The final whistle cut through the electric tension like a razor.
For a mont, the sound barely registered — the Hotspur Stadium was a cacophony of noise: jeers, gasps, shouts.
But then it sank in.
Full-ti.
Tottenham Hotspur 1 — Arsenal 2.
Arsenal's players, battered and drenched in sweat, ca together in ragged huddles across the pitch.
So fell to their knees, so lifted arms to the heavens, others simply stood there, breathing hard, savoring it.
In the corner where the traveling Gooners were corralled, it was pandemonium.
Scarves whirling. Chants ripping out into the cold London night.
Izan wiped a forearm across his brow, letting the mont wash over him.
He didn't grin, didn't shout.
He just stood still for a few seconds, absorbing it the way a seasoned warrior might after a battle — calm, steady.
Man of the Match, the announcent echoed distantly over the stadium speakers.
The words were carried along the pitch: "Sponsored by EA Sports... Arsenal's number 10... Izan Hernández!"
The caras zeroed in, and soon a Sky Sports assistant jogged over with the familiar trophy — that sharp, modern design, shining silver under the floodlights.
Izan accepted it with a short nod, cradling the heavy tal in both hands.
It glead against the sweat on his arms.
A nearby official gestured him toward the touchline, where a small area had been roped off for post-match interviews.
Sky Sports' lead pitch-side reporter — mic in hand, earpiece jamd in — was already waiting.
Izan moved through the tide of players, coaches, and staff, every step purposeful but relaxed.
The cara went live with the little red light blinking.
The reporter smiled — professional, warm, already knowing he had a golden interview on his hands.
"Congratulations, Izan — a North London Derby win, a Man of the Match performance, and your first derby goal... Can you even begin to describe this feeling?"
Izan adjusted the trophy in his grip and leaned slightly toward the mic.
Voice low, asured.
"Special. Really special," he said. "But it's not about . We fought as a team. We stayed together... and we deserved it."
The reporter pressed gently, clearly wanting more.
"Your winning goal... curling it from that angle at seventeen — people are already calling it one of the great derby monts. Walk us through it?"
Izan offered the smallest of smiles, tilting his head as if choosing his words carefully.
"I just trusted the ball," he said.
"Trusted my left foot... trusted the mont. You don't get many of those in a derby."
It was pure Izan — simple, mature, unaffected by the noise around him.
"And lastly," the reporter added, "tonight you really showed you're not just the future — you're the now. Does that change anything for you, or for your place in this team?"
Izan shrugged, almost apologetically.
"I just keep working. Sa as yesterday. Sa as tomorrow."
The interviewer laughed softly, thanked him, and signed off.
The red light blinked off.
Izan nodded once more, handed the mic back, and turned toward the tunnel.
The noise of the stadium was beginning to dim now — fans either pouring out, muttering curses, or still celebrating high in the stands.
As Izan neared the tunnel entrance, the world around him still thrumming with the echo of the final whistle and the weight of the win, a hand touched his shoulder.
He turned — calm, focused — expecting a staffer or teammate.
But it wasn't either.
Son Heung-min stood in front of him, his expression unreadable for a second — a mix of exhaustion, pride, and a reluctant grin tugging at the edge of his mouth.
Izan recognized him instantly, of course.
Not just tonight's opponent, but the player he had watched on late-night highlights and the one he had stood across from in Japan two sumrs ago.
He'd been fifteen then — fresh-faced, still growing into his limbs, just promoted to the Valencia first team for preseason.
The night they faced Spurs in Tokyo, Son had co over post-match, sweaty and smiling, and clapped a hand on Izan's shoulder.
[Refer to CH 45]
"I like your feet," he'd said. "You'd look good in this kit one day."
Izan hadn't said much then, just nodded nervously, heart hamring.
He rembered every word.
Now, they were face to face again — both having aged, one a veteran, the other a boy who had since beco a man on the pitch.
Son's grin returned, this ti with a bit more edge.
"You rember?" he asked, as the buzz of the stadium dimd around them.
"I do," Izan said. "Tokyo. After the ga."
Son laughed, but there was a hint of mock betrayal behind it.
"I told you the Spurs kit would suit you," he said, shaking his head like a disappointed older brother.
"And now you're wearing that one."
He gestured at Izan's crumpled Arsenal shirt — still in his hand, number ten glinting faintly under the tunnel lights.
Izan cracked a small smile, dry and understated.
"I rember that too," he said, eyes not breaking from Son's.
