God Of football - Chapter 466

Chapter 466: Lightning Start To The Second Half [GT chapter]
Arteta, who had been pacing his box like a chess master all night, now stood still.

Frozen.

He looked toward Carlos Cuesta beside him, then toward the bench.

“Get the medics to check on him. Fast,” he muttered.

The medical team was already moving, sprinting toward midfield as Arteta’s mind worked in overdrive—was it just a knock?

Or had they lost their playmaker for the rest of the match… or worse?

Izan jogged toward the group, heart thudding harder than it had after his goal.

Martinelli stood just behind the huddle, biting his glove.

“He said it twisted bad,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Izan’s jaw tightened.

One bad turn, and everything could unravel.

The tension in the Gewiss Stadium shifted, rippling across the pitch and into the stands.

Play had resumed, but Arsenal were a man short, with Martin Ødegaard still on the sidelines, limping slowly, flanked by the medics.

The captain had tried to walk it off—one hobbling step, then another—but the wince etched across his face with every movement told a deeper truth.

“He’s trying,” murmured Clive Tyldesley on commentary, watching closely.

“But you can see it. That ankle’s not right. His balance is off, and he’s not putting any weight on it.”

“You hate to see this,” Darren Fletcher added.

“Especially a player like Ødegaard. The heartbeat. Arsenal’s conductor.”

On the touchline, Mikel Arteta’s arms were folded—but his foot tapped the turf, sharp and fast.

His eyes met those of the lead physio as the latter gave a subtle but firm shake of the head.

It was enough.

Arteta nodded once, then turned toward the bench.

“Kai,” he called out sharply. “You’re on.”

Havertz was already halfway up, unzipping his training top.

The fourth official proceeded to set his board.

Meanwhile, Ben White, unaware of the substitution in motion, hounded Ademola Lookman near the touchline.

With a hard step and perfect angle, he forced the Atalanta winger to cough up possession and give Arsenal a throw-in deep in their half.

The ball thudded into Izan’s hands near the sideline.

As play momentarily slowed, Izan jogged up to Havertz and, with a quiet intensity, gestured toward the central attacking pocket.

“You go high,” he said, tapping his chest.

“I’ll drop in for Martin.”

Kai blinked. “You sure?”

“I got it.”

Kai turned towards Arteta, who had seen everything Izan meant.

He nodded, permitting their change even though he hadn’t really heard what they wanted to do.

“Substitution for Arsenal…” the stadium announcer’s voice rang out through the Gewiss speakers, nearly drowned by the polite applause from both sides of the stadium as Ødegaard finally began the slow walk down the tunnel.

The traveling Arsenal faithful—wedged into their corner of the stadium in red-and-white waves—rose in unison, clapping rhythmically.

“Captain. Even off the pitch,” someone muttered aloud.

“We love you, Martin!” a voice called from the away end.

As Ødegaard disappeared beneath the stands, Kai jogged into position, and the game reignited.

From the gantry, Fletcher spoke again: “So Ødegaard’s night is done, and Arsenal’s hand is forced early. Havertz on, Izan dropping deeper… You almost forget that this was his main role back in Valencia. Let’s hope he hasn’t forgotten.”

“Now it’s Izan orchestrating everything from the middle. He’s been dangerous out wide, but now we’ll see how he can command the tempo, thread the passes, dictate the play.” Steve McManamann said as Ben White picked up the ball and launched it back into play.

Back on the pitch, Izan pressed forward, receiving the ball near the halfway line with his back to the goal.

He turned, fluidly evading Ruggeri, and lifted his eyes.

He locked onto Saka, playing a pass with the outside of his right boot unlocking the Atalanta set up for Saka.

The night might have ended for Odegaard, but for Arsenal, it was still on.

…….

Sweat-soaked shirts were peeled off, water bottles passed around in silence as the chants of the home crowd shook the away locker room, the fans refusing to rest, lest they loose theiir morale.

The thump of massaging guns echoed against the tiled walls while physios moved briskly between players, working on tight hamstrings and calves with ice packs and fast, methodical fingers.

Bukayo Saka sat hunched over, his forearms resting on his thighs, catching his breath.

Ben White leaned back with a compression sleeve buzzing over his right quad, with Declan Rice sipping water beside him while a physio worked at the base of his spine.

In the far corner, Kai Havertz adjusted his shin pads, readying himself mentally for the second half.

Mikel Arteta stood before the squad, arms folded, sweat darkening the collar of his black quarter-zip.

