God Of football

Another change followed as the next board flashed: 17 off, 10 on.

Luka Modrić stepping in for Lucas Vázquez.

A ripple of anticipation went through the Bernabéu faithful, applause swelling for the old master.

But then came a stir, an uproar even. 11 off, 21 on. Rodrygo's number lit up, replaced by Brahim Díaz.

Instantly, the mood shifted.

Boos rained from the south stand, whistles piercing the air.

Rodrygo, visibly frustrated, jogged off without his usual clap to the crowd.

His teammates gave him pats on the back, but the fans weren't hiding their discontent.

He had been Madrid's sharpest blade since the second goal, his dribbles carving at Arsenal's back line, and to see him withdrawn so soon felt sacrilegious.

"You can hear the discontent loud and clear," Ian Darke said over the din. "Rodrygo has been their livewire… this will not sit well with the supporters."

Savage was blunt: "I don't get it. He's the one pinning Arsenal's defenders back, and you're taking him off? Carlo's got to be careful here. If Brahim doesn't spark, this place will turn quickly."

Meanwhile, Ancelotti, arms folded, didn't so much as flinch.

He knew the risks.

Modrić's orchestration, Camavinga's bite, Brahim's fresh legs—he was rolling the dice not on the fans' sentiment, but on the rhythm of the match.

And as the camera cut briefly to Izan, already standing alone on the halfway line, waiting for the restart, the timing of it all felt sharper: Madrid had fortified, shuffled their deck, and Arsenal's young talisman now knew exactly who was waiting for him in the next act, but did Madrid know what lay ahead?

.......

The chatter around the Bernabéu had shifted, and for once it wasn't the home support that carried the louder voice.

The Arsenal contingent—tucked high in their corner, scarves still whipped around necks, throats hoarse from an evening that had gone every which way—were clinging to a fresh line of hope.

"Oi, that's a pen if they check it again!" one supporter shouted, jabbing a finger at the pitch where Izan had gone down as if VAR could hear him.

A few heads nodded, some muttered, but others weren't buying it or didn't believe it was going to materialise.

"They'll never give that here," another fan countered, shaking his head. "Not at the Bernabéu."

But whether or not a penalty would ever come didn't matter much anymore.

The clock was edging towards the eighty-second minute, and the shape of the game had dulled.

Real Madrid, who had once surged forward in waves, were now puffing through every possession, probing without bite.

Their earlier fire had been reduced to smouldering embers, flickering but not burning.

A Real Madrid build-up, led by veteran maestro Modric, hadn't gone through, and now the ball landed at Jurrien Timber's feet near the halfway line as a hush of anticipation filtered through the Arsenal corner.

Timber looked up, his eyes scanning.

And then he saw it—the ghost of open space blooming down the right flank.

There was Izan. Already moving, already gone.

"Go on, son! Go on!" came the cries from the away end as Timber wound his foot back and he drilled it—low, hard, skimming like a stone across a pond.

A pass with venom, carrying every ounce of urgency Arsenal still had to give.

The pass was fast, but Izan was faster.

"Here's Miura, out on the right—look at the burst, look at the legs!" Robbie Savage's voice crackled with sudden electricity.

In a flash, David Alaba was square to him, bracing, stepping in.

But Izan's decision came quicker than Alaba's adjustment.

One deft chop, one flick of the ankle, and he was inside, left foot taking him away from the Austrian's lunge.

The Bernabéu roared—but not in triumph.

It was a gasp, a collective flinch.

Because cutting inside meant Izan wasn't running away.

He was running into trouble, and when Izan was in trouble, it meant more trouble, but not for him.

Valverde closed from the centre while Camavinga darted from the blindside with Modric leading the charge despite his skinny and old frame.

Three white shirts, folding in, converging, threatening to crush his run before it could even breathe.

But Izan didn't slow.

His body swayed, his shoulders dropped, and with a whip of his left boot, he arced a ball outward, sending it curving against the grain.

And there was Martinelli.

Chasing it like a hound let loose, sprinting at full tilt, stretching every muscle to catch the pass before it died on the flank.

"Martinelli now, he's got it—options for him, or does he go himself?" Darke called, his tone rising in tandem with the roar, but Martinelli checked his run slightly before slowing, and suddenly the Bernabéu seemed to shrink, confusion circling the stands.

