God Of football Chapter 650: Short Night

Chapter 650: Short Night.

On the touchline, Arteta turned to his bench, jaw tight, while Enzo Maresca was already shouting instructions on the opposite end.

Cole Palr, not deed fit for the match but playing anyway, turned and tried tossing the ball to Sancho as he had won the penalty, but the latter declined the offer.

Cole Palr stepped up to the spot without passing up the chance to improve his goal tally.

Cole Palr placed the ball down gently on the spot with no fuss.

It was just calm hands and a slow inhale as he stepped back, eyes never leaving the keeper.

Raya bounced on his line, stretching side to side, trying to unsettle him.

“Cole Palr has been Chelsea’s quiet killer this season,” ca the comntary, tone laced with tension.

“Coming off a spectacular season, he’s already adapted to regular team football as he doesn’t look rattled, not even a little. Just twenty-two years old but already Chelsea’s penalty specialist. Arsenal fans will be hoping today’s the day he slips.”

The whistle blew and Palr took one step, then another — slow, composed — before striking the ball clean and firm with his left.

Raya guessed right, diving towards the ball, but it wasn’t enough to stop the ball from settling into the net.

Bottom corner. Perfectly placed.

1-0, and just like that, Chelsea led.

Stamford Bridge erupted like a powder keg, the roars echoing like thunder around the old stadium.

“Cool as you like! Cole Palr! Ice in his veins, heat in the veins of every Chelsea supporter!” the comntators croaked.

“That’s now seven penalties scored this season by the youngster — and what a mont to add another.”

Palr turned away from goal, arms outstretched, letting the roar wash over him like a wave, before wrapping his palms around his shoulders while shivering.

Neto was the first to reach him, leaping onto his back, followed by Enzo, Caicedo and Cucurella.

“COLE PALR IS BETTER!”

“COLE PALR IS BETTER!”

The chants rained down, first from the Matthew Harding stand, then spreading across the Bridge like wildfire.

Playful, biting.

ant for Izan — and everyone knew it.

On the sidelines, Arteta clapped twice, firm and commanding, trying to wake his team out of the haze that had followed the decision.

Raya gathered the ball out of the net and smashed it towards the centre of the pitch where Odegaard was barking at his teammates.

.

The Chelsea players, high off the goal, finally began jogging back to their half.

Palr glanced toward Izan as he passed him near the centre line.

Izan, feeling the gaze turned towards Palr, who nodded at the forr, his competitive edge showing.

“Arsenal trail here at the Bridge. Not the first ti this has happened between the two teams, but the first ti in a while.”

“The Premier League leaders have been rattled. And Chelsea… they’ll sll blood now.”

The ball was placed at the centre spot.

And the ga, once more, was ready to begin.

“The ball is on the spot and now we await the restart.”

The whistle went again — a short, sharp chirp — and Nwaneri nudged the ball gently back to Izan as Stamford Bridge’s noise simred into a low, expectant hum.

Izan took it in stride, eyes scanning the pitch like a chessboard, his body a pivot, absorbing the press before rotating away with a sharp touch that sent Enzo Fernández montarily the wrong way.

Caicedo closed in fast, but not recklessly — this ti, he hovered like a shark just beyond reach.

“Chelsea pressing in spurts now — but Arsenal are trying to play around it. Izan, the fulcrum again,” the comntator noted.

“Shadowed tightly, but it’s the kind of pressure he’s used to. You can’t man-mark a ghost.”

Timber joined the sequence, playing a one-two with Martinelli on the left touchline before swinging it back inside to Izan.

Again, with a sharp flick, Izan sent it back to Odegaard, who returned it only for Izan, once again, to send it back.

Chelsea’s midfield line surged forward, drawn into the carousel of passes Arsenal spun across the width of the field.

The crowd shifted restlessly — they knew what this looked like.

Izan drifted right, dragging Enzo with him.

Then pivoted left, where Caicedo now was, second-guessing, waiting, asuring.

The montary hesitation was all he needed as he sent a disguised pass neatly down the channel to Saka, who picked it up in stride with a slight jink of the shoulder that unbalanced Cucurella.

