God Of football

Dalot's legs barely closed before the ball was through, and by the time he twisted around, Izan was already curling around the edge of the box, setting his hips like he was about to clip it across the goal.

But he didn't open his body.

He let the ball trail a fraction longer.

Then—Trivela.

Outside of the boot that spun wickedly, a whip disguised as a whisper.

The ball curled viciously, swerving outside the post, but the physics betrayed it late—it came back, kissing the outside of the far post with a ping that echoed like a bell through the winter air.

The crowd erupted—not in cheers, but in gasping awe.

"Ooohhh!"

A sound of reverence.

Of shock.

Of something dazzling.

Even Onana froze.

The ball didn't go in, but the warning had.

Izan turned, already jogging back into space, his face calm, but his eyes burning.

On the wing, Saka saw the chance to strike next.

"Nuh-uh," he muttered under his breath.

Dalot was still rattled, and the right side was open again.

Saka pulled wide, received the pass from Ødegaard, chopped once to shake Martinez, and then shifted inside with that familiar hop-skip rhythm.

He curled it.

Classic left foot.

Arcing.

It was bound for the far corner.

But Onana moved.

He flew across his line, fingertips outstretched, and parried it with a leap that defied everything he'd shown all season.

"OH MY—ANDRE ONANA!" the second commentator screamed.

"He's pulled a miracle out of nowhere and kept United in it!"

Gasps gave way to thunderous applause.

Even the Arsenal fans gave that one its due.

"Two moments in thirty seconds," the lead commentator said, voice rich with disbelief.

"A trivela off the post, a Saka curler denied—and all of it… breathtaking."

The match didn't stop for breath, but the fans sure did.

Amorim stood in his technical area, fingers pressed to his temple like he was trying to will the moment still.

His team had grown weary of chasing shadows.

Arsenal's possession was suffocating, and though they'd clawed it back to 2–1, they hadn't looked like scoring since Diallo's goal.

So in the 78th minute, the call came.

Low block.

Sit deep, hold and try to counter off of fast breaks.

Man United's front three dropped into midfield.

The wingbacks tucked in.

Even Bruno retreated closer to the centre backs.

And for a few minutes, it worked.

Arsenal passed in circles.

Ødegaard's angles closed down, and Rice kept it ticking.

Then—one slip.

Rice had stepped forward to play a split pass through the lines, but the moment his standing foot lost grip, the ball skidded loose off his boot and spun awkwardly toward the halfway line.

And that's when everything flipped.

"ZIRKZEE! He's onto it!" the commentator erupted.

Joshua Zirkzee didn't hesitate.

He saw the mistake and went.

Long strides.

Powerful.

Galloping like a man who smelled blood.

Gabriel Magalhães and William Saliba immediately gave chase, but Zirkzee had a head sta, t—and the turf was wide open.

He was already past the halfway line, the ball bouncing once, then again in rhythm with his sprint.

His frame was lean but long, absorbing the roar of the away end that surged behind him.

Saliba closed the gap, but he just wasn't fast enough.

"HE'S THROUGH—ONLY RAYA TO BEAT!"

Arsenal's keeper rushed out, abandoning his line just as Zirkzee approached the edge of the box.

The striker looked up, lifted his head, and...

Clipped it.

A gentle chip, sent with intent.

It floated over Raya's extended hands—a clean arc, spinning gently in the Emirates air as Raya got a touch, but it was barely.

"OH—HE GOT A FINGER TO IT!"

But the ball didn't stop.

It kept travelling, looping delicately toward the open net.

The breath inside the Emirates froze.

Except for one player.

Miles Lewis-Skelly.

The teenager had never run faster in his life.

He had no angle.

No right.

But he reached.

And just as the ball kissed the white paint of the goal line—

THUMP.

He cleared it.

"CLEARED OFF THE LINE!" screamed the commentator.

"LEWIS-SKELLY! OH MY WORD!"

The noise was blinding.

It didn't rise—it exploded.

From shock to relief in the space of a heartbeat.

And the ball?

It dropped.

Right into Saka's path.

The winger didn't wait.

A first-time thump.

A missile fired diagonally across the pitch.

The ball screamed through the air, skipping once on the turf just ahead of the centre circle, and Izan was already running.

