God Of football

"We are back underway and Valencia lead. What response could we see from the club from North London, or will Valencia reaffirm their position in this game? We wait to see"

As Clive Tyldsley said, Valencia led, but that didn't tell the full story.

Since the restart, they kept pouring forward—disciplined but relentless.

Declan Rice had paid heed to Arteta's instructions and was now the link between the defence and the attack, but the edge the Gunners were known for wasn't there.

Zinchenko stepped into that inverted midfield role like a fifth conductor, hoping to offer Odegaard more freedom, and the Norwegian took it, as he began roaming like he was searching for the thread that would finally unravel something.

But every cut was blunted.

Pietro and Guerra had begun dropping deeper to reinforce the midfield wall.

Tarrega commanded the back line like a seasoned centre-half twice his age, and Mamardashvili was louder now, directing traffic as though barking could plug the spaces Arsenal had started to find.

They were holding on but barely.

Another sequence unfolded after Saliba slid a rare grounded pass to Odegaard high up the pitch.

Ødegaard, turned then laid it off to Saka, back to Rice, then to Izan, who had dropped deep again, making Arsenal's formation look like one without a striker.

Izan, who had lost visibility in the match, as the fans called it, hadn't really disappeared.

He'd been there in every pulse.

Every tempo change passed through him.

But he hadn't pierced.

He was conducting, not creating.

To fans, it might've looked like he was drifting, coasting in the half-space, linking without hurting.

But the seasoned eyes—those in the dugouts, on the pitch—knew better.

Baraja, sensing that things were too quiet, started pacing up and down the dugout, slipping instructions to players whenever he could, but his men looked to have gotten comfortable after scoring, and when a team got into that mood, things happened to them.

Ødegaard slipped a short ball into Izan after the latter called for it.

He received it fifteen yards outside the box, still with his back to the goal, with Pietro and Sosa already converging.

Javi Guerra shuffled in behind, just in case he needed to defend against some weird pass from Izan, but it never came.

Izan turned slowly.

His first real decision.

Then something changed.

He stilled.

A tiny pause—only a heartbeat, but enough for everyone watching to feel the shift.

"He's been patient. But perhaps… patience has expired." Peter Drury's voice came low over the commentary feed.

Sosa reached for the ball, sticking his foot in front of Iz, but the latter was gone before Sosa could react.

Izan's burst left him behind in a blink, leaving Sosa grasping for shirts he couldn't catch.

Guerra re-adjusted his intentions as he stepped forward with Pietro, looking to double-team Izan, but that wasn't going to happen.

Izan split them both with a burst of speed that felt inevitable once it began.

His boots hardly touched the grass.

His stride was reduced to short ones as he kept the ball at the edge of every knock forward. It wasn't flashy, but it was efficient.

He was moving now, fast, low, direct.

"And now look—look at the ground he's eating into," Clive Tyldesley said, rising into urgency.

"He's sliding through the midfield like it doesn't exist! Valencia have to do something here?"

Pietro, who hadn't lost sight of Izan, came again.

This time with more.

He lowered his shoulder, his intent clear.

Izan wasn't going to lead him on.

Izan staggered and fell forward after Pietro's leg clipped his ankle, the away fans surging in volume while calling for a foul.

But the whistle didn't come.

And Izan didn't wait.

He got up in one motion, still carrying the ball as he caught the Valencia players who were waiting for a whistle off guard.

"He's up! He wants more! No foul, no pause!" Drury's voice spiked. "This is him—raw and unfiltered!"

He broke into the right side of the box now, his angle narrowing by the second as the white shirts began flooding back.

Foulquie, arriving to cover, instructed Tarrega to move towards Izan, and he did, thinking the ball had drifted too far.

But not for Izan.

He stabbed at the ball with his left to steady it, then snapped his eyes across the pitch, just for a second, nd where he saw Martinelli limping toward the far post, not sprinting.

Still, Izan decided.

He dragged the ball back to his left foot, slowed his body and pulled Tarrega in, but that was the mistake.

