The buzz inside the Emirates was still strong as the players erged from the tunnel for the second half.
Arsenal led 1–0, but it wasn't just the scoreline keeping the crowd energized—it was the way they'd done it.
Izan was among the first out, his head held high as he jogged across the pitch to light applause and scattered chants.
So fans along the front row stood up and clapped just for him, pointing toward him and gesturing in disbelief, as if still unsure of what they had witnessed before the break.
"Co on, lads," Declan Rice called out, rallying the group as they spread across the grass again.
Odegaard gave Izan a firm slap on the back. "You've got the crowd in your pocket now," he said with a grin.
Izan gave a small smile but kept his eyes forward.
Wolves ca out too, with a different energy.
Their players looked more urgent, more deliberate in their steps. Clearly, they'd been given instructions to tighten the screws.
Guy Mowbray's voice returned to the broadcast as the cara panned across the players resetting into position.
"Well, we're about to get underway for the second half here at the Emirates. Arsenal with the lead, thanks to that ice-cold panenka from Izan," he said, his tone light but admiring.
"A cheeky finish that has already gone viral. But now cos the true test of control—Wolves are down but not out, and Gary O'Neil will expect a reaction."
The referee gave a final glance at both goalkeepers before blowing the whistle.
Arsenal kicked off the second half, moving left to right, and imdiately began working the ball through their midfield.
Wolves, as expected, ca out pressing higher, trying to force errors early and disrupt Arsenal's rhythm.
Odegaard collected the ball deep and quickly shifted it to Rice, who glanced over his shoulder and called out, "Izan, show!"
Izan appeared and dropped into space and received the pass cleanly on the half-turn, pivoting between two Wolves players with a smart feint.
The crowd responded imdiately—gasps, then applause. His composure was evident.
Mowbray chuckled gently through the comntary.
"He's playing like he belongs, isn't he? So tidy on the ball, and so aware. It's one thing to score with style, but it's another to show you can handle the dirty work, and the rhythm of Premier League midfield play. And Izan's doing both."
Arsenal's tempo began to pick up. Saka shifted wide, Odegaard drifted inside, and Wolves were quickly being pulled into pockets they didn't want to be in.
Still, they fought, pressing as a unit, trying to force Arsenal into mistakes.
Wolves had started the second half trying to press higher, hoping to disrupt Arsenal's rhythm.
But within ten minutes, they were pulled back into their own half, shaped into a tight block of eight outfield players behind the ball.
Arsenal, on the other hand, looked like they were building toward sothing.
There was more zip in the passes, more purpose in the movents.
Rice dropped deep to collect from Ramsdale and shifted it across to Calafiori, who waited for Wolves' press to activate.
It ca, but half-heartedly. Calafiori popped it back to Ramsdale, who calmly pinged a low pass out to Ben White.
The right-back cushioned it with one touch and fired it down the line to Saka, who spun and accelerated.
The crowd ca alive instantly—Saka was in stride, surging into space. Ødegaard peeled off, offering support centrally.
Ahead of him, Havertz made a decoy run to drag Dawson away.
Saka found Ødegaard with a perfectly weighted ball.
The Norwegian received it just outside the box and flicked it on instinct toward Izan, who had ghosted into a dangerous area.
This was the chance.
Izan controlled it cleanly and poked it ahead to Havertz, who turned sharply and tried to slot it low past Sá.
But the Wolves keeper was sharp—he got down quickly and parried it away with a firm right glove.
The rebound spilled back toward the edge of the area, and the visitors cleared it hastily, but only as far as Tomiyasu, who'd stayed alert.
"Arsenal knocking—really knocking now. That was nearly the third assist of the day for young Izan, but Sá keeps Wolves in it," Guy Mowbray's voice rang through as the side restarted play.
The Emirates didn't deflate. Instead, they roared louder.
The fans could sll another goal coming.
Tomiyasu didn't dwell on the ball. He nudged it sideways to Izan, who'd already moved again, offering himself.
Izan didn't rush. He looked left, then right, then dragged the ball with the inside of his boot, weaving away from Mattheus Cunha before turning sharply to face forward.
One defender stepped up—too eager, looking to stop Izan in his stride but Izan skipped past him with ease.
"Watch him go," Mowbray comnted, half laughing. "It's like they're magnetized—he draws them out just to break them apart."
Izan threaded a pass out to Calafiori on the far left, stretching Wolves out.
The full-back carried it, waited for movent, then dropped it back to Rice, who imdiately zipped it over to Ødegaard.
