God Of football - Chapter 876
Chapter 876: What Needs To Be Done.
For a few seconds after Izan’s second goal and curt celebration, even the PSG fans couldn’t bring themselves to boo.
They just sat there, stunned, eyes following the Arsenal number ten as he jogged back to his half, calm, collected, like a man who’d done this a hundred times before.
Then the murmurs began, soft at first, then growing louder across the stands.
“Something’s got to be done about that kid,” an American fan in a navy PSG jersey said, shaking his head as he turned to his friend.
“What sort of problem is this?”
His friend let out a long sigh, still staring at the pitch.
“It’s not just us. Nobody’s been able to stop him since the start of this tournament. This final might as well be done already.”
A few rows behind them, a dude wearing a Retro Barca jersey leaned forward, speaking more to himself than anyone else.
“How many goals has he scored now?”
The man beside him, holding a paper cup of beer, pulled out his phone.
“Wait, I think I saw a post about that earlier,” he said, scrolling quickly.
“He didn’t play the first two games, right?”
“Yeah, he was in London at the start of the tournament but was registered ahead of their games,” another voice chimed in from a few seats down.
The man nodded, still scrolling.
“Right. So he played his first game in their third group match against Real Madrid… and scored twice.” He looked up briefly, shaking his head at the words coming out of his mouth.
“Then another brace against City in the round of 16, and another against Fluminense in the quarters. That’s six goals already, and four assists too.”
A younger fan, still wearing his Chelsea scarf, leaned forward from the next row.
“That’s before the semi-final against us,” he said bitterly.
“Man scored five on his own that night in this same stadium. Thought it was going to be fun watching Arsenal crumble, or at least panic for once. Instead, it was us.”
The guy with the phone chuckled dryly, scrolling further.
“So that’s… eleven goals in four games, right? And now two more tonight. Thirteen goals in five matches.”
The PSG fan who’d started the whole exchange slumped in his seat.
“Thirteen? In 5 games. The players closest to him are Di Maria and Real Madrid’s Gonzalo Garcia, and the two only have four goals each.”
All around them, the reactions were the same: sighs, muttered curses and small shakes of the head.
The fans sat with a strange mixture of awe and dread reserved for moments when brilliance crossed into inevitability.
The announcer’s voice broke through it all, booming through the speakers like a ritual chant.
“Goal for Arsenal… scored by number 10… Izan Hernandez!”
The noise that followed was almost physical, the Arsenal section exploding in pure elation, scarves waving, flares igniting red and white across the tier.
The broadcast commentary picked up as the ball was placed at the centre circle once more.
“You’re looking at a player who’s redefining this tournament, and football as a whole,” one commentator said, his tone brimming with disbelief.
“Five games, thirteen goals, and not a hint of slowing down. PSG need to find an answer, and fast, because right now, Izan Hernandez is playing like the world belongs to him, and that might not be very far off from the answer.”
His co-commentator added softly, almost as if speaking to himself.
“It just might.”
The referee’s whistle pierced the air once more, sharp and clear, as PSG restarted the match.
….
After the designated added time finished, forty-five minutes were gone and done with.
The referee’s whistle came as he pointed to the tunnel, and the players began to jog off the pitch, some wiping sweat from their faces, others exchanging quiet words with each other while they made their way down the tunnel.
The crowd buzzed, voices layered over each other, the energy still very much alive.
From the broadcast booth above the pitch, the voices of the commentators filled the airwaves.
“An electric first half,” one of them said, his tone carrying both admiration and disbelief.
“Arsenal have looked fearless. Izan has been at the heart of everything, scoring two goals to put Arsenal ahead, and from how things are going, this trophy might as well be left for Arsenal because Paris Saint-Germain don’t have an answer for Izan.”
The camera panned across the stands as the players disappeared into the tunnel.
Scarlet shirts waved and sang on one side while dark blue flares rose on the other.
But away from the chants and camera flashes, up in one of the executive boxes, two men sat quietly in tailored suits, both watching the same replays with a different kind of intensity.
If you looked closely and were knowledgeable enough about the industry, you could tell who they were, Nike executives, both of them.
The middle-aged man, salt beginning to creep into his hair, leaned slightly toward the other.
His eyes stayed fixed on the big screen as Izan’s backheel flick between Fabian Ruiz’s legs replayed in slow motion, drawing gasps even from neutral fans.
“That’s the boy Tyrell Greene couldn’t get, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice low, calm, but laced with meaning.
“Even with the budget, the perks, everything he was handed? Is he just that incompetent, or is the kid immune to the treasures of this world?” he said the last part with a little chuckle.
The younger executive gave a small nod, exhaling as the fans began walking out of their seats for the halftime break.
“That’s him. Greene threw everything at it. The dinners, the private pitch sessions, the custom prototype shoes… all of it. Still, the kid walked away.”
The older man sat back, thoughtful, tapping his fingers lightly on his knee as the stadium lights dimmed slightly for halftime coverage.
“He’s just kicking a ball around. What possibly did they offer him that made him that adverse to signing with them?” he said, looking at the younger guy who tried pulling something out of his pocket, but the older man stopped him.
“When do they leave the States?”
“Not sure yet,” the younger one replied.
“There’s talk that Arsenal might stay for another day or two after the tournament, but nothing is set in stone yet. But apparently, Izan’s family flew in and have been in the states since before the Semis with Chelsea, and the club tends to give him some flexibility, so he might stay a few more days after the tournament. He gets top priority treatment wherever he goes.”
The older man gave a slow nod, not surprised.
“Well, from the numbers he’s putting up and the accolades you say he’s won, it looks like he’s earned that. Personally, I would have loved it if they decided to invest this money somewhere else, you know, in our football.”
The younger man nodded before showing his phone to the older man.
“Nike’s popularity in Europe and Asia has declined over the past year, and it coincides with the rise of Izan, with Adidas seeing some of the best stock rises and just a high overall market cap in a while, and it all happened after they put the boy in the three stripes.”
The older man nodded thoughtfully, while the younger man continued.
“We have a slight chokehold on the US market but if we want to regain out footing outside of this country, we have to be fast and the company has decided to use this boy to do that and that is why they called you to do it since you have the expertise and are also an executive so if this goes well, you also benefit.”
His gaze lingered on the screen again, where Izan appeared in a highlight reel, gliding past defenders, head always up, a flash of red and white against blue.
“Alright. I want you to pull up the exact terms Tyrell offered him. Every line, every clause.”
“Got it,” the younger man said.
“And one more thing,” the older continued, his tone dipping lower.
“Reach out to our guys at Adidas. See if they can dig up what they offered to beat ours. Discreetly. With the interest, I can tell that someone higher up really wants to rip the stripes from the boy and put him in the swoosh.”
The younger executive nodded once more, his eyes following the screen as Izan’s second goal replayed in slow motion, the ball cutting through a forest of Paris legs like a thread of light.
After a while, the roar of the crowd rose again as the players began to emerge from the tunnel.
The second half was about to begin, and for a moment, both men sat quietly, letting the noise swell around them.
“Could really kill for some of that popcorn,” the older man spoke again as the fans started coming from the outside and returning to their seats.
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