God Of football - Chapter 512

Chapter 512: On A Plate
Izan dragged the ball through with the inside of his boot, ghosting by him in a blur.

Lascelles was the last line, and he stepped in with intent, cleats angled to pinch the space, but Izan chopped the ball, left to right, disguised in a blink.

A blur of ankles and a body that never broke stride.

Lascelles stumbled, spun slightly, and was gone from the picture.

“Oh, stop it. That’s just cruel!” the commentator yelled, voice high with disbelief.

“He sent two Premier League defenders to the shops without even looking, wait and–!”

Now it was just Pope in goal, and the ball on Izan’s left boot.

The keeper narrowed the angle, trying to close the gaps.

His weight leaned towards the far post, anticipating a shot to the top corner while covering the near post.

He had done everything right, and yet, that was his mistake.

Trying to do everything.

Izan leaned on his right foot and opened his body just slightly, like he was going to shoot, and then wrapped his foot around the ball faking the keeper and then rolling it through the gap between his leg.

St. James’ Park fell silent for a half-second before the roar of the Arsenal supporters exploded.

“Good grief! IZAN AGAIN!” came the commentary, disbelief painted all over the words.

“He’s just playing football, but it’s his brand of football, and we all love it! That’s wizardry. Absolute wizardry!”

On the pitch, Izan jogged away from the wreckage he had created, no wild celebration.

He raised one arm, nodding, calm amid the chaos.

Behind him, Havertz sprinted to catch up, pointing at Rice in the distance for the long ball, while Merino, Saka, and even Saliba came charging up the pitch, beaming.

1-0 Arsenal.

And the clock had barely hit the first minute.

In a flat somewhere in North London, two Arsenal fans rushed out of the kitchen, bowls of popcorn and crisps in their hands.

“Did we miss anything?” one asked, sliding onto the couch.

But the TV answered before his friend could.

The scoreline read: Newcastle 0 – 1 Arsenal.

“What the—?!”

“I swear it was 0–0 just now!”

Back in the kitchen, the kettle still hummed.

On the screen, the ball was already rolling again.

………..

Newcastle weren’t stunned for long.

They were a side built on pride and purpose now.

They restarted with fire.

Livramento called for it quickly on the right, taking the throw-in with urgency.

Isak dropped deep, collected, turned, trying to pull Saliba out of shape.

The home crowd responded, louder now, trying to push their team forward, shake off the early sting, but Arsenal weren’t going to sit back and watch their opponents settle into the game.

They stayed composed, kept their lines tight, defenders talking, midfielders tracking.

But Newcastle had raised the pace.

Anthony Gordon darted in from the left this time, trying to combine with Guimarães in the middle, but stepped in, poked it away cleanly, and reset the play.

Still, the game had changed.

It wasn’t Arsenal in control anymore—it was a scrap for the next five minutes.

Everything was faster.

Heavier first touches. Quicker tackles.

The ball moved like it was carrying electricity.

Arsenal’s early lead had pulled the beast from Newcastle, and now the game felt like a street fight wrapped in a chess match.

And yet, through the storm, Izan was still floating.

He dropped deeper, offered himself between the lines, calm as ever.

He didn’t need to rush.

He waited for the ball to come to him, like a magnet pulling strings.

The commentators were quiet for a moment, then one of them chuckled.

“Well… anyone who left the room for a snack just learned a very painful lesson,” he said.

“Arsenal are one up, and this match has gone from a jog to a full sprint.”

His partner added, “Newcastle are punching back. But they’ll have to be careful. You leave Izan loose like that again, and he’ll make it two before you blink.”

………

“Well, wow,” one of the commentators said as the camera panned across the pitch.

“We thought goals and shots would be flying in from all cylinders, but it’s just the one goal here at the break.”

The other commentator gave a short chuckle.

“It’s been a strange first half. Arsenal opened things with a spark—an early goal from Izan, and for a second, it looked like they were about to run riot. But since then? Deadlock. Stalemate. Ping-pong football.”

As the players trudged toward the tunnel, the camera picked out a few of them—Saka shaking his head, Rice speaking quietly with Gabriel, and Izan stretching his hamstring after a tough few challenges.

“The only real ray of sunshine so far has been Izan,” the first commentator continued.

