God Of football - Chapter 744

Chapter 744: 2 To The Good.

Izan didn’t sprint or throw himself into a wild celebration.

Instead, he jogged toward the corner flag with a measured calmness, every step drawing more fury from the Palace section tucked behind that side of Wembley.

When he reached the corner, he stopped, leaned casually against the flagpole like it was nothing more than a lamppost on a late-night stroll, and extended a finger straight at the Palace fans before him.

The response was instant.

Middle fingers shot into the air as voices rang out with insults and jeers, a wall of anger being hurled in his direction.

But Izan only laughed, a short shake of the head, the grin widening across his face.

He didn’t need to say a word because the scoreboard behind him did all the talking.

Saka arrived first, tugging at his shirt with a laugh before throwing his arms around him.

And soon, Rice followed, clapping the back of his head, while Martinelli and Havertz piled in from the sides.

After a moment, the whole black-shirted pack was on him, a group hug bursting into little jumps of joy in front of the furious Palace end.

“Well, he’s not only got the goal, he’s got the Palace supporters absolutely rattled!” Martin Tyler’s voice pushed through the roar.

“How many times have we seen these scenes, this season, Martin?” Jim Beglin chuckled beside him.

“It’s almost become a staple to see Izan jogging towards the corner to celebrate almost every game. But that celebration, that’s mischief. That’s knowing exactly what you’re doing.”

Finally, the black shirts peeled themselves away, jogging back toward their own half, the grin still stuck on Izan’s face as he tapped fists with Havertz on the way.

Arteta, from the touchline, clapped furiously, urging focus, hands cupped around his mouth as the players settled into their positions, waiting for the referee’s whistle.

The restart saw Palace come forward with intent, pushing bodies higher up the pitch, but Arsenal met them with composure.

Saliba and Gabriel formed a wall in the centre, Rice patrolled every second ball, and Raya barked orders from behind with the calmness of a man who trusted the line in front of him.

Palace had possession, sometimes, but it was Arsenal who looked sharper whenever the game opened up.

Twice, Saka wriggled free down the right, and twice he was brought down cynically before he could fully escape.

Each foul was met with a chorus of boos from the Arsenal fans and a raised eyebrow from the referee, but no card.

On the other side, Martinelli had his moments, darting into gaps behind Munoz, though his final touches just lacked the sting to punish Palace properly.

The half ticked toward stoppage time, and Arsenal pressed again, smelling the chance for a killer second.

Havertz, ghosting between lines, slipped a clever ball into Izan’s stride.

He took one touch and, with the crowd already rising, shaped for the bottom corner, but Hendersen’s desperate save sent the shot spinning wide for a corner.

The Arsenal fans groaned, close enough to believe, yet denied.

Izan, as usual, trotted across to take it quickly.

He floated the ball toward the near post, where Gabriel attacked it with venom, crashing above his marker, only for the header to glance agonisingly across the face of the goal and out of play.

Moments later, the whistle came.

The referee’s shrill blast cut through the noise, bringing the first half to an end.

Players from both sides exhaled, some jogging, others trudging toward the tunnel.

“And so, Wembley reaches the interval,” Tyler declared over the images of players walking off.

“Arsenal, one-nil up courtesy of Izan’s ice-cold finish and almost snatched a second at the very end. Palace are still in it, though, and you sense they’ll need to find something extra if they’re to wrestle this game back in their favour.”

“That late chance from Gabriel shows you how close Arsenal were to tightening the screws,” Beglin added with a slight laugh.

“But as it stands, Palace will take being just one down at the break. The second half is going to be fascinating.”

The camera panned across Izan, shirt untucked, chatting with Saka as they disappeared down the tunnel, before cutting to the Palace fans, still seething but chanting louder, trying to keep their side alive.

It was halftime at Wembley and Arsenal were in front.

…..

[Second Half]

“One-nil at the break, Arsenal leading Crystal Palace thanks to Izan’s cool strike,” Tyler set the stage once more.

“But this is far from over because Palace have already shown flashes, and Olivier Glasner will be hoping his side can turn those into something more concrete in this second period.”

“They’ll need to be brave,” Beglin nodded in his softer tone. “Arsenal are slick in transition, but Palace have players who can cause trouble, Eze, Mateta, even Sarr lurking between the lines. If they can keep Arsenal honest, we could have a proper contest here.”

They barely finished before the game itself took command.

Palace started brightly, moving the ball with more purpose than they had in the first half.

Eze dropped into midfield, demanding it off Wharton before gliding forward, his head up, feet dancing.

