God Of football

The low drone of anticipation around Villa Park shifted into a thunderous roar as the players began to reappear from the tunnel.

Arsenal came out first.

At the front, Martin Ødegaard jogged into the light, his armband snug against his sleeve, his mouth already moving as he turned his head to each side, urging his teammates into the same sharp focus they'd started the first half with.

Behind him came Saliba, Raya, Gabriel, and the rest of the squad, their expressions businesslike.

Izan followed a few paces behind, his hands on his hips, a few flecks of white strapping tape visible beneath his shirt sleeve.

His left thigh had been quickly treated again at halftime, but he wasn't limping.

He wasn't wincing.

If anything, he looked sharper—like someone who'd taken the rough tackles as a challenge.

The moment the away end caught sight of him, they erupted.

"Go on, Izan!"

"Light them up again!"

"Forget the ref—we've got you!"

He glanced up, briefly acknowledging the roar with a small wave before falling into the team's semi-circle routine around the center.

"There's the 16-year-old again, electric in the first half, bruised maybe—but unbothered. Every time he touched the ball, it felt like something could happen. Villa still haven't figured out how to live with him."

Villa's players emerged just after, led by John McGinn and Pau Torres. They were slower, more deliberate.

The frustration from the first half lingered on their faces. They hadn't been poor—but they'd been outmaneuvered.

A few players stopped briefly by the touchline, downing water from their bottles and barking instructions.

As the referee walked out last, the home support rose again. Chants, whistles, jeers—it all collided into one wall of noise.

In the Holte End, the energy took a more Comedic turn.

"Ref! He's diving every time!"

"Bet he's already halfway to the ground!"

"Book him for breathing!"

A pause.

"Wait—what did I just say?" one fan muttered aloud, drawing laughter from those around him.

"You've completely lost it, mate," his friend laughed.

"Get some air."

"Villa fans with a bit of gallows humor there—but it's telling. Arsenal's youngster got under their skin in forty-five minutes. That doesn't happen unless you're doing something very right," the commentator said as the players moved to their respective positions.

Izan crouched low near the left wing, tapping the back of his calf with his boot, then standing upright and shaking his shoulders loose.

Saliba and Gabriel exchanged a quick word while Rice pointed at the space between McGinn and Watkins, telling Jorginho about it.

Ødegaard cracked his neck once to the left, once to the right, then clapped twice and stepped forward to start the half.

"It's all set again. Arsenal is protecting a narrow lead, and Villa is chasing it—but more than that, both teams know this match is teetering on a knife edge.

The tackles will come. The space will tighten. The emotions, already stretched in that first half, could decide how this ends."

The referee looked at his watch, and then his whistle shrilled.

" The Second half is now underway at Villa Park. Let's see who blinks first."

Aston Villa moved the ball with a certain composure now.

No longer rushing their passes or looking to stretch Arsenal too soon.

They zipped it around the back, dragging the red shirts into unnecessary runs.

Martinez to Konsa. Konsa to Pau Torres. Then out wide to Digne, who clipped it back to Luiz in the center.

Villa weren't going anywhere fast, but they were forcing Arsenal to work—slowly draining their legs with each sideways shuffle.

"Villa are keeping it neat here," came the voice of the commentator.

"Patient play. They've started the half with more control."

Arsenal's block moved with discipline but not without effort.

Rice and Jorginho shifted across the middle while Jesus and Odegaard kept pressing in tandem.

Still, Villa probed. And the fans urged them on.

Then, a small crack.

Jorginho stepped forward to intercept a routine pass—too eager, too soon—and completely missed his mark.

Youri Tielemans immediately played a quick one-two with Kamara and shifted it forward into space.

Just like that, Villa broke the line.

"That was a bit rash from Jorginho there! Villa can sniff an opening!" the commentator roared along as Villa's sharp-edged trio drove through the Arsenal setup.

Jacob Ramsey darted into the gap while Arsenal scrambled.

Saliba adjusted his body, looking to block the lane, while White tracked the overlap.

Ramsey ignored the run, cutting inside instead, and fed Leon Bailey, who'd ghosted into the box from the right.

Bailey had one touch. Then two. And then he let fly—

"Saved by Raya! Huge moment!"

A fingertip. That's all it was. But it was enough.

The ball spun off the keeper's glove and clattered off the post, skimming the outside of the frame before going out for a corner.