“That early goal was brilliant. And since then, every glimmer of attacking life has flowed through him. He’s found pockets, driven forward, played some clever balls into the channels… but the finishing? Either missing or met by a wall named Nick Pope.”

“Yeah,” the second commentator added, “Newcastle have sat deep, and when Arsenal tried to pull them out, they just pinged it long.. Very stop-start feel. And to be fair, after that heavy challenge from Guimarães midway through the half, Izan hasn’t looked quite as sharp.”

High up in the stands, the murmur of conversation had picked up again.

A group of fans in Arsenal red leaned over the railing, voicing shared frustration.

“I thought we’d be two or three up by now,” one man muttered as he sipped from a paper cup.

“All this buildup—Izzy scoring early—and then nothing.”

A woman a few rows back chimed in.

“It’s like the rest of them forgot how to shoot. I mean, Pope’s been great, but still…”

A teenager leaned toward his dad.

“Did you see that backheel Izan did near the corner flag? Almost broke two ankles with it.”

“I saw it. Shame it didn’t lead to anything,” his dad replied.

“We need someone to match his spark, or Izan could be able to just go out and do what he does.”

Back on the pitch, the announcer’s voice filled the stadium, reminding the crowd that the second half would begin shortly.

Players were slowly returning from the tunnel; some bouncing in place to stay warm, others quietly focused.

“Well,” said the first commentator again, his voice lifting slightly, “forty-five minutes left to turn this from a chess match into something memorable. Let’s hope the second half has more fire than the first.”

The players returned to the field with little fanfare, and the dull hum of expectation settling back into the stands.

Izan was the last to step out of the tunnel for Arsenal, jogging in place for a few seconds before trotting back to his position on the left.

He rolled his shoulders once, checked the laces of his boots, and glanced around as if to measure where the next blow would come from.

Because there would be blows.

Newcastle had made that clear by the end of the first half.

“They’re coming out with a plan,” one of the commentators observed as the second half kicked off.

“Not to match Arsenal’s tempo. No. They’re here to smother it. Specifically, to smother Izan.”

It started early.

A subtle body check from Joelinton in the middle of the pitch, but the referee felt it was too light for a stop in play, so he let the play go on.

Then a lazy drag of studs across his heel from Livramento near the touchline.

Izan kept running. He didn’t complain, didn’t gesture at the ref.

But it was clear to anyone watching that Newcastle had stopped pretending.

They weren’t just defending space—they were defending against a single name.

“You see what they’re doing,” the second commentator said.

“Every time Izan drops in, someone’s breathing down his neck. Every time he turns, there’s a boot waiting for him. They’re trying to take the legs out from under Arsenal’s firestarter.”

It wasn’t until the fifty-eighth minute that the referee finally reached into his pocket.

Bruno Guimarães had trailed Izan for half the length of the pitch before clipping his ankle with a cynical little kick just as Izan tried to accelerate past him.

Izan had stumbled, caught himself, and kept going—but the play was dead.

The referee jogged over, the yellow card already raised.

“That’s been coming,” the first commentator said.

“Not just from Guimarães, but from half the Newcastle squad. They’ve turned this into a calculated campaign, and now it’s cost them one card. Honestly, could’ve been two or three already.”

Newcastle won the ball back after Rice’s delivery into their box was caught by Nick Pope, but when their own attack fizzled near the edge of Arsenal’s box, Thomas Partey pounced on the loose ball and lifted his head.

There was no pause—just a sharp release.

A pass that split the first line.

Havertz dummied it, letting it run across his body before flicking it on.

And suddenly, it was Izan with space.

He took a touch to settle before settling on where he wanted the ball to be.

And just as Lewis Hall turned his hips to shadow the outside run, Izan stabbed the ball inside, threading it past the fullback’s blindside.

Saka was already moving.

The crowd surged to its feet.

You could feel it through the screen.

“Uh-oh,” the commentator muttered.

“This is danger now. Look at that pass. Look at the weight on that thing.”

Lewis Hall flung himself around, already beaten.

Saka didn’t look at goal.

He didn’t have to.

He knew.

Izan had given him that half-step, that glimpse of green, that window.

A left foot swung through the ball—

A/N: Here is the first chapter of the day. Damn, I’m tired. Okay guys, have a good one.