From the edge of his own half, he broke into a dead sprint, his stride flawless, shoulders low, cutting into the chase.

Behind him, the United defenders realised far too late.

Lisandro.

Dalot.

Martinez.

All turned and all charged.

But he was gone.

Gone in a way only he could be, and there was no catching up.

The rate at which Izan chased the descending ball blurred the space between dream and reality with every stride.

The fans, the moment, the madness—

It had all converged.

And now, it was him and them.

And the finish that would define it.

"And now—IZAN'S AWAY!" the commentator howled, voice cracking with adrenaline.

"What a counter! What a response! From nearly conceding… to this!"

Behind him, United scrambled and ahead was destiny and history.

The ball dropped from the heavens like fate itself had timed the delivery.

It spun, slow and deliberate, arcing just above the rushing defenders from behind and curving into Izan's lane like it had been waiting for him all along.

He didn't break stride.

Chest first—soft as silk—he killed it mid-air, guiding it down without a sound, the ball landing at his feet like a trained pet.

Just that eerie stillness that only players with time inside their minds could master.

A hush rippled across the Emirates as breaths were drawn in, tightly held and every fan frozen mid-cheer, mid-curse, mid-beat of the heart.

"Brilliant touch from Izan. This could be it," one commentator whispered.

"He's already got two—could this be the third?"

The keeper rushed out—Onana desperate now, reading the run, guessing the finish—but Izan wasn't done composing.

He rounded him with the lightest of fakes, brushing the ball slightly to the right, enough to send the keeper sprawling left.

The angle tightened.

But Izan didn't shoot.

He waited,d and Lisandro flew in from nowhere—legs out, desperation pure—but Izan ghosted past him with a body feint that looked like theatre.

The defender slid clean past, hands clawing at the air, mouth half-open in disbelief as he tumbled across the box.

Still, Izan didn't shoot.

Maguire now, one final line charged in, expecting a shot and braced his body to block it, and for a moment, all hopes of the United fans rested on the Englishman, but Izan, with a different idea in mind, stuttered once.

And Maguire bit and staggered like he'd been spun in place.

Only then—three defenders later, one keeper already on the turf, the fans beyond the goal already rising in unison—did Izan tap the ball into the net.

Effortless.

Cruel in its elegance.

The stadium cracked open.

The roar of the Emirates rolled like thunder, climbing up and through the roof.

And the commentary lit up, their voices chasing each other:

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!"

"That is outrageous! A hat-trick! In the FA Cup! Against Manchester United!"

"Izan, the boy with the world at his feet. Raise your heads high, United. You've lost to something on the brink of becoming inevitable!"

Players ran toward hi,m but Izan peeled away from the flood of teammates sprinting toward him.

Instead of chest-thumping or a knee slide, he moved with calm purpose, his gaze locked on the away section draped in red and white flags.

He slid to a stop on the edge of the pitch, then lifted his hands to his ears, daring the Manchester United fans to keep chanting their "waste of money" taunts.

They obliged.

Chants bubbled up, anger-laced and familiar.

Izan's lips curved into a knowing smile.

With quiet theatrics, he pressed his palms together in front of him, a slow, deliberate motion—as if counting out stacks of unseen money.

A collective hold of breath, shuffled across the stadium while the home fans seemed to enjoy it.

"It's bold," the commentator murmured. "Almost too bold. But he seems unbothered."

"That's Izan," his co-commentator replied.

"He thrives on this. He leans in."

But even confidence has consequences.

The referee's whistle sliced through the noi,se and Izan turned to a flash of yellow for provoking the fans.

Izan barely flinched and just turned towards his half.

Behind him, the fourth official lifted the board, 10 → in red.

He tucked the wordless gesture away as he jogged toward the sideline, no argument offered, no hesitation.

The moment's raw electricity lingered in the air like charged particles before a storm.

"He's been booked for something that feels more like poetry than disrespect."

"If you're a United fan, that's infuriating. But you can't deny the scenes."

And with that, the hat-trick hero exited the field, leaving behind echoes of cheers, jeers, and a moment that refused to be easily forgotten.

A/N: Last of the previous day. Have fun reading and I'll see you in a bit.