Arsenal breathed again.

"Villa inches away from punishing that lapse. Jorginho with the mistake—he won't want to see that one back."

Bailey raised both arms in frustration as the Villa crowd roared, disappointed it hadn't gone in but encouraged by what they'd just seen.

Arteta shouted something from the sideline—hard to make out what—but his tone was sharp, urgent.

Jorginho gave a small nod, already retreating into shape, knowing that he'd gotten away with one.

Mikel Arteta stood firmly on the touchline, his focus unshakable as he shouted instructions, his voice piercing through the roar of the crowd after that Villa jump-scare.

"Don't mind the scoreboard! Keep the intensity up!" he bellowed, urging his players forward.

His eyes burned with a mix of determination and belief, every word commanding energy.

Across from him, the opposing manager, a more measured figure, Unai Emery, offered a calm contrast.

He gave his players an approving nod and spoke with a quiet but firm tone, his voice carrying to his men.

"Good work, lads, keep it going," he said, acknowledging the effort they had put in.

His hands motioned gently, signaling for them to remain disciplined and composed, aware that their challenge was far from over.

As the game continued to heat up, Villa saw an opportunity to counterattack once more.

They swiftly transitioned from defense to attack, a lightning-fast move that left Arsenal's backline scrambling.

The ball found its way to the feet of one of their wingers, who was already sprinting down the right flank, his eyes set on the goal.

But just as Villa thought they had broken through, Izan, positioned on the left wing, read the situation like a book.

He surged forward, a flash of green and red in the corner of the screen as he pressed aggressively towards the advancing Villa player.

His determination was palpable, his desire to break up the counterattack unmatched.

With a well-timed step, he closed down the space, forcing the Villa's Watkins to hesitate, his options limited by Izan's relentless pursuit.

The former tried to get out of the pressure, but with a quick lunge, Izan managed to dispossess the Villa player, taking the ball cleanly with barely a second to react.

Without breaking stride, he pushed the ball forward, skillfully weaving through the first of three defenders now closing in on him.

With a quick flick with the outside of his boot and a sharp change of direction, he was past the first, leaving them scrambling in his wake.

The crowd held its breath as he continued to slice through the defensive line, the ball glued to his feet as if he were dancing through a gap in time.

He moved past the second, his body swerving with fluid precision, eyes locked on the goal ahead.

One more defender stood between him and the open space that could set him up for a clear shot on goal.

But just as he prepared to make his final push, disaster struck.

A hand—a fleeting, sharp contact—landed on his shoulder. The Villa defender, realizing he was beaten, reached out in desperation, his hand coming down hard on Izan's shoulder.

It was a slight but destabilizing touch, enough to throw Izan off balance.

His legs wobbled, his control faltered, and with a sharp exhale, he tumbled to the ground in a heap, the ball slipping from his reach.

The referee immediately blew the whistle, and Arsenal's players surged forward, furious, convinced they had just witnessed a clear foul that denied Izan a direct path to goal.

The crowd roared in anticipation, unsure whether the referee would brandish a red card.

A clear goal-scoring opportunity had been taken away, and many believed the Villa player's foul was deserving of a harsher punishment.

The Arsenal players huddled around the referee, their voices rising in frustration as they demanded justice.

"That's a red, no doubt!" shouted Odegaard, his arms wide in disbelief.

"He was through, ref!"

Arteta, standing near the touchline, gestured towards the referee, his eyes intense. He looked ready to step onto the pitch himself, a mix of anger and concern playing across his features.

"Red card!" he barked, his voice rising above the tension.

The Arsenal fans, too, were on their feet, calling for a stronger response from the official.

The Villa player, clearly rattled, stood with his hands raised in a gesture of innocence, trying to argue his case.

But the referee wasn't swayed. After a brief moment of deliberation, the official reached into his pocket and pulled out a yellow card.

The decision was final—only a caution.

The Arsenal players exchanged incredulous glances, their disbelief palpable.

"Are you serious?" one of them muttered, his eyes locked on the referee.

"That's a clear red!"

Izan, still on the ground, shook his head, boring holes into the referee with his gaze.

Arteta's frustration was evident as he turned back to the sideline, his hands on his hips.

"Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath.

a/n: Second of the day, so I have finally caught up. Anyways, have fun reading, and I'll see you with the next one