God Of football

The scoreboard ticked toward the thirty-eighth minute, Real Madrid still cruising with a two-goal cushion on the night.

"They've really come to play tonight," Ian Darke said over the broadcast, his voice brimming with weight. "No half measures here, no sitting back. Real Madrid are all in, and Arsenal know it, but knowing it and being able to counter are two entirely different things."

Robbie Savage jumped in. "Yeah, they're not here to play games. Madrid are serious — they want this tied up before halftime."

On the pitch, Izan dragged the ball under his boot, the crowd rising with a murmur.

He looked up, eyes flashing at the sea of white shirts, and every time he had the ball, despite not having an impact on the scoreboard, it was like electricity sparking through the stadium.

"There he is again," Ian said, sharper now. "Izan Miura Hernández — dangerous every time he's got it at his feet."

"Yes, Ian, but it's just not quite clicking for him yet tonight, at least not in terms of the score", Savage added, watching closely. "He needs one moment to break through."

Back on the pitch, Izan darted a pass to Saka, who returned it in an instant in a neat one-two before Izan spun off Tchouaméni, the Frenchman trying to muscle him, but his timing was off.

Tchouaméni's outstretched foot clipped Izan's trailing leg, as the Arsenal man stumbled, but his balance — that low centre of gravity — saved him.

"Foul surely—" Savage shouted, but the referee waved both arms, letting play continue.

Advantage.

And Izan kept going, shoulders rolling with his body leaning in and following through the gap.

The Madrid defence backpedalled in panic as white shirts swarmed, boots stretching desperately, but each was afraid of getting the last nudge in because Izan was already falling down and they didn't want to risk it.

"He's away! Look at that!" Ian's voice climbed as Izan sliced forward, slipping past one challenge and then another.

He didn't slow, but his boot came down hard on the ball, smacking it into the turf, forcing it to bounce but with direction.

The ball kicked up, skipping off the grass, lifting high enough to rise over Courtois' giant legs as the Belgian slid forward.

Gasps tore through the Bernabéu, and for a heartbeat, it looked like genius gone and done.

And then—

"Cleared! Cleared on the line!" Ian roared after Ascensio, sprinting back, lunged with a desperate swing of his right foot and hacked the ball away just before it crossed.

"Oh my word! Madrid survives but barely," Savage bellowed. "That is ridiculous from Izan, and it needed every ounce of effort from Ascensio to save Madrid. The defence is working overtime now just to keep him off it!"

Down below, the referee jogged past the cluster, shouting toward the Madrid back line as the Arsenal players began for the referee to award the foul for the earlier advantage, but it was futile.

Just a little space, and Izan had just warned them.

And Real Madrid took the warning seriously.

From that moment, they focused a bit more on keeping their lead for the remainder of the first half.

They sat back, waiting for the counter, but they didn't hesitate to swarm any loose touch Arsenal made.

A few times, too, it was a suffocating spell when the white shirts got the ball because they began passing around calmly and arrogantly, keeping the ball like their arch rivals in Catalonia.

The half dragged toward its close, and Madrid gave nothing away until finally, the referee raised his whistle to his lips.

Peeeep.

Halftime.

"Well," Ian Darke sighed as the cameras swept over the stadium, "that has been some first half. Madrid ruthless in front of goal, Arsenal showing flashes — especially through Izan — but Real have been disciplined, composed, and dangerous."

Robbie Savage let out a short laugh. "Yeah, Arsenal are hanging in there, but Real Madrid… they've been on another level in that first forty-five. Arsenal need something different in the second half, because right now, Madrid are in control."

Although the referee's whistle had sounded a while earlier, the Bernabeu refused to quiet down.

Madrid fans rose as one, clapping their side off the pitch, the echo of their applause swelling beneath the stadium's towering stands.

The rhythm of it felt more like a celebration than a break, pride and satisfaction in every strike of their palms.

But woven into the clapping came the sharper edges of hostility—chants thrown like stones toward the Arsenal players trudging off.

"Sobrevalorado(overrated)" rang from one section, but that was something the Arsenal fans couldn't take kindly to.

