Izan stepped onto the pitch, the floodlights gleaming above as he adjusted the wrist tape on his left hand.
The ball was deep in Arsenal's half when he jogged into position, taking his first few strides.
He didn't rush forward or demand possession. Instead, he moved with the team's rhythm, reading the flow, and scanning for the perfect mont.
The first touch ca from a routine switch of play. Jorginho saw him drop deep and rolled the ball his way.
Izan t it with a soft, controlled touch, letting it settle before playing it back with the inside of his foot.
It was safe. Simple.
A few more passes later—Zinchenko to him on the left, a quick flick back to Gabriel—Arsenal's tempo remained steady.
Yet from the stands, murmurs rose.
"He's just passing it around."
"Co on, do sothing. Play like it's your job."
LeBron Jas, seated in the VIP section, shook his head slightly.
"Man, the dude I ca to see is just knocking it around like he's got all day," he remarked, prompting a grin from Austin Reaves beside him.
Still, Izan remained focused. He wasn't there to dazzle imdiately—he was settling into the ga.
The ball kept coming his way. A one-touch pass to Ødegaard, a backheel to Rice to escape a press, a simple flick to Saka before repositioning—all precise, yet lacking the explosive spark the impatient crowd craved.
With everything leading up to this point, the mont they had been expecting finally happened.
A loose pass in midfield and a further brief hesitation from Leverkusen's pivot opened up the field.
Izan's eyes lit up.
He reacted instantly, stepping in to intercept with his left foot, cushioning the ball into his path in one fluid motion.
Now, space unfolded before him.
A Leverkusen player rushed in, looking to close him down but Izan feinted left, his body shifting subtly as he dragged the ball behind his standing leg.
A quick burst was all he needed to explode past his marker. The crowd's murmur swelled into a collective gasp.
Another opponent closed in but Izan, calm as ever, slowed just enough to bait the defender forward.
The mont the challenge ca, he rolled the ball under his boot, then flicked it with the outside of his foot—just out of reach—changing direction in a blink.
The pitch opened up. Three defenders stood between him and the final third, but their shape wavered.
Izan feinted, testing their reactions. The nearest defender hesitated, shifting toward his left.
That was all he needed.
With a delicate touch, Izan cut inside, creating a narrow channel that sliced through Leverkusen's rigid formation.
In that split second, Saka made his run into the box.
The pass that followed was pure artistry—a disguised flick, threaded perfectly between two desperate defenders.
The ball flew with precision, landing right in Saka's path.
The stadium held its breath.
Saka took a controlled touch and, with a confident strike, curled it past the outstretched keeper, rippling the net.
For a heart-stopping mont, it seed Arsenal had broken the deadlock.
Then the whistle blew. The assistant referee's flag soared high.
Offside.
The eruption of cheers turned into frustrated groans.
Yet the crowd's perception had shifted. They had seen the brilliance—the timing, the execution, the vision.
Izan had transford a routine passage of play into a dangerous attacking sequence.
His asured start had given way to a sudden, explosive mont that unbalanced the opposition.
The fans, once impatient, now buzzed with anticipation. The murmurs of doubt had turned into murmurs of excitent.
Even the NBA stars in the VIP section leaned forward, their earlier skepticism replaced with grudging respect.
On the pitch, Ødegaard's eyes t Izan's, a silent approval passing between them. Saka gave a knowing nod.
Across the field, Leverkusen's defenders exchanged urgent glances, suddenly wary.
Izan didn't dwell on the disallowed goal. He simply rejoined the team's rhythm, but now, every movent carried a new urgency.
The calm, composed midfielder was gone. In his place was a player ready to take control of the ga.
...…..
As the ball rolled out for a throw-in, Xabi Alonso stepped to the edge of his technical area, his voice cutting through the noise.
"Granit!"
Xhaka turned toward his manager. Alonso's expression was firm, his words sharp and deliberate.
"You're in charge of him now. No space, no freedom. If he turns, he kills us."
Xhaka gave a slight nod, wiping sweat from his brow as he turned back toward the pitch.
He had faced young talents before—so hyped beyond their ability, others proving the talk was justified.
Izan was beginning to show which category he belonged to.
The ga resud, and imdiately, Izan found himself under closer surveillance.
Every ti he received the ball, Xhaka was on him, stepping in, closing the gap, cutting off his angles.
But Izan had played against markers like this before. He didn't need space—he just needed the right touch, the right mont.
Arsenal built from the back. Saliba played it into Rice, who quickly found Jorginho. Izan moved into the pocket of space between Leverkusen's midfield and defense.
Jorginho saw the gap and sent the ball his way but Xhaka was already there, his body angling to block any forward turn.
Izan saw this and didn't turn. Not yet. Instead, he let the ball run across his body, feinting a pass back to Jorginho with his left foot.
