God Of football

Izan dropped off the front line again.

Not to drift, not to stall—but to crack Valencia's spine right where they'd built their wall.

He moved between the lines like vapour, dragging Mosquera a step too far, pulling Pietro out of shape.

Sosa, younger but seeing things players with more experience couldn't, barked an order, and Guerra tracked him tight, shoulder pressed into his back.

That's what they wanted.

Force him to face his own goal.

Force him to play with his back to theirs.

Most forwards don't survive that.

Izan wasn't most forwards.

He wasn't even a clear forward, and it showed in the way he evaded the attention of the Valencia midfield trio.

He let the ball come across his body, soft on the turn with three white shirts circling him now, almost too close.

With a second glance, Izan already knew where he wanted the ball.

He stuck his right foot under the ball before lifting it one way and then looking the other as the ball went off Rioja, Valencia's right wingback, with the ball meeting space.

And in that space, was Gabriel Martinelli still moving like something inside his leg was holding on by tape and trust, but the ball made him move anyway.

He took the pass in stride, the outside of his boot guiding it down the line toward Rioja, who had tracked back enough to face off against Martinelli.

The Valencia wing-back was quick, gritty, sharp on his feet—but he hadn't read Martinelli's intent.

The Brazilian slowed, causing him to slow with him,m and even though the wingback knew what was coming, he couldn't do much to stop it as Martinelli exploded past him, dust on boots and teeth grit behind a grimace.

The Brazilian bore down the left side of the wing and then cut across the ball with venom, expecting someone to be there.

But no one was.

It wasn't a pass anymore.

It was a shot.

Skimming toward the far corner, shaped by deflection, twisting on air.

Mamardashvili saw it late, planted, and pushed as his fingertips brushed it against the crossbar, which screamed.

The ball spun out and kissed the line of chalk behind the far post as the Arsenal end gasped—so did the bench.

A cheer erupted from the Valencia fans, celebrating the save, but Arsenal were already restarting.

"I don't think it was his intention, but it would have been a goal to remember had Martinelli's cross gone in", Peter Drury said as one of the ball boys tossed a ball back onto the pitch.

Izan was already moving for the corner flag when a voice cut through the sideline chaos.

"Izan! Box! Now!"

Arteta, sharp as ever, roared, his instructions cutting through the noise of the crowd.

On the other side of the dugout, Ruben Baraja also signalled towards his men.

Izan slowed, turned back, and jogged toward the area, brow furrowed—not at the command, but at the timing.

He didn't hate corner, but he'd rather be the one taking it than the one receiving it, but it seemed a few goals with his head had bought the idea into Arteta's mind that he was some kind of Ronaldo.

Foulquier tracked him immediately, grinning like a man caught in a memory.

"Back again," he muttered under his breath as the referee halted play to stop Rice and Pietro from their little scuffle. "You used to torture me in training, and now what—you brought cameras this time?"

Izan cracked a ghost of a smile.

"Should've asked for a transfer."

Foulquier laughed but then turned towards Tarrega.

Tarrega, taller and broader, stepped in front of Izan, almost overshadowing him.

"Meet Tarrega," Foulquier introduced gently. "We got him with the money we got from your sale", he continued, trying to irk Izan, but the latter didn't really pay him any heed after Rice looked poised to take the free kick.

The corner came in hard—Rice's whip was flat, direct, the kind that doesn't ask questions so much as dare answers.

Izan jumped, head high above most, but Tarrega had the spring.

His timing was cleaner, and with the help of the few inches he had over Izan, he thumped the ball away as Valencia's line pushed up in sync, the defenders shouting, shifting, —resetting before Arsenal could trap them in the second phase.

The ball dropped into the middle of the pitch with Rice taking control, but Piatelli appeared out of nowhere, hell-bent on making things hard for the Englishman.

Rice, with nowhere to go, turned towards his back and kicked the ball, but that was the plan Piatelli had from the start.