"But I think this one fits better."
Son laughed again, the tension between rival clubs giving way to genuine affection.
"You're breaking my heart, you know," he said.
"But… damn, you were good tonight."
He held out a hand.
Izan took it — firm, respectful.
"Thank you," he said. Just two words, but with the quiet confidence of soone who had since thrived on the world stage.
Son gave his shoulder a light squeeze and looked him in the eye one last ti.
"You've got sothing special. I saw it then — just glad I was right."
With that, the Spurs captain turned away, his figure slowly disappearing into the darkened corridor, his boots scuffing faintly on the concrete.
Izan stood for a second longer, his Man of the Match award tucked under one arm, heart rate steady, expression unreadable.
He turned back toward Arsenal's side of the tunnel — not with fanfare or swagger, but with the sa calm he had walked in with hours earlier.
Only now, North London truly knew his na.
..........
The tunnel's echo faded as Izan pushed open the door to the away locker room.
Inside, it was a scene of organized chaos.
Most of the players — still buzzing from the adrenaline of the final whistle — were already scrambling, half-laughing, half-panicking, tossing shirts into laundry baskets, grabbing towels, and darting towards the showers like a herd of guilty schoolkids fleeing detention.
Izan caught a few guilty glances thrown his way as they passed — and then the laughing started.
"Go, go, before he cos!" Saka said through a breathless laugh, slapping Trossard on the back as they both sprinted toward the showers.
Even Ødegaard, usually calm as ever, had a sheepish grin on his face as he tucked his boots under the bench and hurried after the others.
The aning was clear without anyone needing to say it:
They knew what was coming.
Because before the match, in the etings and walk-throughs, there had been all that confident talk —
"We've got enough."
"Tough ga, but doable even without Izan."
"We won even before Izan ca."
"We'll handle Spurs, no stress."
But reality had hit harder than the belt of the Author's Dad.
[It's just a joke. Please don't call those services]
And the uncomfortable truth was — had it not been for Izan: his sprint to save them from Son, his impossible-angle goal — they would be dragging themselves ho with one point, or worse, none.
The kid had saved them.
Izan dropped into the bench seat nearest his locker, placing the Man of the Match award down carefully at his feet.
He tugged his socks off slowly, thodically, as the sound of rushing showers filled the space, masking the nervous tension rising in the air.
A few players lingered near the door to the showers, peeking back like they were checking if it was safe.
Then the door swung open with a click — and Arteta entered.
Silence.
The players still in the room straightened up instinctively, muscles tensing.
The ones already in the showers weren't safe either — they knew Arteta's voice could carry.
The manager's expression wasn't furious, exactly — it was worse.
It was disappointed.
He took one look around, then exhaled sharply through his nose.
"You think this is enough?" Arteta said, voice loud like an opera singer.
"This," he said, gesturing vaguely to the room, to the atmosphere, "was almost a disaster."
So of the younger players shifted awkwardly where they stood, fidgeting with tape and boots.
Arteta continued, pacing slowly between the benches.
"You spoke about handling it. About control. About taking care of the ga. But what did I see? Running. Chasing. Reacting, instead of dictating."
He turned toward Izan briefly — not to chastise him, but to let the weight of his gaze sit with everyone else.
"You relied on him ," he said.
"You talked like n before the match, yet you played like boys today."
The words hit harder than any shouting could have.
No one dared et his eyes.
Arteta let the silence stretch for a few beats longer, then finally nodded to Carlos Cuesta and the other assistants.
"Recovery session tomorrow. Early."
He didn't wait for acknowledgnt — just turned sharply on his heel and left, the door thudding shut behind him.
The mont he was gone, a collective exhale rippled through the locker room.
The players still outside the showers shuffled guiltily toward the running water.
Izan stayed seated, elbows resting loosely on his knees.
He understood it.
People might not have expected a lot from them a few years ago but this was the standard Arsenal lived by now.
Win or lose — they demanded excellence.
And even victories — especially ssy ones — would not be exempt from scrutiny.
Across the room, Saka peeked his head out from the showers, catching Izan's eye with a guilty grin.
"Don't worry, mate," he said, chuckling. "We'll all buy you dinner after this."
Izan just shook his head slightly, lips twitching into a wry smile.
The work was never done.
A/N: Damn. I need to sleep. I'm too tired. Okay, I have a match tomorrow so Y'all should take care. Byeeee
User Comments
0 comments from readers