God Of football

Gabriel reacted first, throwing himself at it, heading clear with every sinew straining.

The ball skidded away from the crowded box—straight to Izan.

The 17-year-old's boots kissed the ball in stride, and his head snapped up once.

Space. There was space.

The pitch stretched before him like an open highway, and like an F1 car, suddenly taken from a school zone into the Intelagos, Izan shot forward.

"And now Izan… oh my word—look at him go!" Robbie Savage roared.

The stadium's noise fractured into disbelief as Izan's speed ignited—his acceleration was savage, tearing through the green like a blade, a blur of red separating from the swarm of white still clambering in Arsenal's box.

"THIS is what they feared!" Darke cried, voice shaking with the urgency.

"Izan Miura Hernández, breaking—like a bullet—like a storm—Arsenal have a chance to turn it all around right here!"

The crowd rose as one, the tension vibrating in the air.

A throw-in had turned into a thunderclap.

And at the heart of it was Izan, speed personified, sprinting into destiny.

Camavinga was the first obstacle in his way, but he might as well have been a mannequin.

The Frenchman slid across, quick and sharp, but Izan's feet painted pictures no brush could capture — a feint of the hip, accompanied by the roll of the sole and a flick just beyond the outstretched leg as Camavinga grasped at air.

"Oh, that's beautiful…" Ian Darke gasped, his voice low, reverent, before rising again. "But he's not done!"

Modrić was next, the old master stepping out like a king holding back an upstart prince.

But Izan danced past him, with inevitability as he pirouetted and spun on the lightest of touches, the Croatian's arm brushing his shoulder as if to tether him back to earth, but he slipped free.

"Towards the corner," Odegaard called from behind, hoping Izan would catch it, but he didn't, and Odegaard's words weren't unfounded.

If Izan were to lose the ball, a thing he rarely did, it would allow Real Madrid to strike or start an attack.

Up ahead, Izan surged again, three white shirts collapsing into his path — Fran Garcia, Valverde, and Acensio — forming a desperate triangle to close the gates.

But triangles meant lines, and lines meant cracks.

He dipped left, then cut right with a vicious whip of his body, sliding between them as though the laws of balance bent for him alone.

Asencio clawed at his shirt, Valverde's leg swept through space where Izan's ankle had been an instant ago, and Alaba tumbled trying to turn.

The crowd roared — not with words, but with noise, primal and thunderous, as if the entire stadium were a living drum.

"Still Izan!" Ian Darke's voice cracked under the chaos. "They can't stop him, they simply cannot stop him!"

Now only Rudiger stood in his way, the great sentinel, calm and colossal.

He spread his arms, stepped into Izan's lane, feet light, eyes sharp.

The crowd rose higher, the clash of titans about to unfold.

Izan slowed for a fraction — just enough to invite him, just enough to make the duel inevitable.

"One versus one with the best in the world!" Savage screamed.

The devil met the angel, and Izan feinted right with Antonio Rudiger's hips shifting, perfectly in sync.

But then came the devilry: the faintest stutter, a body drop so delicate it could have been mistaken for a misstep, and yet it pulled the Deutschman's weight forward.

In that sliver of imbalance, Izan slipped left, the ball caressed around the outside, his legs pumping like pistons.

Rudiger reached, strained, and for the briefest instant, he held Izan's shoulder, but it was like gripping a flame.

The boy was gone, surging into the box.

The Bernabéu was shaking now.

The air itself seemed to burn.

From the halfway line to the edge of the penalty area, Izan had left behind bodies, grasps, and reputations.

Still, the ball lay at his feet, still his chest burned forward with the fury of a comet refusing to fall.

Izan still skipped, legs moving like they weren't allowed to touch the ground as grass flew beneath him.

The ball, which had ventured further because of a flick by Rudiger, was still his and obedient.

He was through.

Alone.

The white shirts scattered behind him like broken wings.

And the next obstacle left, Courtois spread himself wide, a towering figure waiting to smother the shot.

The Bernabéu held its breath.

