God Of football

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.

Whatever it had been—stern correction, tactical note, or just a burst of halftime passion—it wasn't the fracture some were quick to imagine.

If anything, it looked like the ordinary static of a high-stakes night, the kind that flared up and vanished just as fast.

And with that, Izan stepped onto the pitch, the lights of Madrid blazing above.

The second half was upon them, and the Spanish crowd roared as Real Madrid spilt out behind them, buoyant, vibrant, and already two goals to the good.

Ian Darke's voice broke through the noise, his tone controlled but laced with that undercurrent of drama he was known for.

"Here we go then, the players back out for the second half here in Madrid. Arsenal, with it all to do, trailing two-nil on the night, three-two on aggregate, and they'll need something remarkable if they're to turn.

Robbie Savage came in immediately, his words filling the space with speculation.

"Yeah, and just before we went off there, we caught a glimpse of what looked like a bit of a heated moment between Arteta and Izan. You'd never expect them to be at loggerheads, not in a situation like this, but that's what it appeared to be—at least from the outside. Maybe it's nothing, maybe it's just the manager demanding more from his star man, but the cameras don't lie—there was some tension."

The director doubled down, replaying the shot in slow motion—Arteta's hand slicing the air, his mouth moving quickly, and Izan listening with that slight shake of the head, then finally giving a short nod.

The crowd inside the Bernabéu jeered faintly at the replay on the big screen, sensing cracks, sensing drama.

Robbie didn't hold back.

"And look, Ian, this is the last thing Arsenal need right now. They're up against it, Real Madrid have their tails up, the fans are relentless, and the energy's all with the home side. Now is not the time to fall apart. If there's even a hint of a rift, that's oxygen for Madrid. Arsenal need unity, they need composure, and most of all, they need belief. They've got to find something, anything, if they're going to claw their way back into this tie."

Ian Darke matched the gravity.

"Quite right, Robbie. And it'll be fascinating to see what kind of response we get, particularly from young Izan, who's been quiet by his lofty standards so far. He's only seventeen, but the world looks to him in moments like these. It's a heavy burden, and whether he embraces it or falters could go a long way to deciding Arsenal's fate tonight."

As Izan finally jogged back onto the pitch, the camera stayed on him for a few seconds longer than it had done with most of the players.

The Arsenal fans in the away section stood and cheered, voices carrying faintly across the coliseum, their chants of his name offeringboth support and expectation.

"And here he comes," Ian added softly, almost narrating the picture. "The boy wonder. The spotlight is his, whether he likes it or not."

57'

Carlo Ancelotti was the picture of calm as he rose from his seat by the dugout, his arms folded loosely across his chest, eyes trained on the pitch.

Then, with the kind of clarity only he possessed, he leaned toward his assistants and gestured sharply.

"Eduardo, Luka, Brahim—warm up," he announced, his voice carrying even through the hum of the Bernabéu and the three substitutes immediately sprang into action, jogging toward the touchline with purpose.

The cameras caught it, and the commentators didn't miss it either—there was intent in that decision.

Ancelotti wanted fresh legs, wanted control, and he wanted it soon.

And then, the ball was at Rodrygo's feet on the right flank.

The Brazilian's first touch was clean, his body angled perfectly as he squared up against young Myles Lewis-Skelly.

With a burst of pace, he pushed the ball past him, leaving the teenager scrambling to recover.

The crowd lifted, sensing danger, sensing inevitability.

Rodrygo drove inside with that low, gliding run of his, cutting toward the edge of the box before shifting the ball onto his stronger foot.

"Here comes Rodrygo… skipping past Lewis-Skelly… he's found the gap—GOES FOR IT!" Ian Darke's voice climbed with the movement.

The strike cracked like thunder, swerving viciously, only to cannon off the inside of the post with a brutal clang.

The Bernabéu gasped as one, a wall of sound breaking into roars of disbelief.

Robbie Savage jumped in.

