God Of football

From the other side of the table, Lewis chimed in with the kind of smirk only a neutral and serial troll could wear.

"What did you lot expect? Arsenal versus PSG. They're both serial chokers. It's like watching two blokes trying to out-bore each other until one trips over."

"I did not just hear the Manchester United fan talking, did I?"

(・・)

"Yes, that's what I thought," Dan said before turning his attention from Lewis, who was now watching the game with renewed interest, but Dan just rolled his eyes.

"Also," he continued, turning to Craig, "what you said was just lazy, mate. Arsenal got this far for a reason. PSG too. It's tight, yeah, but that's the tension of a semi-final. You can't expect end-to-end madness from the whistle."

Lewis, who had gone quiet a while ago, leaned forward, staring warily at Dan before laughing.

"Tension? This is nil-nil merchants at their finest. One team is terrified of making a mistake, and the other team is happy to punish it if it comes. Call me when someone actually takes a shot that doesn't end up in Row Z."

The pub's screen flickered back to a replay of Gabriel rising for a header, the crowd at the Emirates roaring again, only for the ball to fizzle over the goal.

Dan gestured toward it, shrugging.

"There. The moment will come. Just wait. These games always boil over. You'll see."

Lewis snorted. "Yeah, when Arsenal trip over their own shoelaces or PSG forget they're allowed to score in semis."

Craig, half amused and half exasperated, muttered into his pint.

"Honestly, if this ends 0-0, I want my evening back."

And yet, despite their complaints, none of them could look away.

That was the strange power of magnetism that nights like these had.

...

Back on the pitch, the ball had just skidded out of play near the halfway line, the tempo having lulled for a brief moment.

Inside the Emirates, the screen operator found his cue as instantly, the giant screens lit up with Izan's face.

His dark hair clung slightly to his forehead from the earlier warm-up exertions, his chest rising and falling calmly as if conserving his energy for when it truly mattered.

A ripple went through the stands.

Some Arsenal supporters clapped and whistled, eager for him to get on the pitch and change the direction of things.

More audible, however, was the roar of the travelling PSG contingent.

They took the opportunity to jeer, waving scarves and arms high in the away end, letting Izan know that even as a substitute, his presence wouldn't go unnoticed.

Izan's eyes flicked briefly to the screen.

For a second, it almost looked like he might ignore it altogether, but then the faintest tug of a smile broke across his lips.

Not a grin, not a boast, but that kind of half-smirk that carried both wonder and amusement, as if he were saying without words: "You can cheer, you can boo—it's all the same to me."

The camera lingered a second longer before panning away, and with that, the hum of the crowd folded back into the match itself.

"And once again, there's the young man everyone's been waiting for," Alan Smith's voice cut in smoothly. "He's been out for a few weeks, but it feels like he's been gone for a year, and I think whether he steps on tonight could very well swing the tie."

"Yeah, but for now," Alan McInally chimed in, "he can only watch. And I'll tell you what, PSG aren't looking like they need any favours, they're starting to turn the screw a little here."

The broadcast followed their words as PSG worked the ball forward deliberately, Vitinha pulling strings from deep while Fabian Ruiz pushed wider into space.

Every time the French side advanced, Arsenal shuffled as a unit, Declan Rice barking orders, arms outstretched as he tried to keep his midfield shape tight.

Hakimi surged down the right with one of those lung-bursting overlaps, linking with Ousmane Dembélé.

The two combined slickly, a one-two slipping past Lewis-Skelly, drawing a ripple of unease from the Arsenal fans as Dembélé darted toward the edge of the box.

"Danger here for Arsenal…" Alan Smith warned, the crowd rising with him as Dembele chose to take on another Frenchman in William Saliba, but the latter timed his step perfectly, leaning in just enough to force Dembélé wider before poking the ball cleanly away.

The relief was instant, red shirts collapsing back to regain composure as PSG recycled quickly under the barked orders of Luis Enrique's animated actions on the sidelines.

Doue, quiet so far, began to stir, dropping off the line to take the ball to his feet, spinning instantly and driving at Jurrien Timber after switching with Kvarastskhelia

The stadium buzzed at his acceleration, even Arsenal fans instinctively bracing at the sight.

"Desire Doue, turning the jets on now!" Alan Smith shouted, excitement lifting his voice.

Just as it seemed the French wonderkid would slice through, Gabriel came thundering across with a crunching but fair tackle, clearing the danger to another roar from the home crowd.

Back in the technical area, Mikel Arteta clapped furiously, shouting encouragement.

On the opposite touchline, Luis Enrique gestured calmly, his hands chopping down as if to remind his players: don't rush, keep it coming.

The pendulum swung again, and the commentary carried the thread.

"End-to-end now, isn't it? Arsenal holding firm, PSG probing. Both sides know that one moment—one mistake—could tilt this whole semi-final."

McInally summed up.

The camera briefly caught Izan again, though this time only in the background as he leaned forward, elbows on knees, studying the pitch with that razor focus of his.

The match had drawn him in like everyone else.

And as the tackles, blocks, and half-chances stacked up, the game seemed locked in a tense stalemate.

....

Finally, and after a bit more back and forth between the two teams, the sharp trill of the referee's whistle cut across the Emirates, crisp and absolute, drawing the first forty-five minutes to a halt.

Players who had spent the half locked in a stubborn struggle began easing their strides, shoulders sagging with relief, some hands raised in fleeting gestures of frustration.

From the home dugout, Izan pushed himself up, adjusting the collar of his training top as his eyes swept instinctively toward the pitch.

The buzz of the crowd hadn't quite died down, though it had shifted to that transitional murmur to half applause, half conversation with the sound of a stadium catching its breath.

He stepped into the open, his gaze flickering across the turf where his teammates trudged toward the tunnel.

Martin Ødegaard was the first to cross paths with him, the Norwegian captain wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, his shirt clinging tight against his chest.

He let out a short exhale, shaking his head almost imperceptibly as their eyes met.

Izan offered a small nod and nothing extravagant.

He would have loved to say you did well, but he couldn't bring himself to lie to them because he knew the scolding they were going to get at Halftime.

Above the scene, the commentary took over the airwaves, measured and analytical.

"Goalless at the break," the voice declared.

"But what a fascinatingly tense forty-five minutes we've had. Arsenal and Paris Saint-Germain trading blows, neither side willing to blink first. The football hasn't exactly opened up yet, but the stakes, you can feel them in every tackle, every sprint, every look exchanged on that pitch."

His co-commentator chimed in with a thoughtful hum.

"Yeah, and for all the quality on display, you get the sense this has been about control rather than expression. It's a semi-final, after all — neither side wants to be the one to give the first crack, and you can see it in how cautiously both have played their passes. Still, the crowd will expect more after the interval."

As the camera panned, it caught players peeling away in twos and threes, some with arms around each other's shoulders, others silently trudging with their heads tilted downward.

A couple of PSG players exchanged words with gestures sharp enough to suggest irritation, while on the Arsenal end, Gabriel Jesus had a grin plastered across his face, joking with Gabriel Magalhães as if trying to cut through the seriousness.

Izan lingered for a moment longer before following the group inside; the thud of boots against concrete echoed as the tunnel swallowed them, one after the other.

"Plenty of tension, plenty of noise," the lead commentator added as the broadcast drifted toward the break. "But no breakthrough yet. Arsenal nil, Paris Saint-Germain nil. Forty-five more minutes to play, and both managers will know that the smallest mistake could be the difference between Wembley and heartbreak."

And with that, the first half closed.

A/N: OKya, guys, this is the first chapter of the day. Okay, bye for now because it is like 5 and I haven't slept so see you when I wake up.