God Of football - Chapter 548

Chapter 548: Can’t Hold Him
As the players stepped out into the corridor that led to the pitch, the murmur of the fans cracked into a full, fevered roar.

Izan blinked as the first drops hit his brow.

Cold. Sharp.

The sky had opened just in time.

And then—it began to fall heavier.

Not a drizzle anymore.

Rain, real rain. Sheets of it.

The kind that slicked the grass like oil and sent steam rising from the turf under the stadium lights.

The players emerged.

The Emirates roared again.

Izan squinted up once, the rain tracing down his cheeks like it was drawing lines on a canvas.

He pulled his shoulders back and walked into the storm as the ones who had come for a show, waited for one.

……

45+1,

The breath that escaped Izan’s mouth turned to mist before it even cleared his lips.

Cold.

Dense.

The kind of air that clung to your lungs and settled in your bones.

Rain beaded across his lashes and slid down the edge of his jaw as he ran, boots hammering against the soaked Emirates turf—each stride sending tiny explosions of water and mud in his wake.

0–0 on the scoreboard.

Forty-five minutes and counting.

All the fans could see Izan trying to make something happen but all Izan saw was the ball in front of him.

That was all that mattered.

A faint roar trembled under his feet.

Not a cheer—no.

This was different.

This was a crowd rising.

A swell.

A realization.

He was going.

He had space, and he had speed, and now he was at full stride.

The slick pitch was his runway, and every United shirt between him and the box looked just slightly behind.

There was a sharpness in the air—like the sky had cracked open above them but hadn’t decided whether to crash down or hold.

The rain thickened, but Izan didn’t slow.

One touch shifted the ball across his body, away from Garnacho’s outstretched leg.

Another popped it past Bruno—quick and precise, a whisper of movement disguised in chaos.

Then he was free.

He heard it before he saw it—Ugarte’s breath, rasping behind him.

The Uruguayan’s boots thundered through the waterlogged grass, closing in, trying to recover ground he should’ve never lost.

Too late.

Izan feinted left, then snapped right.

The ball stayed loyal—spun up just high enough to stay dry, never once breaking from his rhythm.

But then it came.

A yank.

A sharp, desperate pull from behind—fingers coiled around the fabric of his shirt, yanking it taut against his shoulder blades.

He didn’t stumble.

Not right away.

Casemiro followed, body-wide, experience etched into the angle of his challenge.

Two men on one mission.

To stop him.

Together they leaned.

Together they dragged.

His feet dug into the turf, boots slicing two long gashes across the grass as he tried to ride the contact.

But the combined weight was too much.

He went down.

Not clean.

Not elegant.

A jarring tumble, shoulder first, thigh slamming hard into the pitch.

The impact knocked the breath out of him.

Not just from his lungs—but from the stadium.

A collective gasp, then the boiling-over roar.

Arms flew up across the stands.

Shouts.

Cries.

Rain-slicked scarves tossed into the air crying for a foul and just as Izan had steadied himself on the ground and was about to chase after the loose ball, a whistle cut through it all.

Sharp and furious.

The referee came into frame, arm already up as he called for a free kick.

Izan stayed on one knee for a second, hand splayed against the grass with water dripping from his chin.

His pulse drummed against the inside of his gloves and then he looked up.

The LED board read:

47:12

+2

Half-time loomed.

But now, something else loomed too.

The camera panned to Casemiro, who raised his hands in feigned innocence while Ugarte looked away, chest heaving.

“It’s taken two men—and even then, they didn’t stop him. They slowed him down. That’s,” Ian Crocker’s voice came low with weight from the gantry above.

Beside him, Andy Townsend shook his head, brow furrowed.

“You see that kind of reaction when a defender’s already panicked. They don’t think. They grab. Because that’s the only thing they’ve got left.”

The screen split: one side showing the foul again in slow motion—the shirt pulling, Izan’s legs dragging across the pitch like skates against glass.

The other side showed the referee placing the ball near the far right corner of the box.

Thirty-two yards out.

Left of center.

The kind of angle where anything could happen but mostly, nothing much happened.