He found Sarr on the overlap, and suddenly Arsenal’s back line had to scramble.

Calafiori backtracked and Gabriel stepped across, but Sarr still wriggled free and curled in a cross toward the near post, where Mateta attacked it fiercely, stretching every muscle, but Raya was alive, springing low to claim the ball at full stretch.

The Palace end roared encouragement, and the Arsenal end responded louder, defiantly chanting Izan’s name.

After that scare, Arsenal sought to reassert themselves.

Odegaard spun into space after a clever layoff from Havertz, drifting forward like he was pulling invisible strings.

He clipped a ball toward Martinelli, racing into the box, and for a moment, it looked perfect, Martinelli controlling, body shifting for the shot, until Jefferson Lerma came crashing across with a last-ditch tackle, sweeping the danger clear.

“End-to-end stuff!” Tyler’s voice surged with the rhythm of the game. “Both sides refusing to blink here at Wembley.”‘

The next few minutes were a blur of thrust and counter-thrust.

Palace poured forward, Wharton finding Mateta with a neat line-splitter, only for Saliba to step in like a door slamming shut while the attacking end of Arsenal responded instantly, Odegaard releasing Saka down the right, whose cross zipped dangerously across goal before being hacked away by Lacroix.

The crowd couldn’t sit still; every touch felt heavier, at least in their eyes, because this was for a place in a final.

Then came the moment that broke the tension.

Izan, dropping deep to collect, turned with one motion, slipping away from his marker as though the ball belonged solely to him.

He drove forward, the Palace midfield converging desperately until Kamada lunged first, but Izan brushed him aside with a feint of the shoulder, sliding past as if the Japanese midfielder had stepped onto thin air.

Wharton, looking to cover and delay, reached in, grabbing a fistful of his sleeve, but Izan didn’t break stride, shrugging him off with a raw burst of strength that sent the Palace midfielder stumbling.

The noise rose, the Arsenal fans sensing a breakthrough from the scenes they were seeing.

Izan, on the other hand, spotted the channel, and as quickly as he saw it, his right boot clipped the ball down the flank into Saka’s path.

The winger’s first touch was velvet-soft, pulling it under control as he galloped forward, where Tyrell Mitchell squared him up, body low, ready to match stride for stride.

But Saka wasn’t looking to pass him; he wanted more.

He feinted right but then chopped inside to his left and carried the ball toward the box with Mitchell still glued to his hip.

Meanwhile, Izan didn’t stand still.

Instead of charging into the box, he ghosted in the opposite direction, drifting into the space Saka had vacated.

The Palace defenders hesitated, unsure whether to follow Saka’s cut or track Izan’s clever movement and that hesitation was all Arsenal needed.

Saka, almost without looking, flicked the ball back into that vacant channel, perfectly weighted and perfectly timed.

Izan arrived on it, cushioned it forward, and then paused, scanning.

He waited, just long enough, for Saka to break inside the box again, cutting through like a knife.

Then the return ball came, slick, unselfish and surely devastating.

Saka, not looking to disappoint, took it in stride, opened his body, and drilled it low across Henderson.

The Palace keeper stretched, but it was hopeless as the ball arrowed into the bottom corner.

Two-nil. Arsenal.

The Arsenal company of Wembley erupted for the second time that night, thunder crashing down in the form of human voices as Saka wheeled away, arms wide, before spinning back toward Izan.

He jabbed a finger in his direction, pointing unmistakably at the architect of the move, then leapt onto him, clinging as teammates poured in.

And in the middle of the storm, Saka grabbed at his shirt, pinching the Arsenal badge and flashing it proudly to the stadium, facing down the Palace supporters in a gesture of unshakable defiance.

“It had to be him!” Tyler’s voice cut through the din. “Bukayo Saka, finishing what Izan so brilliantly began. Arsenal double their lead at Wembley, and the partnership of these two young stars continues to shine brightest under the lights!”

“That’s irresistible,” Beglin said, almost chuckling with awe. “Izan does the hard yards, tears open Palace’s midfield, then has the composure to wait for Saka’s run. And the finish, clinical. Palace were pulled apart, plain and simple.”

On the pitch, Izan and Saka walked back together, laughter and adrenaline mixing on their faces, their arms draped loosely over each other’s shoulders.

Arsenal had breathing space, but Wembley knew there was still football left to play, or not?

A/N: Guys, this is the last of the previous day. I have a paper so I will write the first of the day after that or I might collapse because I can’t feel my eyes. Have fun reading and I will see you in a bit.

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