God Of football

"OH MY WORD—HE'S DONE IT! IZAN! FROM A WORLD ONLY HE SEEMS TO SEE! IS THERE ANY DOUBT AT THIS POINT? ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?"

Chairs flipped shut.

Arms launched.

Grown men grabbed strangers.

Every fan who had held their breath through the shot now erupted like they'd never exhaled.

On the bench, Arteta fell to his knees.

His assistants were in the air, hugging, shaking each other by the collar like they couldn't believe it either.

Izan ran, towards the sideline, tearing his shirt off before showing the name behind it to the fans as if to show them who had made the difference.

And they all knew who it was.

Izan turned away from the chaos behind him, the net still rippling like it hadn't accepted what just happened.

His shirt, crumpled in his hand, hung like a banner. The fans weren't done.

They leaned over the rails, shouting his name, throwing their arms into the air not in praise, but in disbelief.

They had seen a miracle. And now they wanted to hold it.

He didn't run. He just walked—calm, sweat gleaming down his arms, chest heaving as if the oxygen around him had just changed.

The referee intercepted him before he crossed midfield.

Yellow card. A quiet one. Routine. Expected.

Izan stopped, looked at it, and then looked up at the official.

There was no complaint. No hesitation.

Just a wry grin, the kind only a sixteen-year-old with steel in his blood could pull off after doing what he just did.

He reached out, shook the referee's hand like he'd just closed a business deal, and continued his slow march to his half.

"Booked for the shirt removal," Peter Wallace narrated.

"But I don't think anyone in this stadium would change a second of it."

Marsha added, voice still hot with disbelief. "He could've taken the whole kit off, Peter. No one's forgetting that goal."

On the Arsenal bench, Arteta was bent forward, palms pressed to his knees, laughing—like that was all he could do now.

Around him, the assistants had given up trying to sit still.

They were on their feet, clapping, shaking heads.

Somewhere behind them, club executives were on the phone.

The atmosphere had cracked into something electric and unstable.

And in the stands, the sound rose again.

First a chant. Then a rhythm.

Then a wave.

"IZAN! IZAN! IZAN!"

One section of the Emirates began pounding against the hoardings. Another joined. Then another.

It echoed through the night, bounced off the rafters, slipped past the cameras, and into living rooms across the country.

Dion's voice came low and careful.

"You know what's wild?" he said. "City were probably smiling at 2–2. A draw between these two?"

Peter nodded, catching the shift. "But now Liverpool lose. Arsenal push 4 points clear again. And Man City's Haaland, he's got this kid on his tail with eleven goals and six assists in eight matches."

"That's tied with Haaland," Marsha added. "But Izan's not even a striker."

"He's doing numbers," Dion said.

Back on the pitch, Izan pulled his shirt back on, still walking.

His teammates gave him space—not in distance, but in reverence.

Rice clapped once and slapped his shoulder while Saka offered a word.

The referee signaled for Liverpool to restart.

The ball was rolled backward, then booted forward with force, a desperate arc meant for nowhere and everywhere.

And just as it began to drop—

The whistle.

A sharp cut through the air.

Final.

Definitive.

Unmistakable.

For a split second, everything stood still—the fans, the players, the noise itself suspended in the air.

Then the ground shook beneath the roar that followed.

But above the sound, the voice of Peter Wallace came through—not as a shout, but as a thread pulled gently through the chaos.

"Full time here at the Emirates," he said, his voice low, heavy with awe.

"And what a night it's been."

He let it sit there, soaking in the atmosphere, before continuing.

"Izan has done it again. He's taken a match like this—Arsenal against Liverpool, the weight of title races and legacy pressing on every blade of grass—and made it his."

"With a goal that defies belief. With a sprint that saved it. With the kind of performance that makes you stop, breathe, and realize… you just witnessed something that doesn't happen often."

His voice slowed, not for effect, but because there weren't many words left that could match what had happened.

"He's sixteen. And tonight, he beat one of the best sides in Europe. But tomorrow…"

The pause was intentional.

"Tomorrow, he faces a different challenge. In Paris. At the Ballon d'Or ceremony. No crowd to lift him. No ball to chase."

"Just his name, sitting among the greatest in the world—and the question on everyone's lips: is this the year football gives its highest honor to a boy who's playing like a man from the future?"

A hush lingered behind his words like the stadium itself was listening.

"Records have already bent around him. Matches turn on his touch. But history? That's harder to break. Harder to bend. But if anyone can do it…"

Another pause.

"…it might just be him."

