14’
The match had started the way Arsenal matches often did these days—full throttle.
The players pinged the ball around, hoping to keep it away from Leicester and they did for a considerable amount of ti before losing it after Havertz blasted one at the goal.
After Leicester reset, Arsenal didn’t let up and pressed high, crowding Leicester back into their own third.
But despite the dominance, the goal hadn’t co.
There were chances, but not enough threat.
Havertz dragged one just wide again.
Odegaard fired over from the edge, and Saka forced a save, but nothing settled.
And in the midst of it all, Izan was moving.
Influential? Yes.
Explosive?
Not yet.
There was sothing in his rhythm that seed different.
Not visible unless you were really watching—but sothing about the sharpness wasn’t there.
The cara cut to him for a second, hands on hips before he leaned down to fix his sock but those who were watching closely saw him caress his shin a bit.
He was stationed on the left today, deputising for Martinelli, who was still not 100%.
And while Izan looked dangerous... he didn’t look untouchable.
Up in the comntary box, the forr pro-turned analyst leaned slightly forward in his chair, eyebrows drawn.
"He’s playing fine," he began, "but... not fine-fine, if you know what I an."
His partner glanced over. "You saying he’s off it?"
"Not off it," the forr clarified.
"Just... he’s not moving, he normally does. Normally, he moves like he has already solved the problem before you gave him the ball. Today, it’s like he’s computing in real-ti."
They didn’t get to finish the thought.
Izan got the ball again, on the left side, after Calafiori stuck out a foot for his marker.
The Leicester right-back—Jas-Justin, shoulders tense—t him with cautious steps.
Izan slowed, leaning as he slowly dragged the ball towards the latter.
The process was so slow and agonising, the defender too slowed, before lunging at the ball but Izan snapped into motion with a sudden burst of controlled chaos.
He blitzed past the defender on the outside with a push-touch that only he could recover, shoulder dropping as he accelerated.
The right-back panicked, winged him and clipped just enough of Izan’s thigh and hip to knock him sideways.
The boy went sprawling, skidding out of the field of play.
"Oh, he ant it. That was reckless, but what could he have done?"
Arteta, arms folded on the sideline, cocked his head with an unreadable expression as Izan lay face-up on the turf, hands by his sides.
The referee jogged over.
He blew once more—for effect.
Then... pointed for the free-kick.
And gave nothing else.
No card. No warning. No conversation.
Just turned and walked away, backpedalling like nothing had happened.
The fans booed.
Even the ho fans grumbled.
The comntators didn’t hesitate.
"Okay, no. That’s a yellow all day," the forr pro said, jaw tight.
"You’re beat, you foul. End of story. In the middle of the pitch, that’s a card. Wide or not," the co-comntator sighed.
"Reminds of the referee in their 2nd ga of the season against Villa."
"You an the one where Izan got sent off after scoring?" the other comntator questioned.
"Yeah. First, he gets hacked down while on his way to score. No red cos out. Then gets booked for ’confronting’ the ref. Then again—second yellow—because he... what was it?" the ex-player said, clicking his thumb and index finger together.
"Flopped on the ground too dramatically after a goal. As if celebrating while falling was provocation," the other said, deadpan.
"Exactly. At least he got punished," the forr pro went on.
"That ref got suspended. Relegated to the Championship for two months after the FA concluded that he had mishandled the ga. I just hope we get none of that today, or eyes will be on the official after this ga if sothing unpleasant happens."
Down on the pitch, Izan had already stood up, brushing off his elbows and walking back into position, with the cara panning to Arteta, who didn’t even try to hide the slight scrunching up of his brows.
He turned and uttered sothing to the team doctor before returning his attention to the scenes on the pitch.
The referee walked the wall back—three paces, four, five.
His arm raised, gesturing.
The free-kick was close to the byline.
Tight angle. Almost a cross.
But with Izan, geotry didn’t matter.
He stood with one hand resting on his hip, the other lightly brushing over the top of the ball, like he was thinking.
Or calculating.
The fans behind the goal leaned forward, caras raised.
No one wanted to blink and miss as the comntary box hushed for a second.
"Strange thing about this kid. He doesn’t just look at the goal. He looks through it."
