God Of football - Chapter 738
Chapter 738: Far From Over.
After the restart, the game settled into its final rhythm, tension thick in the air after Izan’s thunderbolt had shaken the stadium.
Luis Enrique, realising the tide was shifting, wasted no time.
He gestured sharply to his bench, calling on defensive reinforcements as Fresh legs flooded into PSG’s back line, the Spaniard determined to protect the lead at all costs.
Arsenal pushed, urged forward by the roar of the Emirates, but PSG absorbed everything.
The French champions dropped deeper, compact lines leaving Izan with hardly a yard to breathe, while remaining alert for any opportunity to counter.
Every touch was contested, every second ball swallowed up.
Tackles were made, with PSG incurring 2 yellow cards in the process, all courtesy of Izan.
They were pulling out all the stops in the final minutes.
On the other hand, the Gunners searched desperately for one more opening, yet the clock ticked mercilessly toward ninety.
And then, with one last shrill blast, the referee brought his whistle to his lips.
Full-time.
Arsenal 1, Paris Saint-Germain 2.
The away end exploded.
A deafening roar of French voices rose into the North London night, their players clenching fists, arms pumping in triumph.
On the other side, groans rolled from the Arsenal faithful.
Disappointment, yes, but not despair.
They had seen their talisman return, seen him strike with the venom of a king, and belief flickered in their eyes.
The second leg awaited, and this time, fear had no place.
“Unbelievable drama here at the Emirates in the final moments,” the commentary team, up the gantry, tried to put it into words as their voices rang out.
“Arsenal beaten for the first time with Izan on the pitch… can you believe that? His 23rd goal of this Champions League campaign, and still, it wasn’t enough tonight.”
“A staggering statistic,” the co-commentator, Alan McInally, added.
“A seventeen-year-old, redefining what’s possible in this competition, in football, and yet here he walks off the pitch with his first taste of defeat. It tells you how extraordinary he’s been.”
Down on the grass, Izan peeled off his shirt, sweat glistening under the floodlights.
He walked slowly, head slightly bowed, but his eyes were hard, burning with something that wasn’t shame.
If anything, it was hunger and a mix of frustration.
“Just a few minutes earlier and that would have….” he said, as his voice trailed off.
A reporter darted forward as he neared the touchline, microphone stretched, desperate for a word, but Izan glanced at him once, just once.
A sharp shake of the head, eyes saying all that needed to be said: Not today.
Without breaking stride, he carried on, boots clattering down the tunnel, shirt draped over his shoulder.
The cameras lingered, following him until the shadows swallowed his figure.
And as the stadium buzzed with the mixture of elation and anguish, one truth rang clear: this tie was far from over.
….
The morning after the game, the media houses and bodies were having a field day.
The Guardian:
“Izan Returns, But Arsenal Fall Short at the Emirates – Talisman strikes again, but PSG edge ahead in first leg.”
Marca (Spain):
“El Dios del Gol No Descansa – Izan’s UCL tally rises to 23, even in defeat.”
L’Equipe (France):
“Paris Hold On, But Izan is Back – Arsenal’s star reminds PSG he needs only one chance.”
BBC Sport:
“2-1 in Emirates: Arsenal beaten, but belief restored with Izan’s return.”
As the headlines flooded the scenes, a feature BBC article went on to explain the story of the game.
……..
There was a moment at the Parc des Princes on Wednesday night when time seemed to freeze.
In the 82nd minute, the floodlights glistening on the Paris turf, Arsenal two goals down, the Champions League quarter-final first leg slipping away.
And then—Izan returned.
Three weeks out injured, doubts swirling around his fitness, his rhythm, even his aura.
But with one strike, he answered everything.
The ball dropped, the teenager’s leg arced through it, and before Marquinhos could react, the net was rattling. Gianluigi Donnarumma stood rooted; the underside of the bar had been tested, and the away end erupted into delirium.
For a moment, the noise of Paris was drowned out by the sound of Arsenal’s belief returning, but it wasn’t enough to save the match.
PSG, helped by Luis Enrique’s tactical changes, shut the doors and clung to a 2-1 advantage.