The screen showed Izan walking, jersey half-tucked, hands at his sides, eyes steady.

And Peter, softly, one last time:

"Tonight, he won the game. Tomorrow, he might just change the game forever. My name is Peter Wallace and you just watched, one of THE GREATEST things you'll ever see in your life. Ladies and Gents, football is saved."

...

The stadium was still humming when Izan climbed the steps to the VIP section, shirt tugged over his head again, hair still damp from the sweat of ninety-seven minutes.

He hadn't even made it halfway up before he heard it.

"I-ZAN!" came the squeal from the left.

Hori launched forward before any of the staff could say a word, wrapping her arms around his waist like she hadn't seen him in months instead of hours.

He stumbled back a step, laughing.

"You were supposed to be sitting," he muttered, mock scolding.

"I was," she shot back.

"Then you scored like that!"

Komi came in next, smiling warmly as she touched his arm.

"That was… breathtaking," she said softly.

Miranda adjusted her sunglasses even though the night had long fallen.

"You should give me a heads up anytime you lock in to present a masterclass. Tonight was wonderful." Miranda said as Olivia walked to Izan's side.

They laughed—nothing loud or explosive, but enough to shake off the weight of the game, just for a moment.

Izan hugged them each quickly, gently.

Hori still clung to his side like a medal.

"I'll see you all after," he said finally, giving one last nod before turning back down toward the tunnel.

The dressing room was calmer than it should've been.

Not quiet. Not subdued. Just satisfied.

Shirts half-off, boots unlaced, laughter in the corners.

Martinelli leaned back against the lockers, ice bag on his knee while Saka was still grinning, ribbing Timber about something that had nothing to do with football.

Arteta entered, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room before clapping once—sharp.

"Enjoy this," he said, his voice firm but not loud.

"Because you earned it. Every one of you. You fought for this shirt. For each other."

Then his gaze landed on Izan.

"And you—come with me."

There was no tension in it. Just weight.

Izan followed him outside, where the corridor was cooler and the lights hummed low.

Arteta turned, hands in his pockets.

"You know what tomorrow is," he said. "I don't need to remind you."

Izan nodded, quiet.

Arteta took a breath.

"Whatever happens in Paris… win or lose… I want you to remember something."

Another pause.

"You are already the best player I have ever seen."

The words didn't land like a compliment.

They landed like truth.

Izan blinked, unsure whether to thank him or believe him.

But Arteta wasn't finished.

"You've got so much ahead. So much more to do. And yet—tonight, you gave us a moment that none of us will forget. Not in ten years. Not ever."

He clapped Izan on the shoulder—once, solid.

"Now go get changed before your sister tries to sneak into the tunnel again."

"Okay sir," Izan said with a chuckle before disappearing into the showers

...….

The apartment lights were low, and the city outside was calm for the first time all day.

Inside, laughter filled the space like steam rising off a fresh cup of tea.

Hori was sprawled across one of the couches, her feet in Komi's lap, while Olivia scrolled through her phone and Miranda nursed a glass of something dark and quiet.

Izan sat on the armrest, still in his post-match hoodie, hair wet from the shower, eyes half-lidded but content.

Komi reached over the table, refilling a bowl of popcorn.

"So… Miranda," she said casually, though the sparkle in her eye gave her away. "When are you flying to Paris?"

Miranda glanced at her watch, though she didn't really need to.

"Tomorrow. Around 9 AM. But I figured we all get some sleep first. Izan's practically running on fumes."

"I'm fine," Izan mumbled, already half-slouched.

"You're not," Miranda said over him.

"So here's the plan—Komi and Hori head back to Spain from the airport. I'll take Izan to France. If Olivia's joining, we go together."

All eyes turned to Olivia, who didn't look up from her phone.

She shook her head gently.

"I can't," she said. "I've got a full schedule coming up. Too many assignments and projects."

Hori groaned dramatically, arms falling over her face.

"What now?" Izan asked, smiling.

"Can we stay just a little longer?" she asked, peeking through her fingers.

"Just tonight. I don't want to go back yet."

"You already forgot about your finals?" Izan asked, flicking her forehead lightly.

She yelped and rubbed the spot.

"They're in two weeks!" she argued.

"Exactly," he said. "So if you want to beat my middle school scores, you better start studying."

She grumbled but didn't argue further.

The apartment settled back into its rhythm—soft laughter, the buzz of the city beyond, and the knowledge that tomorrow… the world might change.

A/n: First of the day, have fun reading and I'll see you in a bit with the last of the day.