Was he hesitating? Wasting the moment?

The answer soon showed itself, though, because like a storm chasing its echo, the reason arrived because Izan, charging into frame like a tornado with one energy drink, hadn't stopped after passing the ball to Martinelli.

The ball slipped off Martinelli's boot and found him, with a few players turning theri attention to him and among them was Camavinga who appraoched, hoping to instill some of his freshness into Izan but with one with fluid and seamless touch, Camavinga lunged—only to find the ball sliding through his legs, a nutmeg so casual, so insolent, it froze him in place.

"OH, that is outrageous from Miura!" Robbie Savage barked into the mic, laughter lining his disbelief.

Izan turned, spun, the ball tethered to his foot like it belonged nowhere else.

And for a single instant, every thought around him, every shout, every whistle, every scream collapsed into silence.

He faced the goal.

And in his mind, only one thought pulsed, raw and simple.

Shoot.

So he did, and when his right boot swept through the ball, it wasn't just a strike, it was defiance shaped in leather and stitched with fury.

The ball left his foot with a wicked curve, snaking around the desperate lunge of Rüdiger, bending past the stretch of Alaba, slipping through the narrowed gap Courtois left unguarded.

For a second, time slowed as the Santiago Bernabéu held its breath.

And then—

THUD.

The ball kissed the inside of the right post and rippled the net with a vicious shiver, nestling deep into the bottom corner.

The away end exploded.

A wall of red and white erupted, thousands of Arsenal fans screaming their lungs raw, bodies tumbling over one another in euphoria.

Flags whipped through the night air, fists punched toward the heavens, voices cracked as they shouted Izan's name.

The home end, by contrast, fell to a stunned hush.

A silence so heavy it seemed to press against the concrete tiers.

They had jeered, they had taunted, they had mistaken a 17-year-old for a punching bag.

But Izan had just shaken their fortress, rattled their rigging, and left them breathless.

And the commentary carried the weight of it all!

"OH, BOY, OH BOY. HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE IT?! A KID WITH THE WORLD ON HIS SHOULDERS, WITH A GOAL FOR THE AGES IN THE BERNABÉU AND JUST LIKE THAT, THE VILLAIN HAS PAINTED HIS PICTURE AGAIN!" Ian Darke's voice trembled over the broadcast.

"FEAST YOUR EYES, OH FOOTBALL FOLLOWERS, FOR WE HAVE A NEW KING AMONGST US AND THIS ONE DOESN'T TAKE NO, FOR AN ANSWER!"

The camera cut to the Arsenal bench, and it was bedlam, borderline chaos.

Arteta sprinted three yards onto the pitch before being dragged back by his assistants because he might have been sanctioned if he went any further.

The substitutes leapt over advertising boards, fists raised, shirts waved in celebration.

Even the normally reserved staff clapped wildly, some of them screaming like supporters.

But the centre of it all—Izán.

He turned, slowly, deliberately, toward the Ultras behind the goal, the ones who had spat venom and abuse his way all evening.

The same fans who saw him as prey.

His chest heaved, his eyes burned, his pulse raced.

And then, with the net still trembling behind him, he lifted a finger to his lips.

Shhhh.

The gesture cut like a blade, and the defiance shown by Izan was met with anger.

The Ultras roared in rage, hurling their arms and curses, but the damage was done.

Their voices were drowned by the cacophony of the away end, the Arsenal faithful who were now screaming one name into the Madrid night.

"He told them to be quiet! He told the Bernabéu—this cathedral of giants—to be quiet! My word, this boy is made of something else entirely!"

The scoreboard flickered, but the stadium still seemed frozen between two worlds—one half alive, one half mute.

In an instant, bodies collided with Izan, who stood still with Martinelli first, leaping onto Izan's back with a wild grin, arms around his shoulders.

Saka wasn't far behind, pounding his fists into Izan's chest before pulling him close as the others came roaring in.

The bodies continued piling until the Odegaard signalled towards his mates to get back, and it was only then that Izan could get up from beneath the pile, showing his name and number to the Ultras in the process before smiling and then pointing.

With the floodlights glaring down, he held his hand there as if carving the letters into the memory of every person watching.

Like they could ever forget it.

A/N: 3/5. Have fun reading.