The referee stepped away, satisfied with the wall—just two Leicester players, standing side-by-side, nervously shielding their faces.
Edging toward the near post, the keeper crouched low, glancing across the crowded box.
Arsenal had stacked four at the edge of the six-yard area: Saliba, Gabriel, Rice... and Havertz, slightly farther out, isolated toward the far post.
Izan stood still as the referee’s whistle sounded, and with not much of a run-up, he glanced at the box.
The angle was cruel.
The ball, a few ters off the byline.
Everyone expected a whip into the ss—sothing fast and hopeful.
Then—
He clipped it.
The ball floated over the first bodies.
Past the wall, curling in a slow arc toward the far post like it was following a quiet line only Izan could see.
And there—unmarked, unread, perfect—was Havertz.
He watched it drop like a gift and t it with his left foot on the half-volley, guiding it low into the net beneath the scrambling keeper.
The net rippled, and the silence that had engulfed the stadium since the start of the match was shattered.
Arsenal, now led.
Havertz wheeled away, relief breaking over his face, arms out wide before slapping the air in celebration.
"Oooh, that is gorgeous!" the forr midfielder in comntary exploded, half laughing.
"You think he’s going to go for goal like he always does. Like everyone thought he would, but he just floats that!"
"Deception, touch, awareness. Izan hasn’t looked quite himself today," his partner added, "but this... this is a reminder. Even a dialled-down version of him is still world-class."
Down on the touchline, Arteta nodded—small, subtle.
Havertz turned and pointed back toward Izan, who had raised his arm, pumping his fist into the air before turning towards his half.
"That’s his 18th assist of the season," the forr pro noted.
"And from that angle? That’s not a chance unless you make it one. Arsenal with the lead here in the 16th minute, and we now await the restart"
........
It wasn’t the first tackle of the half, but it was the one that finally stuck.
Izan surged forward down the left again, quick one-two with Calafiori slicing past the halfway line.
Leicester’s Ndidi, now tasked with following Izan, lunged too late and too clumsily.
There was a snap—not of anything breaking, but of balance vanishing.
Izan’s boot clipped against the defender’s shin, and his montum betrayed him.
He went airborne for half a second before thudding into the turf, back-first.
The stadium reacted in ripples—gasps first, then the referee’s whistle.
He landed hard, with a slight roll, but Izan slowly, sat up—teeth clenched, one hand drifting instinctively to his lower back.
The ref flashed a yellow card in the direction of the Leicester player, but eyes were already elsewhere.
The dic was being waved on.
Arteta stepped forward imdiately, arms folded—but his eyes were locked, hawk-sharp on Izan.
"You alright?" Saka asked as he jogged over, helping Izan up.
Izan gave a nod.
But not a convincing one.
He stood—but stiffly.
A grimace flicked across his face, quickly swallowed.
From the touchline, Arteta turned to Carlos Cuesta.
"Trossard. Now."
"Now?"
Arteta didn’t hesitate.
"Minute 39. I don’t care."
"Sothing’s happening down on the Arsenal sideline. Arteta just sent Trossard to wear his shirt without even warming up."
"Yeah, and they’re not waiting until halfti. It’s urgent."
"Question is—who’s he replacing this early? Saka? Havertz?"
Even though most knew who the substitution was for, it was almost unthinkable to them for Arteta to make the change.
Then ca the mont.
The fourth official lifted the board.
The number 10, in red.
"Ah..." the forr pro sighed.
"It’s Izan. They’re taking no chances."
"And you can’t bla them. He went down hard—and for a player who’s looked just slightly off tonight, this could be a call to preserve."
Izan didn’t make a show of it, as he was already expecting it.
He walked off slowly, not toward the Arsenal bench, but toward the near sideline exit with the dic in tow.
The away end clocked it first.
Faces tensed, but they shook off any thoughts as the clapping ca next, for the hope that a player wasn’t going to break himself for them before they were taken off.
Arteta tracked him the whole way with his eyes, jaw set as he exhaled slowly.
He just hoped it wasn’t the start of sothing worse.
A/N: GT Chapter is in the building. Okay, guys, have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the Last of the day.
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