His voice was steady and calm, but the intensity never left his eyes.

“First twenty minutes—beautiful. Compact pressing and good transitions. We were dictating,” he said, eyes scanning his men.

“But after that water break, they changed something. You felt it.”

Nods all around. The players knew.

It hadn’t been tactical—Atalanta had stepped up like someone had flipped a switch.

“They started to stretch us between the lines. We lost our verticality. And now with Martin out…” Arteta hesitated, letting the reality settle.

“That changes the geometry of how we play.”

He tapped the whiteboard beside him, pointing at the gap in midfield.

“Kai, you’ve filled up top now. But someone’s going to need to link with Declan and Jorginho here.” He gestured toward the middle third.

Then a voice cut in from the row of benches.

“I’ll do it.”

All eyes turned.

Izan was sat near the end, legs stretched out, chest rising with post-match exertion.

A staffer was still running a TheraGun along his hamstring, but he looked unfazed, gaze locked on Arteta.

“That’s where I played back in Valencia. It’s natural to me,” Izan said.

“I can drop in, pick up from deep, and still run at them.”

There was no arrogance in his tone—just confidence.

Measured and intent.

Arteta studied him for a moment, then exchanged a glance with Carlos Cuesta.

“You sure?” Arteta asked, stepping forward.

Izan nodded.

“Let Kai hold their line. I’ll operate between. Drag their pivots. Create from there.”

From across the room, Declan Rice gave a faint smirk.

“That’ll give them something to think about.”

Saka chimed in, “You reckon you’ve got the legs for both wings and ten?”

Izan cracked a smile. “We’ll find out.”

Arteta turned back to the board, marker uncapped.

He adjusted the pieces, circling Izan’s new role, outlining triggers, passing lanes, defensive recoveries.

“Alright,” the manager said, voice low but sharp.

“We have to adapt to whatever they throw at us. This is Champions League football—no one hands you anything. You take it with your strength.”

The buzz of the massagers quieted as everyone leaned in.

“We’ve still got forty-five minutes to send a message. Let’s do it well,” Arteta said before leaving his men.

…….

“You’re watching the UEFA Champions League live from northern Italy,” Darren Fletcher’s voice laced through the tension as the camera panned across the stadium.

“It’s 1–0 to Arsenal after a first-half thunderbolt from sixteen-year-old Izan Hernández, but with Ødegaard off injured, the Gunners have reshuffled—”

“Yeah,” Steve McManaman cut in, “and you just know Atalanta won’t go away quietly. This place is a pressure cooker now.”

And within seconds, it boiled over.

From the kick-off, Retegui took control, tapping to Éderson, who spun past Kai Havertz with a sharp pivot.

The Brazilian slid it quickly to Scalvini, who angled his pass forward, low, and zipped it to Zappacosta, racing down the right.

The ball barely touched the turf before Zappacosta knocked it forward for Lookman, already peeling off Ben White’s shoulder.

Lookman didn’t hesitate.

He took one touch inside, slicing through the edge of Arsenal’s final third, dragging White and Saliba with him.

His body fainted right, then cut sharply left, slipping through a gap barely wide enough for daylight.

Space opened for a second—just a flicker of it—and Lookman threaded a low cross toward the penalty spot.

Charles De Ketelaere was already there, ghosting past Saliba.

He didn’t even break stride.

The Belgian’s left foot came across his body, meeting the pass sweetly.

The ball arrowed toward the far corner—low, violent, unerring.

David Raya dived full stretch but couldn’t touch it.

The net snapped, bulging at the seams, and the Gewiss exploded.

Blue smoke cannons burst behind the goal, flags flailed like waves of war, and the Curva Nord erupted in full voice.

De Ketelaere slid on his knees across the grass, arms spread wide, his teammates surging around him.

Lookman leapt onto his back, pumping a fist into the night sky.

“Lightning start from Atalanta!” Fletcher’s voice rang.

“The half’s barely thirty seconds old and they’ve already gone and equalized!”

The noise was thunderous—an avalanche of celebration rolling across the pitch.

Arsenal players looked stunned.

Saka stood still at the halfway line, blinking.

Arteta clenched his fists on the sidelines, taking a glance at Gian Gasperini on the touchline.

But then—

A sharp whistle. A pause in the pandemonium.

A/N: First Golden ticket chapter of the month. Keep them coming and I’ll also keep these coming. See you in a bit with the last chapter of the Day.