God Of football

"And it's all over again. From the 4-1 battering of Manchester City in the Camping World Stadium to another 5-0 goal battering of Fluminense again in this stadium, Arsenal are through to the Semi-finals." the commentary from the broadcast gantry came through as the whistle went, sharp and clean, slicing through the humid Floridian air, and with it came the roar of Arsenal's fans, their players flooding the pitch with wide grins and arms raised.

Five-nil.

"It could have been more and should have been more," the co-commentator continued, "but it seems Arteta wanted to salvage a bit of pride for the Brazilian giants who were having the tournament of their lives by taking off Izan like he had done again Manchester City, only this time, it was earlier and right after Izan made his second."

Fluminense's players trudged toward the centre circle, some crouching, others staring blankly at the scoreboard.

They hadn't just been beaten, they'd been dissected.

Izan had done it again, a brace of goals and assists, each one stitched into the game with a kind of effortless cruelty that made it feel less like a contest and more like a showcase.

As the players began to head toward the tunnel, the noise didn't dip.

It just morphed into chants of "Izan! Izan!" rippling through the stands like a wave that refused to crash.

The cameras hunted for him instantly, catching him as he clapped toward the fans, sweat still glinting on his neck under the floodlights.

Reporters were already waiting just off the pitch, their recorders raised and mics thrust forward.

"Izan! Quick word! Just one question!" one of them called out, almost pleading.

Another shouted something about his form, about the numbers that were already breaking headlines before he'd even stepped off the grass.

But Izan didn't slow down.

He just kept walking, steady, unfazed.

The noise followed him, a wall of voices calling his name, trying to pull him in.

He turned briefly, just enough for the cameras, a gesture of acknowledgement more than response, as if to say: You've got your moment, now let me go.

Then he disappeared into the tunnel, and the echo of his boots on the concrete floor was the only sound for a moment, dull and rhythmic.

The world outside roared, but inside, it was calm.

Just another day of doing what he said he'd do.

...

Away from the chaos of the pitch was the ESPN studios, buzzing with life and activity as the pundits rushed to cover another stunning display by Arsenal.

"Arsenal five, Fluminense nil," the host began, his tone hovering between disbelief and admiration.

"And, honestly, it could've been more. That was domination from start to finish, led, again, by that boy, Izan. Two goals, two assists, that makes it six goals and four assists in just three matches. That's video game stuff."

The studio panel chuckled, but none disagreed.

The main analyst leaned forward, shaking his head.

"Six and four. In three games. I really want to know how he does it or what he is thinking about when he puts out these numbers because this is getting ridiculous, like a stat that just came out yesterday."

"Since the start of his first game for Arsenal, including pre-season, Izan has made an average of two goal contributions per game, and at 17 years of age, he already has 13 career hat-tricks. What have they been feeding him since he was a kid, because I need some for my own boys over at the red side of Manchester."

Another voice cut in, laughing lightly to break the seriousness.

"Somebody's gotta figure out how to stop him, because right now, nobody has a clue. I mean, every time he gets the ball, there's a sense of inevitability about what comes next. It's not 'if', it's 'when.'"

"I mean, it's gotten so bad that the readers can now predict in advance what Izan is about to do in almost every game."

The highlight reel rolled in the background, Izan's first curler looping into the top corner, his assist for Martinelli a flicked pass no one saw coming, and his second goal hammered in with a mix of grace and fury.

Every clip drew another small gasp from the panel.

"Look at that," the host said softly, as the camera lingered on Izan's celebration.

"No arrogance. Just… certainty. Like he knows exactly where all of this is going."

"Yeah," one of the pundits added, leaning back in his chair.

"And the scary part is, he's still got gears left. You can see it. He's not even playing full tilt yet. He's cruising through games and still putting up numbers like this. Somebody, some manager, has to do something soon, or this'll get out of hand. Because the way things are going, it's only getting better for him, and worse for everyone else, except if you are an Arsenal fan, because these people are having the time of their lives."

The other pundits laughed to close out the session, but their worries weren't unfounded, because Izan was well and truly breaking the game.

....

"Okay, guys. Good game today," Arteta said once the players got to the lobby of the hotel they were staying in.

"No game is easy, but we've pulled out a battering, so you guys should enjoy your well-deserved rest. We play in New York next, meaning we will have to be there at the latest by the day after tomorrow. I won't keep you down here for long. Let's just go up, rest and meet back down here for a short meal to regain the energy lost in the game."

The players nodded at their manager's words before dispersing and moving into their room.

Izan, still alone since Saka hadn't yet gotten out of the hospital, went into the shared room, setting his matchday bag by his bed, before walking over to the balcony, where his phone rang just as he stepped in.

"Hey, Liv," he croaked before turning back inside and then settling down on the edge of the bed, the faint hum of traffic from outside blending into Olivia's voice on the other end of the call.

"Hey, beby," she replied before some shuffling began at her end again.

"So," she said, a faint smile audible in her voice, "Miranda just texted. We'll be in New York in the next couple of days. Probably just after you know who you're playing next. She said something about checking into the same hotel we used last summer."

Izan leaned back, pressing his palm over his face for a second, feeling the tired weight of the day still clinging to him.

"Oh, okay. We will be playing at the MetLife, so arrange a hotel near that place so that what happened in Munich doesn't happen again."

"Yeah. Anyway, are you having fun?" Olivia questioned happily, the thought of meeting Izan getting her excited.

Izan nodded even though she couldn't see it, his eyes flicking toward the

"Yeah, Liv, I am," he murmured.

"That's good then," she said at last, her tone softening.

"I've got to finish up a few things at school before the flight. So bye for now."

"See you, Liv."

"Izan," Olivia called from the other side before Izan could end it.

"Yeah," Izan answered.

"I love you, babe."

"I love you, Olivia."

A quiet chuckle once again sounded from Olivia before the line clicked off, and the room went still again.

Izan dropped the phone beside him on the bed, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back against the headboard.

.....

The morning light poured through the wide glass panels of the dining hall, washing the room in a soft gold from the white tablecloths to the steam rising from the coffee urns, which made things feel lighter than they had in days.

As the players indulged in their food, a voice, a singing one, began ringing from just outside the door, and just as Nwaneri looked up from his plate, the doors at the far end opened, and there he was. Bukayo Saka.

A grin spread across Nwaneri's face before anyone else even turned.

"Look who finally decided to join civilisation again!" he shouted, standing up halfway from his seat.

Heads turned instantly, and just as they did, chairs scraped the floor.

A few players clapped, a few whistled, and suddenly, the whole room seemed to spring to life.

Saka stood there for a moment, taking it all in, even opening his arms for what he called "effect", causing the other players to laugh.

His grin widened as Declan Rice came forward first, hand outstretched for a shake that quickly turned into a hug.

"Good to have you back, brother," Rice said, patting him on the back.

"Feels good to be back," Saka replied, the relief in his tone unmistakable.

Martinelli was next, wrapping an arm around Saka's shoulders.

"Glad to have you back, bro. The right wing's been on fire, but you know, competition keeps it fun."

Saka chuckled, nodding. "Yeah, I saw. Can't complain. Izan's making us all look like extras."

That line drew another round of laughter, and even Izan, sitting a few seats down, cracked a quiet smile before returning to his plate.

Saka moved around the tables, greeting each of them, handshake after handshake, turning into hugs, before he sat down at last, a smile on his face as he tried to get a reaction out of the person before him.