You always think you're with the upper hand until a pass breaks you, and it did as Izan planted his left foot.

And then, like he was writing with his boots, he wrapped his right foot behind his left and struck a Rabona, clean and precise weaving its way through the chaos with a curve born from arrogance and calculation, bending towards the keeper, arcing toward the far post with the kind of shape that wasn't normal.

Martinelli arrived late to the party, his form not that convincing, but he had still arrived.

He threw his body into the line of the ball, head-turning just enough to glance it past Mamardashvili's desperate reach as it hit the side netting—inside.

And the noise… fractured.

The Valencia fans couldn't see if the ball had scored, but the Arsenal fans in the corner detonated into screams and flailing limbs.

The bench erupted while Arteta punched the air and turned away, laughing under his breath like he couldn't believe what he'd just seen.

"Oh, my word… Football with audacity as its spine," Tyldesley barely managed.

"A Goal of the highest order. A rabona from nothing, and a header from a man who can barely run—Arsenal are level through sheer imagination."

The Mestalla had frozen.

Even Valencia's defenders didn't react right away.

Rioja looked at the linesman, hoping for the flag while Tarrega cursed under his breath, stunned not by the goal but by the fact that Izan had gone for it.

And then Drury, reverent, full-throated,

"You cannot teach this. You cannot design this. You can only witness it.

Izan, through bodies, through bruises, through every reason not to—

has turned the tide in the most audacious way imaginable."

"This is no ordinary footballer. This is football with a heart and at this moment, it's beating faster and sharper than anyone else's."

Martinelli was mobbed by teammates.

But every finger pointed elsewhere. Towards the same direction and the same kid.

At Izan.

He walked back toward halfway point, unsmiling.

Still breathing heavily.

A job half-done.

Valencia's bench stirred while Baraja stared forward, chewing the edge of his nail, his face carved with something between tension and respect.

The home fans could only look on as a player they once used to admire, bringing their team down a peg.

"We are all square," Clive Tyldesley said, steady and low.

"But nothing about this feels balanced."

Valencia kicked off, and from the north stand, the Ultras roared back into life.

"¡Valencia! ¡Valencia! Amuuunt Valencia!"

Flags rippled, shirts came off, and smoke flared briefly, as the echo rolled down from the top tier like a warning bell.

It wasn't just noise—it was memory. Identity. A demand to respond.

Baraja stood at the edge of his box, arms folded, jaw clenched as he watched his men.

The ball moved between Mosquera and Tarrega now, both defenders exchanging glances as they looked for a reset.

Arsenal's press didn't come immediately—just shadows lingering in dangerous pockets, letting Valencia feel the weight of every pass.

Pietro dropped to receive after spotting no one near him, but Declan Rice was on him the moment the ball reached his boot.

A crunching shoulder, legal, just enough to knock the rhythm out.

Valencia had kicked off, but Arsenal were still in control.

The crowd tried again.

"Valencia, que bote Mestalla!" as they tried to will their team into the game, but even that had a tremor in it now.

Guerra dropped the ball to Gayà, who shaped to turn upfield—and found Saka waiting.

Gayà turned again and then rolled the ball to Mosquera.

"Mestalla roars, but Arsenal have turned the volume down on the pitch. Valencia had kicked off in defiance—now they search for breath."

Tarrega, who now held the ball, looked up and saw no clear way out with the ball, so he sent it along the right wing.

Zinchenko tracked it in the air and took it down on the bounce while Odegaard clapped once, calling for it central.

And just like that, Arsenal had the ball again.

Pietelli stood near the centre circle, hands on hips, head low for a second.

Then he turned and jogged back into shape, jaw tight.

He could feel it—momentum was slipping, and the goal they had scored hadn't even been worked on themselves.

Behind him, Pietro clapped his hands loudly.

"¡Vamos!" he shouted, waving his teammates up the pitch.

Sosa followed, pushing forward to engage the midfield line again.

But the calm was no longer theirs as Arsenal had now taken back the match.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading, and I'll see you in a bit with the Golden Ticket Chapter.