"Oh my word! That was inches from being three! Rodrygo so unlucky there—look at that bend, look at the power—Raya's rooted, he's not getting anywhere near it!"

But play wasn't done.

The ball spilled loose, falling kindly into the path of Vinícius Jr. inside the area.

The forward didn't hesitate, striking it first time with his laces, aiming high, but his shot ripped through the air, the crowd already half-rising to their feet, but it whipped narrowly over the bar.

Ian Darke again, almost exhaling into his mic. "And Vinícius… just over! Arsenal living dangerously here, so dangerously—Rodrygo rattling the post, Vinícius close to punishing them again."

The camera panned briefly to the Arsenal captain.

Martin Ødegaard was red-faced, veins at his neck bulging as he shouted animatedly, arms gesturing frantically.

"Wake up! Wake up!" he bellowed at his teammates, his Norwegian accent sharp and cutting through the noise.

His hands clapped together, urging them to stay switched on, to hold the line before the flood turned into a drowning.

"That's exactly what Odegaard means—Arsenal have to get a grip, they can't keep switching off. One more goal, and this tie is practically over. They've got to be alive, every single one of them." Robbie Savage closed the sequence with a reminder of the stakes.

The Bernabéu was still buzzing after that double chance when David Raya hurried to collect a ball from a ball boy behind his goal.

He pressed it quickly into his chest, then spun with a determined glance upfield, wasting no time before setting it down.

Arsenal couldn't afford to linger now; they needed a foothold, and they needed it early.

With a firm strike of his boot, Raya sent the ball soaring downfield.

The white shirts of Madrid and the red of Arsenal jostled beneath the descending leather, bodies colliding, shoulders meeting, the air filled with grunts and urgency.

Ultimately, it was Gabriel Martinelli who pounced on the loose ball, his instinct sharp, cushioning it down before instantly playing it back into midfield to recycle possession.

Arsenal switched it cleverly across the pitch, trying to stretch Real Madrid's pressing lines.

The speed of the game slowed for a brief breath, the ball ticking between white boots and red, probing, searching.

Izan, dropping slightly deeper than his usual advanced role, came to get a touch of the ball, and it was clean and measured.

With a subtle drag, he shifted away from Federico Valverde, who had neared him before shifting it onwards.

The ball carried forward and soon found its way beneath Bukayo Saka's feet.

The right flank had been quiet for Arsenal, but now the young Englishman saw his chance.

"And now Saka! He's got space to run into here—look at him go!" The commentators' voices perked up as he darted forward, the crowd's anticipation rising in tandem.

Saka's legs pumped furiously, driving past David Alaba with blistering pace.

The Austrian veteran stretched out a leg, tried to step across him, but the young winger simply ate up the ground, shoulders squared, stride after stride showing the vigour of youth against weary experience.

In two touches, he was past and into open grass, and what came next, as expected, was Saka, who swung his left boot and curled in a dangerous cross toward the Madrid box.

The camera followed the ball as it arced beautifully, hanging for a moment against the floodlit Madrid night.

Saka's eyes darted upward after the delivery, and a slight grimace followed — there was only Kai Havertz waiting centrally, and Real's defenders looked better placed to deal with it.

Ascensio and Rüdiger converged, bracing themselves to sweep it clear.

But then, from nowhere, another figure arrived, and the commentator's tone pitched up, the surprise in his voice spilling into raw excitement.

"Who's there? AND IT'S IZANN-"

The Spaniard had ghosted into the box undetected, timing his run to perfection.

He launched upward, though not with the towering leap everyone expected, just half a rise, half a motion — enough to stun the defenders who'd assumed he wouldn't commit.

The commentary broke, trembling with emotion, as if about to witness something outrageous.

"Ohhh, you just can't take your eyes off him for a second!" Ian Darke roared as Izan took the ball to his chest.

A/N: Sorry guys, really sorry for the late and unrealised releases.