The Norwegian let it run across his body and clipped it wide to Saka again, now facing a tired Aït-Nouri.
This ti, Saka feinted outside, cut in, and clipped a lofted cross toward the far post. Havertz rose, t it—and headed just over the bar.
Groans rang out around the Emirates.
Arteta clapped anyway. "It's coming!" he barked from the touchline. "Keep the ball moving!"
Wolves jogged back into position slowly. Arsenal, by contrast, were already setting their trap again.
The next change of possession saw Ramsdale co out of his area, waving.
Calafiori turned and nodded, sliding the ball back to his keeper. The reset was instant.
Ramsdale passed to Rice, who fed Odegaard, and once again, Izan beca the magnet.
Receiving the ball just behind the halfway line, he turned on his first touch, pulled two midfielders toward him, and slipped the ball behind them into Ødegaard's feet.
Then, without waiting, he took off diagonally into space.
Ødegaard didn't hesitate.
He played the return pass first-ti, cutting through Wolves' lines.
Izan took it cleanly on the run—no wasted movent.
One defender stepped up—Kilman.
Izan shimmied and rolled the ball under his studs before sliding a perfectly tid pass to Ødegaard, who had continued his run behind the line.
And now ca the final piece.
Ødegaard, just inside the box, shaped to shoot.
But then he spotted Saka alone at the far post.
One touch across goal. Saka arrived.
Tap in.
Goal.
The Emirates lifted off.
"Now that… is liquid football!" Guy Mowbray roared.
"Izan again at the heart of it. The timing, the weight of the pass, the ability to draw defenders in and open lanes—it's elite. Ødegaard doesn't get greedy, and Saka does what he does best."
Arteta couldn't hide his delight this ti. He turned fist in the air and jogged back toward his bench.
"That's how we do it!" he shouted. "That's Arsenal football!"
Gary O'Neil stood frozen on the sideline, arms folded, lips pressed together. There wasn't much left for him to say.
The cara cut to the trio—Saka, Ødegaard, and Izan—embracing just inside the box, smiles all around.
From the crowd, chants erupted: "He's one of our own! He's one of our own! Izan's one of our own!"
Mowbray, settling after the chaos, added one final note.
"They are playing like a unit, but with a little magician at the heart of it. Every ti he touches the ball, sothing happens. And now, Arsenal lead 2–0, fully deserved."
And this ti, Wolves knew—they weren't just chasing a scoreline. They were chasing shadows.
The Arsenal player stopped celebrating after a while before turning towards their half, walking past the Wolverhampton players who looked like they had lost their urge.
The restart was almost ceremonial. Wolves stood over the ball, motionless for a mont longer than usual.
The urgency was there in their eyes, but not in their legs.
The referee's whistle pierced the air, and play resud—but the balance had shifted.
Arsenal pressed higher, faster, and more hungrily, emboldened by a two-goal cushion and the scent of more.
Wolves attempted to string a few passes together, starting from their center-backs. Dawson to Kilman, Kilman to Sedo—but it was cautious, passive.
There was no intent in their build-up, just survival instincts.
"Wolves look rattled," Guy Mowbray noted, tone cutting. "The fight's still there, but the belief… maybe not."
Then ca the mistake.
Joao Gos hesitated half a second too late as he turned under pressure and that was all Izan needed.
He pounced, sharp as a razor, poking the ball clean off Joao's toe before the Wolves man could shield it.
A gasp rose from the crowd as Izan surged forward, running 10 yards in two touches.
He didn't try anything fancy—not here. The vision clicked in imdiately.
To his right, he spotted the blur of Saka making a dart between Aït-Nouri and Kilman, perfectly tid.
Izan snapped a low pass into space for him.
Guy Mowbray's voice sharpened. "And Arsenal are in again! Izan—winning it, feeding it, and now Saka's flying down the right!"
The Emirates had barely sat back down. Now they were back on their feet again.
Saka took the ball in stride, controlled but quick, his boots whispering across the grass as he carved through the flank.
Ødegaard sprinted into the box. Havertz peeled left. Even Calafiori was making up ground behind.
Saka reached the edge of the final third and slowed just a fraction, glancing up.
"Here we go again…" Mowbray breathed.
The whole stadium felt it.
Saka had the ball.
And soone was about to get it.
A/n: Akay. Have fun reading and i'll see you tomorrow. Don't forget to spam the golden tickets because I'll be releasing their bonuses co end of the week.
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