"Do they understand what that means?" a fan questioned.

"Yeah, they do, but don't know how to use it. They should have directed it towards someone like Vinicius Jr, " another answered.

As the Away side questioned some of the chants, another soon bellowed, "¡Inútiles! (Useless)" while a pocket of ultras near the south end spat out harsher insults with every glimpse of black shirts disappearing into the tunnel.

Up in the stands, two Madrid fans lingered in their seats, phones already out before the players had even vanished down the tunnel.

The first, a man in his thirties with a grey scarf wrapped around his neck, tapped quickly into a betting app, refreshing until the numbers appeared.

"Look at this," he muttered, nudging his friend with his elbow.

The glow of the screen showed Arsenal's odds, clear as day: 7.56 to come back and win.

Madrid's, on the other hand, were set at an almost laughable 1.02.

His friend leaned in, eyebrows raised. "That's mad. Seven and a half on Arsenal?"

"Yeah. Basically, bookies think this is over," the first replied, shaking his head, though there was a trace of temptation in his tone.

The second man chuckled, reaching into his jacket pocket.

"You know, I've got that bonus stake. Hundred euros. Just sitting there."

"What, from the welcome offer?"

"Yeah. They only pay the winnings, though, not the stake." He tilted his phone toward his friend, showing the balance.

"Look, I was gonna throw it on Madrid, easy money. But at 1.02… what's the point?"

The first smirked, lowering his voice as though confessing a crime. "Stake it on Arsenal."

His friend blinked. "On Arsenal? We're Madrid fans."

"Yeah, but come on, hermano. What do you get for Madrid? Two euros on a hundred. Pointless. Arsenal, though? If by some miracle they turn it around… that's seven hundred fifty-six euros straight into your pocket. It's a free bet, nothing to lose."

The second man's face twisted with doubt, but already his thumb hovered.

"Feels wrong."

"Feels smart," the first corrected, grinning.

"We still celebrate if Madrid wins. But if they choke, which I don't think will happen, at least you'll walk home richer."

The hesitation lasted all of five seconds before the friend sighed and hit confirm.

"Done. Hundred on Arsenal."

He laughed at himself, sliding the phone back into his jacket.

"If this comes through, drinks are on me."

The two shared a laugh, the noise of the stadium still heavy around them.

Below the heavy clapping and all the noise in the stands was the Real Madrid dressing room.

The air in there was heavy but calm, a strange contrast to the chaos above.

At 2–0 on the night and 3–2 on aggregate, Madrid's players moved with a quiet confidence, each man aware they were halfway to delivering a statement performance on the biggest stage of all.

........

[12 minutes later]

The teams emerged from the tunnel again, the roar of the Bernabéu swelling back to full voice as a few players lingered at the mouth of the tunnel.

And among those were Izan standing with Arteta on the touchline just before the whistle.

The latter leaned toward Izan, gesturing quickly with both hands, his face taut, words spilling in a rush, but Izan, head slightly tilted, looked back at him, replying with an almost casual shrug and a quick nod.

From a distance, the exchange looked sharper than it truly was, but the angle of the camera caught Arteta's intensity more than the actual substance and within seconds, clips of it were being replayed on screens and phones.

"Heh, that looked a bit heated," one Arsenal fan muttered into the broadcast microphone, his voice picked up from the lower stands.

"But nah, I think it's just the boss being… well, the boss."

Another chimed in nearby, "Yeah, that's Arteta all over. He's probably just drilling instructions into Izan. You can tell the kid doesn't look rattled. Just nodded it off."

"Or, the kid feels like he's too big for the instructions now," another fan said.

Twitter comments began flashing on the ticker below the screen: 'Arteta and Izan arguing? Or just passion?' … 'Looks more like a misread—Izán's calm as anything.'

The camera lingered one more moment as Arteta clapped Izan on the shoulder, then turned to bark at the Cuesta while Izan jogged forward toward the centre circle, his expression unreadable but steady.

A/N: Second out of 5. Have fun reading, and spare me some Golden Tickets.