"Well, it was almost certain before the match, but now there can be no doubt," Martin Tyler’s voice rose above the lingering roar of Wembley.
"Arsenal are through to the FA Cup final! A two-nil lead turned into three with Gabriel’s towering header from that corner, and it’s ga, set, and match here against Crystal Palace."
Beside him, Jim Beglin added softly, "They’ve been composed, clinical, and controlled throughout. It’s a performance worthy of Wembley — and worthy of a place in the final."
Down on the pitch, Arsenal’s celebrations carried a quieter pride rather than wild abandon.
Izan, who had been substituted off in the 80th minute with the score still at two-nil, now stood on the sidelines, tracksuit zipped up, watching the last minutes drift away before the referee’s final whistle.
He had applauded Gabriel’s bullet header with the sa grin that had followed him off the pitch, but his focus now was elsewhere.
As the whistle finally blew, sealing Arsenal’s 3-0 victory, Izan stepped forward.
Instead of running imdiately toward his own teammates, he first sought out the Palace players.
Marc Guéhi was the first he t, extending a hand that was accepted with a nod of mutual respect.
Then ca Adam Wharton, looking visibly drained after chasing shadows for much of the evening.
Izan offered him a brief pat on the back and a few quiet words before moving on to Kamada and Mateta.
It wasn’t showy.
There were no caras deliberately sought and no dramatic gestures.
It was just one player acknowledging another after ninety hard minutes, the sort of handshake that said, you fought, we fought, today it was ours.
After making his way through the Palace ranks, Izan turned and jogged toward his own teammates.
By then, the black away shirts had already begun drifting toward the Arsenal end of Wembley, where a sea of travelling supporters waited, voices echoing chants that hadn’t stopped all evening.
The Arsenal contingent had filled their section with banners, flags, and a relentless rhythm of drums, and now, they were about to be rewarded with the players’ thanks.
Rice threw his arm around Saka’s shoulder while Odegaard clapped his hands high above his head as he walked, and Gabriel still looked half-possessed from his goal, pumping both fists as though the adrenaline hadn’t yet settled.
Havertz pointed toward the stands, mouthing words that were lost beneath the sheer wall of noise and from behind, Izan joined them, slipping into line as they fanned out across the turf.
Together they moved slowly, ceremonially applauding the fans with long, deliberate claps.
Every step forward was t with an answering roar, every gesture with a wave of flags and raised scarves.
It was a raw connection, showing how players and fans acknowledge one another after another step in the journey.
For Izan, it felt like a loop closing.
Sixty minutes ago, he had been jeered rcilessly by Palace fans; now, he stood side by side with his own, basking not in ego but in shared triumph.
He raised his hands above his head, clapping with a rhythm that matched the chants being sung.
When he glanced sideways, he saw Saka doing the sa, the pair exchanging a grin, their arms brushing briefly before both turned back toward the crowd.
The Arsenal players slowly traced the width of the pitch, ensuring no section of their supporters was left untouched.
From one end of the red wall to the other, the applause kept rolling as Raya even tossed his gloves into the stands, while Martinelli lingered a little longer, waving at a group of Brazilian flags swaying proudly from the upper tier.
By the ti the players reached the tunnel side once more, the noise of the Arsenal contingent had settled into steady, triumphant chanting.
The job was done, and the unity between team and supporters was clear for all to see.
"So it’s Arsenal," Tyler’s voice carried through the broadcast once more.
"They’ve booked their place at Wembley for the FA Cup final, another opportunity for silverware under Mikel Arteta. They’ll be watching closely tomorrow when Manchester City face Nottingham Forest in the other semi-final, because one of those two will be waiting for them in the showpiece."
"And if Arsenal play like this," Beglin added with a asured grin, "they’ll fancy their chances against anyone."
....
In Paris, the mood in the training complex had shifted, ever so slightly, yet noticeably enough for it to be spoken about in hushed tones.
