God Of football-Chapter 631: A Week

It had been a week since West Ham.

A week since he shattered hopes of a possible win against a flying Arsenal side, keeping the invincible dream alive.

A match turned on its head in less than 10 minutes.

And in the quiet that followed, something strange happened.

Arsenal slowed down.

No flashy headlines.

No media hype.

No Izan in the midweek matchday squad.

The Premier League continued, sure—but it was a game of patience now.

That Wednesday night at the City Grounds, they faced Nottingham Forest.

No number ten on the team sheet but it was no problem.

Saka opened the scoring before most fans had even taken their seats and slipped another one past the keeper before halftime.

Havertz added a third—a glancing header from a set-piece, the kind of goal that was almost too tidy to celebrate to make it 3–0 as Arsenal finished off a quietly ruthless display.

3 points taken and the job was done.

Reporters tried to bait Arteta afterwards.

Questions about Izan. Rotation. Injury? Rest?

He smiled and said nothing.

The countdown started that night.

As the final whistle blew against Forest, attention turned to Sunday.

Arsenal vs Manchester United.

It wasn’t just about history anymore.

It wasn’t Arsenal chasing.

It was Arsenal being chased.

And fans across the league knew it.

The memes started first.

Then the TikToks. Instagram clips.

Clubs didn’t mock Arsenal anymore.

They braced for them.

And Manchester United?

They were next in line.

Screens across pubs, lounges, and cafés lit up with match previews, but it wasn’t the pundits doing the talking—it was everyone else.

Fans. Trolls.

The eternally online.

The anxious, the loud, and the sarcastic.

One City fan posted:

"If we caught SEVEN at the hands of Izan FC, then United better bring rosaries and bodyguards. It could be eleven. Could be biblical."

The quote was reposted over forty thousand times in four hours and in glorious ratio.

A United fan, trying to claw back dignity, replied:

"Bro we’re not you. We don’t fold like origami."

To which someone retorted:

"Both Manchesters being shit this season is just glorious as a Liverpool fan. On one hand, I feel like Arsenal deserve it if they win but on the other hand, some part of me feels like we are being robbed. Like in some alternate reality, we won."

Arsenal fans didn’t need to say much.

The internet had adopted them.

Another post made rounds—a simple picture of Izan pointing to the sky in his stargazing celebration, captioned:

"They thought we were cute. Now they’re scared."

City fans weren’t alone in their pessimism.

A Liverpool supporter chimed in:

"I’m not even joking. If United survive without Izan doing a hat-trick and a tutorial of how to further depress a shit team, I’ll be impressed."

The Spurs faithful tried a jab:

"Hope they win the league. So they can stop talking about 2004."

But it didn’t really get the attention they might have hoped for, because slowly, Arsenal were taking off their bottle-jobs title.

By noon, a trending phrase had emerged:

"Izan’s Arsenal."

Not Arsenal with Izan.

Not Izan in Arsenal.

Just—his.

"Never seen a player shift a whole club’s mentality this fast," someone posted.

"He didn’t join a title race. He turned it into a coronation march. If Liverpool don’t put up a fight in the next few games and Arsenal don’t bottle matches like they always do, it’s done."

Then came the conversations that mattered—the quiet ones, tucked into threads and DMs.

The ones with reluctant awe.

"They might really do it, you know."

"Do what?"

"Go invincible again. This kid—he plays like defeat doesn’t exist."

And that’s what it came down to.

Belief.

Because Izan hadn’t just elevated Arsenal’s game.

He was Arsenal’s game plan now.

Plan A, B and C.

....

[Colney – Saturday Afternoon]

Arteta stood at the tactics board, one hand shifting magnets into place.

The lineup had practically written itself.

Havertz, Izan, Saka.

Odegaard, Rice, Partey.

Calafiori, Gabriel, Saliba, Timber.

Goalkeeper? Raya.

No debate.

Cuesta stood a few feet behind him, watching but not interfering.

Izan’s name sat right where it should.

Just beneath Havertz and Saka playing who were in a two-top.

"Training was sharp this week," Cuesta said, matter-of-fact.

Arteta gave a short nod.

"We can trust their numbers."

"Well even if we can’t, he says he’s ready and we can’t stop that."