Time seemed to crawl as Izan slowed — unnaturally, unnervingly — dragging the ball with his studs as if even gravity was reluctant to touch him.

It was done.

All he needed to do was slip the ball behind the keeper, but, looking to make a statement rather, Izan drew his foot back, all actions pointing towards the shot that was coming and Courtois bit, collapsing early, sprawling to cover a ghost that didn't exist.

Izan didn't lash at the ball.

He didn't thunder it home.

He simply went around and passed it, rolling with the serenity of someone playing in a back garden, tucking it into the yawning net while the entire stadium stood in paralysis.

The Arsenal fans in the away corner erupted — hands on heads, jaws unhinged, arms flung skyward in total disbelief.

Some screamed, others simply froze, as if words had abandoned them.

And then— GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLL!

"OH MY WORD. IS THIS WHAT HE CAN DO, OR IS THIS JUST THE START? SOMEBODY, CALL MARADONA! TELL PELE AND SHOW MESSI AND RONALDO, THAT FOOTBALL IS IN GOOD HANDS! " Ian Darke's voice cracked like lightning through the night, disbelief thick in his throat.

"Ohhhh, Izan, what do we do? The Villain of football strikes again, and who can stop the terror?!" Robbie Savage jumped in, nearly shouting over the roar.

The Arsenal fans were already breaking into chaos—hands clasped to heads, mouths wide in silent screams, some with tears prickling their eyes.

They had come hoping to see a fight. They got a battering in the first half of the game, and now all that they saw was Salvation.

What they had witnessed instead was a boy rewriting the rules of the game in front of them.

"This has transcended football, Robbie. This is a feast for the eyes. This is what it means to go beyond the territory of ingenuity. This is Izan Miura Hernández—remember the name, Real Madrid, because he's just branded it into your memory for eternity!"

The ball had barely nestled into the net when Izan tore off his shirt, clutching it in one fist like a flag of war.

His chest heaved as he sprinted toward the touchline, toward the corner where the Madrid ultras had found their voice all night.

He stopped dead in front of them, raising the shirt high, the name IZAN HERNÁNDEZ gleaming under the floodlights.

He didn't shout, he didn't taunt.

He just showed it to them, as if to say—see it, take it in, burn it into your memory.

Because this is who did it to you.

They would have loved to jeer, even call names and other things, but the words couldn't go beyond the extent of their thoughts.

Behind him, his Arsenal teammates caught up in a frenzy, swarming him, dragging him to the turf in a heap of limbs and ecstasy.

But Izan kept the shirt aloft, eyes locked on the Madrid end.

"This boy is not bound by standards," Clive murmured, almost reverently. "He is setting them. Tonight, he's not of this world but has transcended it, and this is just the quarters."

And there, high in the stands, sat the two friends—Forlan and Galeo—the ones who had placed their cheeky 100-euro stake on the boy who now tore Madrid apart.

They had jumped to their feet at first, just like everyone else.

Hands on heads. Mouths wide open. Hearts hammering in disbelief.

But as Izan slowed his run, clutching his shirt in his hand, and turned to the Madrid end, it was as though the boy's eyes found theirs.

Forlan's grin faltered.

His throat tightened as the moment twisted in his chest, a strange blend of triumph and defeat.

"Is this…" he muttered, his voice barely carrying over the storm of noise, "…is this what it means to win and lose at the same time?"

Galeo didn't answer.

He just stared, lips pressed into a thin line, because it wasn't supposed to do this.

The Madridistas around them were frozen between rage and awe, and Diego and Mateo, though sworn to the white of Madrid, were caught in the middle—broken open by a moment too big to belong to one club.

On the pitch, Izan finally turned, chest heaving, his face unreadable under the weight of it all.

The referee jogged toward him, yellow card in hand, the symbol of order trying to put chains around chaos.

Izan shook the hands of the official before putting his shirt back on and then turning towards one Madrid fan who had been showing him the middle finger, all while he celebrated, before blowing him a kiss.

It was done.