The television screens mounted on the walls had just finished replaying the highlights of the ga from Wembley.
Arsenal’s clinical 3–0 dismantling of Crystal Palace was what most neutral observers had expected, but the Parisians were watching for sothing else entirely.
Izan.
The na itself hung like a shadow across their preparations.
They had braced themselves for the boy to erupt at Wembley, to deliver another one of those haunting performances that looked less like football and more like a possession, a force of nature breaking loose in boots and shirt.
Instead, what they saw was... different.
Effective, yes and most certainly dangerous as always.
But not the all-devouring figure they rembered from the Euros, and before the Carabao cup win, when he had sliced through seasoned defences as though he had been playing in his back garden.
"It almost looks like he’s holding sothing back," murmured one of the younger squad mbers as the replay looped for the second ti, showing Izan setting up Saka for Arsenal’s second.
"He doesn’t look... sharp. Not the way he used to. Comparing this to others, it might look like he’s on a different wavelength, but still, this ti, it feels a bit... slow "
The comnt opened the floodgates.
Others leaned forward from benches, muttering among themselves.
"Even at the Euros, when he had just broken out, he was flying," said another.
"Do you rember the Spain–Italy ga? He tore us apart. But now... I don’t know. It’s like he’s forgotten he can do that."
Heads turned toward Fabian Ruiz, who had been quietly lacing his boots, trying to avoid the mounting stares.
His nationality with Izan was enough to give his words weight, whether he liked it or not.
"Fabian," one of the younger centre-backs in the squad, Pacho asked, "you played with him, trained with him. What’s going on with him? Why does he look... less?"
Ruiz lifted his gaze slowly, eting their expectant eyes.
He wasn’t fond of being cast as the interpreter of Izan’s every move at the club, but the questions pressed in regardless.
He exhaled and shook his head.
"I don’t know," he admitted finally. "Honestly, I don’t. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe he’s saving himself, maybe it’s just the flow of the ga. But don’t mistake him being quieter for being weaker. If anything, that makes him more dangerous. When he decides it’s ti, you’ll know. You’ll all know."
The room quietened at that, so nodding, so exchanging uneasy glances as a nervous laughter burst from the corner of the room, one that sounded like it was trying to mask the nervousness in the room.
They had wanted reassurance.
Instead, Fabian had offered them a warning.
In the back of the room, Luis Enrique had been standing, arms folded, watching both the replay and the conversations ripple across his players.
His eyes were fixed, sharp, his lips pressed into a line that suggested dissatisfaction not with Izan’s performance, but with the very fact that his own squad were dwelling on it.
He frowned, not just at the murmurs, but at the idea that doubt was creeping into his own dressing room.
He had seen enough careers and campaigns being undone not by opposition brilliance but by the fear of it.
And the way Izan’s na echoed now, half in awe, half in suspicion, was the kind of seed that could grow into sothing poisonous.
But before he could speak, before he could cut into the mont with the authority that only a manager could wield, he stopped himself.
Instead, he remained still, eyes narrowing at the screen one last ti as Izan’s grin flashed during the replay of that cheeky free-kick feint.
For all his restraint, for all his supposed dialling-down, there it was again, that spark.
Enrique saw it.
And it was enough to make his brow crease even deeper.
The room fell into silence, the sound of studs scraping against the floor the only thing cutting through the air.
And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the discussion dissolved.
Players drifted back to their routines, though the thought lingered like smoke in the rafters.
Luis Enrique remained unmoving, his frown set.
"We really should have gone all out for him, Mr. Nasser," Luis Enrique muttered as he turned towards the direction his players had split off towards.
"Let’s see how our luck puns out against one who plays like he doesn’t need it."
A/N: Hi guys, this is the first of the previous day. I will follow this up quickly with the second and I am done with my exam so expect more Chapters from the other novel. Have fun reading and I will see you in a bit.
User Comments
0 comments from readers