God Of football - Chapter 386

Chapter 386: Little Conductor
Salah exploded forward, his body tilting into the sprint, his feet a blur as he tore into open space.

White lunged from the side. Too slow.

Gabriel stepped in. Not quick enough.

Salah danced past him with a touch of silk and venom, the ball never leaving his orbit.

The box was his now.

The goal was his now.

A second of silence. A heartbeat of inevitability.

And then—the finish.

A stroke of his left foot. Pure. Measured. Deadly.

The ball curled, arcing through the air, bending away from Raya’s desperate lunge.

Lee Dixon: “Oh, that is Salah! That is Salah at his ruthless best!”

The net rippled.

Redshirts rushed toward him. The Arsenal players stood frozen.

Salah turned, face calm, body alight with triumph. His arms spread wide as he soaked in the stunned silence of the opposing crowd.

Peter Drury: “You stop him once, you stop him twice… but you cannot stop him forever! The Egyptian King has spoken!”

…….

Izan stood at the center of the pitch, hands on his hips, watching the Liverpool players swarm Salah in celebration.

The Egyptian King had struck back, and even Izan had to admit—it was a goal worthy of the title.

A slow, wry smile tugged at his lips. This is what we’re here for, huh?

He exhaled, shaking his head as he turned, eyes drifting toward Zinchenko, who stood just outside the box, hands resting on his head.

He wasn’t looking at anyone, but the forced chuckle he let out as Izan approached was enough proof that he knew exactly what had just happened.

“Man, I got caught,” Zinchenko muttered, lowering his hands and rubbing his jaw. He laughed, a quick, breathless thing as if he could shake it off with sound alone.

Izan arched a brow, but he didn’t bite. “Yeah,” he said lightly, “but that’s what he does, right?”

Zinchenko gave him a side glance, lips twitching. “Don’t try to make me feel better, bro.”

Izan chuckled. “I won’t.” Then, softer, “But let’s fix it.”

Zinchenko nodded, rolling his shoulders as he exhaled sharply. But Izan could see it in his eyes—that burn, that frustration.

No one liked being the one who cost a goal, even if it was Salah who did the punishing.

Before they could say more, Arteta’s voice cut through the moment.

“Forget it! Don’t mind! Let’s move on!”

The touchline was alive with his energy, his arms slicing through the air, his intensity flooding through the team.

He turned to the bench, demanding more, already barking instructions to the midfield.

The game wasn’t stopping.

Izan tapped Zinchenko’s back. “Let’s go.”

Peter Drury: “A moment of brilliance from Mohamed Salah, and Liverpool are level! Arsenal’s lead is gone in an instant, and Sofi Stadium is absolutely rocking!”

Lee Dixon: “That’s the danger when you lose the ball in those areas.

Zinchenko tried to step into midfield, which he loves to do, but Salah was waiting—pounced on it, and the finish… well, that’s why he’s world-class.”

Peter Drury: “You can see Arteta’s response immediately—he wants his players to reset, stay composed, and keep playing their football.

They’ve been excellent so far, but now comes the test: how do they react to adversity?”

Odegaard clapped his hands, gesturing for focus, while Declan Rice exchanged words with Saliba and Gabriel at the back.

Izan, standing at the center circle, rolled his shoulders, his sharp gaze scanning Liverpool’s shape as the referee signaled for play to resume.

Lee Dixon: “One thing’s for sure—how Izan responds now will tell us a lot. He’s already shown his quality in this game, but when Liverpool punch back, the great players find a way to answer.”

Peter Drury: “We’re witnessing an intense battle here in Los Angeles. Arsenal, Liverpool, one-all. And there is still so much more to come.”

The game reignited with a fire that burned through every blade of grass.

Arsenal and Liverpool weren’t treating this like a friendly—it was a battle, one that demanded everything from the players in Sofi Stadium.

Izan and Mac Allister remained locked in their duel, neither backing down.

Every Arsenal attack saw Izan drifting into space, trying to shake the Argentine off his back.

Every Liverpool transition saw Mac Allister stepping up aggressively, determined to leave his mark.

Peter Drury: “Oh, this is a proper contest now! Arsenal against Liverpool, but within that war, there are battles—one of the fiercest?

Izan and Alexis Mac Allister, two brilliant footballers, going at it with everything they have.”

The battles weren’t just between them. Across the pitch, warriors clashed.

