God Of football
Chapter 579: Back In Red

Chapter 579: Back In Red

The players were starting to retreat toward the tunnel.

A burst of applause followed them as they left the pitch—but the chants didn’t stop.

“STAY IN RED.”

“STAY IN RED.”

Because with everything else swirling, the match was still the match.

And once the whistle blew—talk would have to wait.

……..

Arsenal’s players were the first to emerge from the tunnel.

Saka leading the line out, Ødegaard behind him, then Izan—shoulders relaxed, laces already tightened, hair pulled back, chin up.

The Brighton crowd clapped them in politely.

They always did.

But the away end?

That was something else.

Packed.

Scarves raised.

The chant, still stayed even after the players went inside and now that they were out, it was louder than before.

“IZAN MIURA — STAY IN RED!”

“IZAN MIURA — STAY IN RED!”

Loud and a bit desperate, showing how they’d come to rely on Izan.

And Izan heard it.

He just lifted his gaze, scanned the corner of the stadium where the voices came from—and nodded slightly to himself, a beat longer than usual.

He lined up in his spot—central, in that false 9 role Arteta had handed him, which he had molded himself.

The broadcast mics cut in.

“It’s been a strange week around Arsenal,” the lead commentator said, voice even, understated.

“A 7-1 win over Brentford, and then the kind of transfer noise that could shake any dressing room. But from the way they’re walking out… I’d say they’ve chosen not to flinch.”

“Yeah,” his partner added.

“You don’t bring back an unchanged side if you’re in doubt. Arteta’s banking on rhythm. On trust. And frankly—on Izan.”

“Brighton, on the other hand, are no easy side,” the first continued.

“Especially at home. Fabian Hurzler’s got them brave and sharp on the ball. They’ll press. They’ll open it up.”

The camera panned across both teams and then the lineup.

“Arsenal,” the commentator started, “Have Raya in goal with White, Saliba, Gabriel, and Zinchenko forming the backline.”

“Rice is holding with Ødegaard and Trossard ahead while Martinelli and Saka stay wide and the boy with the headlines, Izan stays up top—unmoved by noise, just watching the centre-backs settle their shape.”

The whistle soon blew and Arsenal started.

Rice touched it back to Gabriel, and the match eased into its first few passes—tight, measured.

Zinchenko checking inside early while Ødegaard offered options to his mates who needed them.

Brighton pressed in twos. Baleba crept forward. Gross watched Rice closely.

But the difference, even early, was clear.

When Izan dropped short—five minutes in—he didn’t just receive, he drew the whole Brighton midfield towards him.

Baleba reached him first, shoulder to shoulder trying to claw the ball away but Izan kept the ball tight, body between man and leather, let the pressure come, then shifted onto his opposite foot before bolting away.

Ayari, paired with Baleba in the midfield, stepped in but he was too late.

Izan had already glided across the half-circle, eyes scanning, pace unchanged.

A disguised pass split two midfielders and found Trossard in stride.

The commentators couldn’t help themselves.

“That’s just clean,” one of them said.

“And he’s making space look bigger than it is,” the other added.

“That’s when you know you’re watching someone rare.”

By the eighth minute, Arsenal had already pulled Brighton’s midfield apart three times.

Ødegaard found Saka wide.

Martinelli won a corner.

Izan had just flicked a backheel into space like he had a map no one else could see.

It felt like a slow burn.

Arsenal weren’t rushing.

They were settling in.

And that’s when Brighton struck with a fast break.

Baleba recovered from a loose duel with Trossard and poked it forward to O’Riley who turned early, caught the switch, and then hit it across—long, perfect weight.

Mitoma was already gone.

Ben White was caught too high forcing Saliba to drift left to cover.

But Mitoma didn’t need much.

He took one touch to square himself, then another to shape it before he curled the shot low across goal—precise, skipping off the grass, clipping the inside of the far post.

“Mitoma scores!” the commentator said, keeping pace as the home fans broke out into a roar.

“And Brighton lead! A moment—just one break—and it’s enough to flip the tone here completely!”

“Perfect counter,” his partner added.

“And exactly the kind of goal this Brighton side live off. Arsenal had control—but Brighton waited for that one mistake. And they took it. It’s now, BRIGHTON 1 – ARSENAL 0”

The camera cut to Arteta—stoic, arms crossed, and eyes scanning the pitch.