Saka, seeing the opening, nudged it central to Nwaneri, who tried to let the ball roll across his body — but Colwill had read it like a schoolbook.

The ball hit the Chelsea defender’s chest and dropped to the grass, and Nwaneri — perhaps too eager to make up for the earlier miss — stumbled forward and collapsed to the turf.

“He’s gone down — but the referee waves it away! Nothing doing says the man in black!”

Boos rippled from the travelling Arsenal fans behind the opposite goal.

Nwaneri slapped the grass with his palm, looking up in disbelief — but play hadn’t stopped.

Colwill, tempted by the space infront of him, rushed with the ball through the midfield, going past Saka and then Odegaard but just behind Odegaard was Izan.

He darted in with a burst of acceleration and slid between Colwill’s legs, toe-poking the ball out just as the Chelsea defender tried to shift it wide.

Cheers rose from the away end as Colwill went to the ground.

In a flash, Izan was up on one knee, scooping the ball forward again — this ti right back to Saka, who hugged the touchline tightly, never letting the ball drift an inch over.

“Wonderful recovery by Izan! He’s kept the attack alive!”

Saka danced on an arc-shaped run.

One that started near the chalky white of the sideline and curved dangerously inward, each step powered by precision and muscle mory.

The ball glued to his boots as Martinelli’s dummy pull dragged Reece Jas wider, clearing the lane just enough for sothing to happen.

But it didn’t.

Bang was the sound that echoed.

Caicedo, hard and ruthless, shoulder into rib, boot into turf. A blur of limbs and montum.

Saka crumpled mid-run — a twisted shape — and the ball skidded over the line for a throw.

Gasps turned to shouts as the crowd rose.

A few Chelsea fans clapped the contact while the Arsenal fans shouted for a card but the referee more was interested in Saka who hadn’t gotten up.

Not right away.

He rolled onto his back, a hand clutched around his ankle, face twisted in pain.

“Oh, that looks nasty… and this is the last thing Arsenal wanted to see.”

“Saka’s down — he hasn’t moved much, and the referee has finally stopped play. That one was late. And heavy.”

The referee backtracked now, brow furrowed.

His whistle ca again — louder, sharper.

His hand went up, waving urgently to the sidelines.

“And here co the dics.”

The cara cut briefly to Arteta on the sideline, a hand on his mouth and the other clenched behind his back.

Inside the stadium, the roars had softened — replaced by murmurs.

The dics jogged across the pitch, gear in hand, blue gloves snapped on.

One of them was already signalling toward the bench — just in case.

Saka lay still while Izan stood near, hands on hips, his breath misting slightly in the cool afternoon air.

“Saka’s been a constant for Arsenal since the first minute. You take him out of this ga, and the dynamic changes. And you can see Izan… he knows it too.”

All around them, the noise of football paused — as if everyone collectively held their breath.

The dics crouched beside Saka, one by his ankle, the other leaning in to speak to him quietly.

From a distance, the forward’s face looked calm, but his wince gave him away every ti the physio applied the slightest pressure to the joint.

“Bukayo Saka… still down. He’s talking, and that’s a good sign — but he hasn’t made any effort to stand yet.”

The referee lingered near the dics, head bowed slightly as if hoping the delay wouldn’t an what it seed.

Eventually, slowly, Saka sat up.

Applause broke out — first from the travelling Arsenal fans, then, surprisingly, from the Chelsea stands as well.

The rivalry didn’t silence basic humanity.

Saka rose gingerly to his feet, leaning into the support offered by both dics, and began the slow walk toward the touchline, his limp still noticeable.

And then ca the signal.

The fourth official raised the board, numbers blazing against the air:

7 IN RED.

29 IN GREEN.

“And that’s the end of the evening for Bukayo Saka. It doesn’t look overly serious, but Arsenal clearly not willing to risk it. Kai Havertz is coming on.”

As Saka passed midfield, Izan t him there, extending his palm as the English forward went off the pitch.

Saka offered the smallest nod before continuing, escorted now by the dics toward the bench.

A/N: Last of the previous day. Will see you in a bit or in the morning with the first chapter of the day.

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