God Of football - Chapter 967

Capítulo 967: Dead Team!

[The VIP Seating Area]

Hori let out a long breath and finally settled back into her seat, clapping until Izan placed the ball on the centre spot.

Her hands dropped to her lap as she shook her head once.

“Finally,” she muttered. “This was getting annoying. The first game we come to see for the season, and they want to lose.”

Beside her, Miranda just stared on as the whistle went, and the game snapped back into motion.

Forest, under their Europa League-winning manager, Ange Postecoglou, made it their life’s work afterwards to keep the ball away from Arsenal, hoping to kill the momentum that the London-based club had built from their earlier goal, but it was easier said than done.

Their passes were followed with keen anticipation, with the Arsenal squad closing down on them in their own half, getting the ball closer and closer to their own box, and so after another close call that felt too close for comfort, Mrillo smashed the ball in the Arsenal half.

That ball fell right in front of Raya, who had come out, with the Spanish keeper claiming the ball before walking it back to his own box, while his players spread out to open spaces behind and in front of him.

And after that, it was just pure attacking football from Arsenal, who made sure their balls were in dangerous areas while also being comfortable enough not to lose it even in the pressure that Forest had started giving.

“Arsenal straight on the front foot again,” the commentator said as the ball moved quickly from Ødegaard to Zubimendi and back out wide to Timber.

“It’s been getting a bit stale for the past few minutes. This might just end with Nottingham Forest going into the half-time with the lead.”

The away team in question met Arsenal high, boots snapping into challenges and making sure that their presence was still felt in the game.

And so it went for the rest of the game, until one quick exchange saw the Arsenal captain slip free on the edge of the box, but a wall of bodies smothered his shot before it reached the keeper.

“Forest holding firm for now,” the commentary followed.

“The match official has just indicated that there will be two more minutes of the game before the break.”

Back on the pitch, a crunching tackle near the touchline brought a brief pause as players squared up, words exchanged, arms spread wide in protest.

The referee stepped in quickly, calm but firm, and waved them on.

In those two minutes, Forest came close themselves.

A turnover in midfield sent Hudson-Odoi racing down the flank again before his cross got cut out just in time by Magalhães, who threw himself at it without hesitation.

Raya smothered the ball, making sure there wasn’t a chance for Chris Wood, who had been keenly waiting for a ball of grace to fall near him.

Then the Spaniard’s voice carried across the box as he reset his line, palms out, eyes locked forward.

“Here’s Izan again,” the commentator said as the ball found him between the lines.

“Always asking for it.”

He took one touch, drew two men, then laid it off perfectly into Ødegaard’s path.

The Norwegian, after getting the ball, did not hesitate.

He struck it cleanly from outside the box, the ball rising and swerving through a crowd, before a sharp hollow crack rang across the pitch as the ball smashed against the post.

The rebound flew back into play, Forest scrambling, Arsenal lunging, but it was cleared at the second attempt.

Ødegaard stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, staring at the goal, before turning away with a short nod.

“So close,” came the call. “That would have lifted the roof off the place.”

One last ball was floated into the middle of the pitch after that chance before the referee’s whistle sounded.

“Half-time at the Emirates,” the commentator closed.

“Not the scoreline many expected, but Nottingham Forest lead the so-called invincible Gunners, a side that hasn’t tasted defeat in a very long time.”

On the pitch, players peeled away in small groups towards the tunnel.

In the Arsenal entourage, Izan walked straight toward the tunnel, eyes forward, and his shirt darkened with sweat as the first half came to an uneasy end for the Gunners.

….

[Home Dressing Room]

A few voices murmured at first, then fell away as players found their seats.

Izan dropped onto his spot, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

A physio crouched in front of him almost immediately, eyes narrowing slightly.

“You alright?” he asked, tapping the side of his own head. “You took one there.”

Izan nodded without much thought, rubbing the spot once.

“I’m good.”

And just as he said that, the door opened.

Arteta stepped in with Gabriel Heinze right behind him.

The room shifted noticeably as the lax posture and attitudes of the players straightened.

Arteta walked to the centre, planted his feet, and said nothing.

He just looked.

His gaze moved slowly, from one face to the next.

A full minute passed, but he still hadn’t uttered a word, and the silence made the players feel heavy.

Then Arteta turned and walked straight back out.

Heinze followed without a word.

The door closed, softer than expected.

For a moment, nobody spoke.

A few players exchanged glances, unsure what to make of it.

Ødegaard exhaled and leaned back against the bench, eyes fixed on the ceiling while Izan stared at the floor, jaw tight, replaying moments that already felt too sharp to ignore.

Away from them and in the away dressing room, calmer but no less focused, Ange Postecoglou stood with a tablet in his hands.

One of the analysts hovered beside him, pointing at a paused frame on the screen.

Around the room, players sat around, boots off, while making sure they got every bit of rest that they could manage before the second half kicked off.

Ange studied the image for a second longer, then glanced up.

“Is this pattern repetitive?” he asked.

The analyst nodded.

“Third time they’ve tried it. Same trigger.”

Ange’s smile came quickly and quietly.

He handed the tablet back and gave the analyst a firm pat on the shoulder.

“Good spot,” he said.

He turned to face his players and clapped once, sharp enough to cut through the low hum of the room.

Ange took a step forward, hands on his hips and looking around at his players.

“Listen,” he said.

….

The teams emerged again to a wall of noise that rolled down from the stands and settled over the pitch.

The commentators picked up the thread without ceremony, voices steady as they framed the second half as a test of nerve as much as quality.

Arsenal needed a response, and Forest needed only to stay sharp to stay ahead.

Izan jogged out last for Arsenal, rolling his shoulders as he crossed the touchline.

Then and there, a voice rang out from the lower tier, clear even through the noise.

“We love you!”

He glanced over, caught the fan’s eye, and smiled before he turned back and drifted into position on the right.

The whistle went, and Arsenal kicked off and pushed forward immediately.

“Straight on the front foot,” came the call from the booth.

Izan tucked inside from the wing, dragging his marker with him.

Timber saw it and surged past on the overlap.

The ball moved quickly, one touch, two before Izan took it again and moved it central, head up, scanning.

He shifted right, baiting two red shirts, then snapped back left in one sharp motion.

Forest bit and space opened for a heartbeat.

Then he slipped Gyökeres through.

The striker hit it early, but Murillo threw himself across the line of the shot.

The ball cannoned off his leg and trickled wide as groans from the home fans reverberated across the stadium.

“Good block,” the commentator said. “That had danger written all over it.”

Izan jogged across, breathing steady, and set the ball down for the corner.

“Arsenal are known for many things, but their set pieces have been a real weapon since the past season.”

He whipped it in with pace, and for a split second, everything looked right.

Then Forest stepped out as one.

Arsenal froze, just for a moment, wondering what was going on, but by the time they reacted, Matz Sels was already in the air, fingers closing around the ball.

He landed, took one step, and hurled it long to the right.

“Uh oh,” came the scramble in the commentary. “This is on.”

Hudson Odoi was away while Zubimendi turned and sprinted, suddenly the last line with Raya.

The away end found its voice, a raw, rising chant.

On the touchline, Ange Postecoglou was already pointing forward, shouting, “Go, go, go!” he shouted fervently like a priest casting out a demon.

Hudson Odoi cut inside, and Zubimendi stepped toward him, trying to close the angle, but the pass slipped through anyway and rolled neatly into Ndoye’s path.

“Is this the third?” came the commentary as the former got a touch on the ball.