Arsenal’s players regrouped near the center circle.

There was no panic.

Izan took the ball and rolled it to Rice who stood at the centre circle after the celebrations by the home team.

And from the way he glanced across the Brighton line, no one was more ready to respond than Izan.

…….

After the restart, the game moved on without him.

At least, it felt that way.

For nearly seven minutes, Izan barely touched the ball.

Not once in the final third.

Not even in the buildup.

He lingered around the top line, always in view but never in play—shadowing defenders, drifting just enough to stay offside traps but never calling for the ball.

It was quiet, almost too quiet and controlled.

And Brighton’s midfield, especially Baleba, had grown into that space like they owned it.

With each pass, Baleba looked more relaxed.

His touches cleaner.

Gestures more commanding.

Even the Brighton fans picked up on it.

From the stands came a chant—tongue-in-cheek, sharp-edged:

“WHERE’S YOUR WONDERBOY?”

“BALEBA’S GOT HIM LOCKED!”

It carried.

And for a moment, it felt like they might be right.

Ødegaard glanced forward and found no lane.

Rice looked twice and played it sideways.

Trossard shaped for a one-two that never came.

Arsenal were moving—but they weren’t threatening.

Until the twenty-second minute.

Brighton were recycling possession again, casually now.

O’Riley to Ayari.

Ayari inside to Baleba.

The latter dropped a shoulder and opened his body to shape a return pass across midfield.

The kind of ball you pass without looking twice and truly, he didn’t.

The ball left his boot.

And then—

Izan was there.

He didn’t sprint in from ten yards.

He didn’t explode off a blindside.

He just—appeared.

One stride, then another, and suddenly he was in Baleba’s passing lane before the midfielder had even finished his follow-through.

The ball had no chance.

It kissed Izan’s right foot mid-stride and stayed there.

“OH—AND IZAN PICKS IT OFF!” the commentator jumped in, breath catching.

“He read it a second early—and now Arsenal are flying!”

Baleba spun to recover, but Izan was already shifting weight.

He stepped inside Igor like the man wasn’t there, cut between two defenders closing the gap, and accelerated—not with chaos, but with purpose.

The pitch stretched suddenly.

Space opened and Arsenal’s away fans roared to life.

“It’s on now—look at the pace! Izan gliding through!”

One more touch forward and Estupiñán squared up and for a second, it looked like he had won the ball but Izan chopped with the inside of his right foot, then dragged the ball with his left around the Brighton left back like he was pulling him on a leash.

The box was in sight and Verbruggen rushed out.

Izan didn’t flinch.

He lifted his head—

And cut the ball across goal with a flash of the boot.

The whistle didn’t come.

No offside.

No foul.

Just Martinelli, arriving late at the back post.

And a stadium holding its breath.

The cutback zipped low across the box—fast enough to tempt the keeper, slow enough to demand a decision.

Martinelli didn’t rush it.

He let the ball roll slightly across his body, his eyes already catching the blur of blue behind him—Baleba, scrambling back, desperate.

Martinelli dipped his shoulder and shaped like he was going for the near post and Baleba committed sliding in for the block.

But Martinelli let the midfielder sail past him, boots up, helpless in the air—and with one calm push, nudged the ball onto his right foot and tucked it into the far corner as Berbruggen stood rooted to the spot.

The net rippled and Arsenal were level.

“Goal! Martinelli equalizes!” the commentator called, the roar from the away end climbing behind his words.

“And the creator? Of course. Izan again—this time, with the selfless pass because we know he would have gone for it if he wished.”

Martinelli turned and sprinted away, arms out wide, grin already halfway across his face—but he didn’t go to the crowd.

He went straight for Izan who had already turned towards the away end, pumping both hands in the air—twice—like a boxer calling for the next round.

Martinelli hit him full-force, jumping onto his back like a kid brother, laughing into his ear as the rest of the team charged over to join them.

The chants came back again, with the fans calling for Izan to stay.

Izan turned briefly, jaw tight and then sent the smallest nod to the crowd, so they knew he had heard them.

“He doesn’t look like a player who’s going anywhere,” the commentator said, quieter now.

“Not with that body language. Not with that urgency.”

BRIGHTON 1 – ARSENAL 1

And just like that, the match had reset.

A/n: Sorry for the updates. I was supposed to release it yesterday but I couldn’t. Anyway, have this and I’ll see you in a bit with the other chapter

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