"Oh, Rice to the back, but Piatelli is after the ball. Who wins it?" Clive called, but between Piatelli and Gabriel, there wasn't much competition.

The Argentine took the ball, scooping it from the ground as Gabriel tried to slide in with a tackle, but he missed.

Piatelli's landing was awkward—his studs scraped the turf, weight leaning too far forward.

His legs didn't move with the same ease as Izan's did.

But still, he had the ball, and that was enough.

Saliba had already moved after Gabriel slid I, and it looked as if he had moved too late.

But once he moved, he moved.

One long stride.

Two.

Three.

Arms pumping, closing fast.

Piatelli didn't check his shoulder.

He didn't need to.

He could feel the Frenchman breathing down his neck.

Could feel the pitch tilt against him, pressure rising, and he didn't intend to go down without a fight.

He dropped his shoulder and feinted right after feeling Saliba's steps behind him, but the Frenchman bought none of it.

He stepped in, shoulder to shoulder and for half a second, Piatelli looked finished.

But that's when he cut back with a slow chopping movement that killed Saliba's momentum.

The latter's weight shifted too late as Piatelli stood the ball up.

Done with Salib, he glanced up to pounce towards the Valencia goal, but Raya was already off his line.

The angle was tight, and yet the moment wasn't.

Not for Piatelli, who lifted it.

The ball kissed the skylight, deliberate, and floated just above Raya's reach.

The keeper stretched and backpedalled, but it was too clean.

The net ripple,d and the Mestalla erupted.

GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAALLLLL, The fans gave in to screams as Piatelli turned away immediately—no smirk, no scream.

Just arms stretched wide as he jogged toward the north stand.

The home fans lost it.

Scarves lifted.

Voices tore through the air while phones and cameras flashed aggressively.

He reached the hoardings, turned to face them, and lifted both arms again.

Not asking for praise.

Demanding it.

He stood there as they roared for him, soaking in the noise, not blinking once.

And through the chaos, the commentary swelled.

"It's Lorenzo Piatelli!" Peter Drury called, rising with the crowd.

"The boy they almost forgot—reminding everyone who never left!"

"A mistake, a chase, a moment of sheer instinct… and Mestalla roars for their son!"

Clive Tyldesley followed, breath caught in rhythm.

"Bad Awareness by Declan Rice. He should have looked once more before trying to hand over the ball to his defence for an easy way out of the press, but it has backfired and now Arsenal are behind here in Valencia."

Piatelli stood still, palms raised as his mates roared from behind, jumping onto him and sinking themselves onto the ground.

"Baraja has a smile on his face, and we can't blame him. His men have wished a goal to life to bring them ahead. It's now Valencia 1, Arsenal nil"

Arteta was already at the edge of his technical area, hands open, pacing back and forth like a man trying to will the rhythm back into his side.

"No panic," he shouted.

"We still control the game, and that could reflect on the scoreboard soon!"

He turned to Carlos Cuesta and gestured sharply toward the midfield.

"Tell Declan to drop in deeper and be alert. They're setting traps, and I don't want to see another player fall in it."

Cuesta relayed it.

On the pitch, Ødegaard pulled his teammates into a quick huddle just past the halfway line.

"Let's shake it off," he said clearly, looking each one of them in the eye.

"We stay calm. We stay sharp. We play our football. We don't need to rush things. Just keep it cool."

The other players nodded at the words of their captain before turning towards their positions.

Izan stood near the centre spot, breathing slowly through his nose, then wiped a line of sweat off his brow with the edge of his sleeve.

The goal hadn't rattled him, but it had registered.

That kind of mistake—what led to it—couldn't happen again.

He reached the centre circle just as the referee walked back into place and rolled the ball gently his way.

Izan looked ahead once—Piatelli still catching his breath near the sideline, his name being sung from the north end—then tapped the ball forward.

A/N: Last of the day. Have fun reading, and I'll see you in a bit with the First of the day and the GT chapter during the day.