally the calmest of men, raised both arms high with a grin breaking across his face.

Jude Bellingham sprinted half the pitch to join the huddle, fists pumping.

And the commentary only stoked the fire.

"This place is shaking!" Robbie bellowed. "Real Madrid have flipped the tie on its head—THREE-TWO on aggregate and Arsenal, who came here with the advantage, are crumbling under the lights!"

Beside him, Darke's voice cut in, almost pitying. "Izan did everything right, everything. He forced Mbappé wide, narrowed the angle, but sometimes football's just cruel. Saliba had no chance against his momentum, and that's as unlucky as you'll see."

The screen lingered on Izan again as he turned and started walking towards the centre half.

There was no denying it now because Real Madrid had the momentum still, and as it stood, they would be the ones going through.

A/n: Okay, so I didn't release yesterday's(Now 2 days ago) last and today's(now yesterday) 2, which means I have 5 chapters to release in total, if I add, so 1/5. Have fun reading, and sorry for the irregular and bad schedule.