The whistle blew, the Parc De Princ-bound second leg looming like a storm cloud on the horizon.
Arsenal lost the battle, but their weapon had returned.
And in truth, the statistics make Izan’s night almost surreal. His 23rd Champions League goal of the campaign came in just his 10th appearance.
He had scored and won every Champions League match he had featured in this season, except this one, which ironically, also marked the first defeat Arsenal had suffered with him on the pitch. (came off the bench)
For Arsenal, the story doesn’t end here.
In fact, it begins anew.
Mikel Arteta’s men have no time to wallow: they face Crystal Palace at Wembley on Saturday in an FA Cup semi-final.
The league clash with Liverpool, originally pencilled in for this weekend, has been pushed back, giving Arsenal room to breathe and, crucially, room to build with their talisman once again fit.
Paris may have won the night, but Arsenal’s belief has been restored.
Izan’s goal was more than a strike; it was a statement.
The boy who has become football’s most unstoppable force is back, and heading into the second leg, Arsenal know one truth above all: with him on the pitch, nothing is impossible.
…
Hori tilted her head, eyes narrowing as she read aloud the last paragraph of the article glowing on her tablet.
“Arsenal’s talisman returns, not only to the pitch but to the headlines—once more proving why football, at times, feels like poetry made flesh.”
She exhaled through her nose and set the device aside with a faint chuckle.
“Honestly, these writers… they really know how to glaze and raise you.”
Across from her, Miranda, fresh off from Milan, and espresso clinging to her, had settled into the armchair like she’d never left.
She draped one leg over the other, gesturing lazily with her hand as if flicking away an obvious truth.
“Please. Arsenal would have walked out with at least a draw if Arteta had the sense to put Izan on earlier.”
The provocation hung in the air, and Hori’s lips curved into a sly smirk.
She leaned back, crossing her arms with mock finality.
“I don’t think so,” she replied, deliberately casual, though her eyes flickered toward the couch, toward the boy with the controller.
She hoped, just hoped, the line would tug something out of him.
But Izan didn’t so much as flinch.
His gaze was glued to the screen, headset framing his face, fingers moving with that silent intensity everyone in the house knew too well.
On-screen, Arsenal were dismantling PSG on the highest difficulty setting of FC 25.
The scoreline read 3–0.
The game cut briefly to his in-game avatar, already with two goals to its name, and then back to another ruthless press against Donnarumma’s defence.
If the jab had landed, he wasn’t showing it.
The quiet broke when the kitchen door swung open and Komi emerged, cradling a tray with the kind of reverence usually reserved for art pieces.
A loaf of deep-dish bread, its crust golden and split with steam, sent a wave of warmth across the room.
She laid it down gently, then looked at her daughter with that familiar maternal firmness.
“Hori, don’t bother your brother. Let him sulk in peace.”
Her tone wasn’t sharp, but enough to make Hori shrug and roll her eyes.
“Of course, he can troll, but I can’t,” she said while gesturing animatedly at her mother’s supposed favouritism towards Izan and to her, it showed in the next moment as Komi sliced through the loaf, the crackle of crust filling the room, and placed a piece on a small plate.
She moved to Izan, who finally lifted his headset just long enough to lean forward, kiss her cheek in gratitude, and retreat into the glow of the match.
A faint smile passed over Komi’s face as she returned to the kitchen, satisfied.
Hori shook her head at the little scene, her smirk softening into something almost amused.
She turned to Miranda, raising her brows.
“Since when did we start playing the Godfather game?” she asked, gesturing at the quiet ritual of the bread, a kiss, silence, and resumed business, as though it were part of some family mafia drama.
Miranda laughed under her breath, her eyes following Izan’s focused profile, the controller clicking like background music.
“Komi, Hori’s been watching R-rated movies again. She just mentioned the Godfather.”
“No, I did not,” Hori fired back as she continued to settle down before one of the tables near the couch, watching on as her mother threw her a glance.
A/N: Okay, this will be the last of the day. Have fun reading, and I will see you soon.
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