Xhaka took the bait, shifting ever so slightly—just enough for Izan to flick the ball with his right and spin in the opposite direction.
The crowd gasped.
Xhaka caught off balance for the briefest of monts, lunged to recover, but Izan was already gone, gliding into space, the ball rolling effortlessly under his control.
Now, he had only one defender in front of him.
Izan accelerated, taking bigger touches, drawing his marker in. The Leverkusen defender hesitated, unsure whether to commit or hold his ground.
Then Izan struck. A sharp cut to the left, dragging the ball behind his standing leg, shifting his entire body weight in an instant.
The defender bit on the feint and Izan imdiately snapped the ball back to his right, leaving him stranded.
He was through.
With the goal in sight, he shaped his body, aiming for the far post. But before he could unleash the shot—
A blur of red and black closed in.
Xhaka.
The Swiss midfielder had recovered, sliding in with perfect timing to block the attempt.
The ball deflected off his outstretched leg, looping harmlessly into the goalkeeper's hands.
Xhaka got up first, offering Izan a smirk.
"Not bad, kid. But not enough."
Izan exhaled sharply, already jogging back into position.
If that's how Xhaka wanted it, he'd get his answer soon enough.
Leverkusen, not wanting to be outdone, responded. Their buildup was swift, precise, orchestrated with the sa fluidity Arsenal had just displayed.
Florian Wirtz, their young star, drifted between the lines, finding space near the edge of the box.
A quick one-two with Schick split Arsenal's midfield, sending him straight at Gabriel.
Wirtz feinted right, then flicked the ball left with the outside of his foot, slipping past the Brazilian center-back in one motion.
The crowd roared as he bore down on goal.
Raya rushed out, lowering his stance, preparing for the shot.
Wirtz, cool and composed, lifted his foot—
But Saliba ca sliding in from the side, his long fra stretching just enough for Wirtz to hesitate.
Before the German wonderkid could shoot again, Gabriel was on him resulting in the ball going out of play
A mont of brilliance, denied by equally brilliant defending.
The intensity skyrocketed. On one end, Wirtz carved open Arsenal's backline. On the other, Izan threatened to do the sa to Leverkusen.
Two young stars, two teams chasing dominance.
"Here cos Arsenal again, and look at the movent from Izan—he's taking charge!"
The rhythm of the ga had shifted, and this ti, Izan dictated the tempo.
Receiving the ball in midfield, he controlled it with a feathery touch before glancing up.
Leverkusen's defensive shape was intact, but their midfield had begun to tire. A weakness. A crack.
Izan took a slow step forward, baiting Xhaka once more.
The Swiss midfielder approached cautiously this ti, refusing to commit too soon.
Then—
Izan flicked the ball past Xhaka with the outside of his foot, darting around him in a blur of motion.
Xhaka turned too late. Izan was already through.
The crowd erupted, sensing danger, sensing sothing special.
"Izan has broken free! Arsenal are in full flow now!"
Leverkusen's backline scrambled. Two defenders rushed forward, but Izan played it perfectly, sliding a disguised pass through the narrowest of gaps.
Ødegaard was there to receive it. One touch, then a flick to Saka on the right.
Saka, already in full sprint, took on his marker, dropping a quick shoulder before cutting inside.
The ball moved like a whisper between Arsenal shirts—fluid, seamless.
Jorginho, first-ti pass to Rice.
Rice, no hesitation, a sharp return to Izan, who had ghosted into the left half-space.
Leverkusen's defense was stretched thin now. Openings appeared. Panic set in.
Izan, head up, saw his chance.
With one effortless movent, he shifted the ball onto his right foot, dodging the last desperate lunge of a defender.
Now, just the keeper stood in his way.
A deep breath. A mont of stillness.
Then—he struck.
A curling effort, shaped with precision, bent impossibly around the outstretched fingertips of the goalkeeper.
For half a second, the stadium held its breath.
Then, the net bulged.
Explosion.
"GOOOOOAAAALLLL!!! IZANNNNN! THAT IS MAGNIFICENT!"
The stadium roared. The fans leaped to their feet, arms raised in disbelief.
Ødegaard sprinted toward him first, followed by Saka and Rice, but Izan had sothing else in mind.
Instead of running to the corner flag, he grabbed the ball, spun it in his hands like a point guard setting up a shot, and then bounced it once on the grass.
A smirk tugged at his lips as he stepped back and mimicked a perfect fadeaway jumper—an homage to the NBA stars watching from the VIP section.
The imaginary shot swished through an invisible hoop, and as if on cue, LeBron Jas and the others erupted in laughter and applause.
Saka pointed at him, grinning while Ødegaard gave him a playful shove.
The crowd, already electric, grew even louder.
Arteta, watching from the touchline, couldn't help but chuckle.
A/n: Normal release of the day. Have fun reading and I'll see you with the rest of the chapters.
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