In midfield, Declan Rice and Dominik Szoboszlai collided in a series of bruising duels—Rice muscling into tackles, Szoboszlai gliding through spaces and looking to pick passes.

On the right, Salah drifted inside, trying to pull Zinchenko into dangerous areas, while Ben White stayed sharp, tracking every movement.

On the other end, Trent Alexander-Arnold faced relentless pressure from Gabriel Martinelli, who twisted and turned, forcing the right-back into last-ditch tackles.

Lee Dixon: “You’d think this was a Champions League knockout tie, not a preseason game in Los Angeles. Look at the intensity, the urgency—no one is holding back!”

Izan danced past Mac Allister near the center circle, drawing gasps from the crowd.

The Argentine chased him down, shoulder-barging into him, but Izan stayed up, rolling the ball between his feet before sending a slick pass out wide.

Seconds later, Liverpool had their turn. Diaz collected a pass, spun away from Gabriel, and surged forward—only for Rice to slide in, clean as a whistle, the ball bouncing toward Odegaard.

Peter Drury: “And Rice! Arsenal’s shield, standing firm once more!”

The game was relentless. No pause, no breaks—just an exchange of blows.

From the touchline, both managers gestured animatedly, trying to convey what was on their minds to the players and the fans were all in for it.

The match’s rhythm had shifted, and Izan felt it. Liverpool’s relentless pressing had started to force Arsenal into tighter spaces, limiting their forward options.

So, he adapted. Dropping deep alongside Declan Rice, he took it upon himself to dictate the tempo, orchestrating from the back like a seasoned playmaker.

With his head constantly on a swivel, he sprayed passes across the pitch—switching play to Martinelli when the left side opened up.

Threading sharp ground passes to Odegaard in tight spaces, and lofting delicate balls over Liverpool’s press for Saka to chase.

Peter Drury: “Izan is everywhere now. A 16- 16-year-old who plays with the mind of a veteran.

Dropping deeper, forming that double pivot with Rice, and from there, he is pulling all the strings.”

Liverpool noticed. They couldn’t allow him time and space to dictate the game.

Mac Allister and Szoboszlai exchanged glances, then pressed forward in unison, closing in on Izan as soon as he received the ball.

Izan let them come. He felt their presence—the heat of Szoboszlai’s aggressive stride, the tension in Mac Allister’s frame as he prepared to lunge in.

The moment they committed, he turned. A swift feint with his left sent Mac Allister off-balance.

A delicate touch with the outside of his boot shifted the ball past Szoboszlai.

And in one sweeping motion, he rolled it forward, leaving both men spinning in his wake.

Lee Dixon: “Oh, brilliant! Mac Allister and Szoboszlai both tried to trap him and Izan just—vanished! Slipped right through them like smoke!”

Gravenberch stepped up next, eager to stop the bleeding, but Izan saw him coming.

Before the Dutchman could close the space, Izan took one glance upfield and sent a ball slicing through the seams of Liverpool’s defense.

It was inch-perfect. A pass that bent through the gaps, evading Van Dijk and Konaté, and curling directly into the path of Kai Havertz, who found himself in acres of space.

Peter Drury: “Oh my word—what a ball! That is simply extraordinary from Izan!”

The crowd erupted as Havertz controlled it beautifully, storming into the box with only Alisson to beat.

The former was a runaway train, thundering toward goal. Each stride sent a tremor through the pitch, his eyes locked onto the approaching Alisson.

The Brazilian hesitated—halfway between rushing out and standing his ground.

That flicker of uncertainty was all Havertz needed.

A heavy touch sent the ball rolling past Alisson’s reach.

Then—contact.

Alisson’s outstretched arm clipped Havertz’s trailing leg.

The German stumbled, lost his footing, and crashed onto the turf. The stadium held its breath.

And then—

The whistle pierced the air.

Peter Drury: “Penalty! Alisson reaches—Alisson clips—and Arsenal have a lifeline!”

A storm of reactions exploded across the pitch. Havertz lay sprawled, hands outstretched as if to confirm the inevitable.

Alisson threw his arms up in protest, eyes wide with disbelief. Liverpool shirts swarmed the referee, demanding reconsideration.

But the decision had been made.

Lee Dixon: “Oh, this is massive! Havertz gets there first, and Alisson—well, it’s reckless. You can see the touch. VAR will check it, but this looks stonewall.”

Izan stood near the edge of the box, the corners of his lips curling into the faintest of smirks.

His eyes flickered toward the penalty spot, toward the moment Arsenal had been waiting for.