Izan rose to his feet slowly a little bit dazed but with a calculated smile on his face.

His hair, tied into a half-bun, dripped cold against the back of his neck.

He pulled his gloves tighter, jaw clenched as he jogged to the ball.

The rain didn’t let up.

In fact, it almost seemed to lean in harder.

As if the sky, too, was waiting.

The ball gleamed, slick under the lights, as the ref backed away.

Izan looked once more at the wall.

Then the keeper.

Then the clock.

And finally… the goal.

Somewhere behind him, his teammates spread out.

Some stepped in, suggesting that he whip it in.

But he wouldn’t and the look he gave them showed that they all understood.

The air held its breath.

So did the fans.

And from above, the voice of Ian Crocker came again, this time softer, but cutting clear through the storm:

“He’s become the kind of player you don’t defend. You just hope to survive against him .”

Townsend murmured, “It’s not about whether he scores… It’s what happens when he tries.”

The whistle hadn’t blown yet.

But already, hearts were pounding.

The grass beneath his boots glistened with moisture, blades trembling with anticipation.

His laces were soaked, but the boots gripped the turf like they belonged to the ground.

Behind the wall, André Onana barked.

His voice sliced through the noise.

“Two more to the left! Shoulder-to-shoulder! Don’t jump early!”

He slammed his gloves together and roared again.

But it didn’t matter.

He was commanding mere mortals to hold back the tide.

And Izan?

He was already measuring.

One, two, three steps back.

Then one to the side.

A tilt of the neck.

A blink to clear the rain.

A soft blow of air through pursed lips as he flexed his gloved fingers once.

The Emirates was silent now, save for the rain.

Even the commentary was hushed.

And then—Andy Townsend, in a whisper.

“Every time… it looks too much. Too sharp an angle. Too much distance. But every time, he finds a way. This—this could be something.”

Beside him, Ian Crocker exhaled.

“I don’t think they can stop him anymore. Only the post or the heavens.”

“Hey, Max, it’s been a while” Izan muttered with the sentient mechanical whirring sounding in his mind.

[I guess it has been. The Author has been cruel to me and I haven’t even had an appearance in ages. Am I just a rag for the Author? This is Machine Abuse.]

“Sorry about that max but I need you to lock in now” Izan said as the referee blew his whistle.

[Say no more]

Ding, [KnuckleBall LV3 and Nexus Flow Activated]

Izan stepped forward.

One stride—light, and balanced, and the second—controlled.

Third—hips turned, eyes fixed, the ball cupped against the earth.

Then—

A whip of motion.

The sound—like a wet slap, thudding into the ball.

The ball flew off the grass with a tight spin, moving all over the place on its way to the goal like it had a memory.

Like it had done this countless times.

The wall jumped.

Onana flinched and the ball flipped in the opposite direction.

Over the tips of the last man in the wall.

Past the stretch of Onana’s right glove.

And kissed the underside of the crossbar before slicing into the net.

The net rippled like a wave crashing back from its crest.

The Emirates erupted.

A detonation of limbs and roars.

Hands were thrown into the air.

Scarves flung skyward.

Children lifted by their parents like offerings.

Commentary caught up only seconds later—delayed by awe.

“OH, THAT IS OUTRAGEOUS!” Ian shouted, voice cracking with adrenaline.

“There is the embodiment of ingenuity. With this kid here, we won’t run out of poetic words anytime soon.”

“He’s not a player anymore, he’s the law in the premier league. Welcome to the Izan Era”

Izan turned, away with a guttural, primal scream embodying carnage that had risen from the depths of hades.

He ran to the corner flag, arms out, face lifted to the sky as the rain poured heavier.

And behind him, every Arsenal shirt followed.

Arteta—hands still behind his back—only smiled now.

A goal?

No.

A story told.

You can hold him.

Drag him.

Build walls in front of him or even nerf him.

But when he locks in?

There is nothing left to do but watch.

A/n: Last of the day. Sorry for the privilege holding the chapters back. I’ll release a lot tomorrow so that we can get it over with.