"He is."

Neither of them said more as Cuesta turned and left the room, leaving Arteta in his daydream.

[Hampstead – Later That Night]

The hallway light clicked off as Izan stepped into the bedroom, towel still around his shoulders.

Olivia was already in bed, hair tied back, flipping through her phone.

He dropped the towel onto the chair by the dresser and stretched.

"Water?" he asked.

"On the nightstand," she replied.

He took a sip, then eased down beside her.

They lay there for a while in comfortable silence, the muffled sounds of traffic outside the only background.

Then Olivia shifted to her side, head propped up on her elbow.

"I hope you aren’t thinking about tomorrow? You’ll cook them. It’s written at this point"

"Not really." Izan said with a small chuckle.

She looked at him for a second, gauging.

"I don’t know if it’s the donation but you look slow and less you. Even the pacing of the novel feels slow and nerfed. The author must be dozing these days"

"How?"

"I don’t know. Like you’ve already seen how things will go. The excitement is there but something is lacking."

He turned slightly to face her, eyes steady and then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

"I’ll show the excitement on the pitch tomorrow okay. So watch the whole thing, not parts of it while Hori tries to keep you in a guessing game."

She rolled her eyes and lay back.

"Remind me again—what time’s the apheresis?"

"Morning after the game."

"You good for that?"

"I’ll be fine."

A beat passed.

Then Olivia said, "You know, I used to worry you’d burn out."

"I still do but now my worries are becoming unfounded. My boyfriend is too good for the rest," she said snuggling up more to Izan.

They both laughed quietly.

And then there was nothing but the soft creak of the blanket as she reached out, pulling his arm over her.

They didn’t talk after that.

....

[Sunday]

The gates outside Colney were already thick with fans—scarves held high, shirts signed from seasons past, camera phones twitching with anticipation.

The convoy of players arrived one by one.

SUVs.

Coupes.

A Bentley.

A blacked-out Defender.

The usual suspects.

Then came the deep, low hum of something different.

Izan’s Koenigsegg Gemera rolled in last, recognisable and purring with energy.

The car slowed near the edge of the crowd, engine roaring softly and smoothly.

The fans surged slightly, pressing toward the barriers—but not too much.

Not with security watching.

And then—his window lowered.

Just halfway.

Izan leaned out, black hoodie up.

"Alright, listen," he said, voice calm.

"If you lot can chill and stay in a line, I’ll come sign a few before we head out."

There was a moment—just a second—of stunned quiet.

Then cheering.

Controlled.

Like they were afraid too much excitement might make him change his mind.

The window slid back up and the Gemera glided toward the player’s lot and disappeared around the corner.

A beat passed.

Some fans looked around nervously.

Others deflated slightly, already bracing themselves for the disappointment.

Then—

He came back.

On foot this time.

A marker in hand, hoodie down now with a smile etched on his face.

He didn’t say much.

Just started signing.

A few shirts.

A cap.

One kid’s cast.

Took two photos and then handed the pen back to the steward with a nod.

The fans didn’t scream.

They barely even moved.

But you could feel it in the way their hands trembled, the way they smiled after he walked away.

As if meeting him didn’t just give them a memory—it gave them proof.

Proof he was real.

By the time Izan stepped onto the bus, most of the players were already in their seats.

He slid into the second row left, next to Martinelli—who had two cooling pads strapped under his eyes and his hood all the way up.

"Went too hard last night?" Izan murmured.

From the seat behind, Saka leaned forward just enough to whisper, "Bro was at that samba bar in Soho ’til like 1 AM. They were doing tequila shots in coconut shells."

Martinelli didn’t even flinch. "Recovery’s recovery."

Izan smirked, dropped his duffel, and plugged in his second earbud.

Outside, the last of the staff boarded.

Then the doors shut. freewebnøvel_com

The engine rumbled.

And the coach pulled away from Colney—rolling out slow under the pale sky, cutting through London as it made its way north.

Destination?

Old Trafford.

And on this Sunday afternoon, it wasn’t just the Theatre of Dreams.

It was a stage and a show.

The Izan show was coming up.

A/n: once again, sorry for the singular updates. Will get back in track after rediscovering a few things about the novel. Bye and have fun reading.