Chapter 413 413: One Goal Up

The next fifteen minutes shifted decisively.

Arsenal had found their shape. More specifically, they had found Izan.

Every time he touched the ball, Villa's right side trembled.

"And here's Izan again… he's isolated Matty Cash—and this is where he's so dangerous."

The 16-year-old didn't hesitate.

One touch to control Jorginho's inside ball, another to shift it past Cash's planted foot, then gone—leaving the Villa defender scrambling after him like a man chasing a ghost.

The cross came low, curling through the six-yard box, but Konsa got the faintest of touches to stop Jesus from tapping in.

"Again?" Jesus called out, grinning through the missed chance.

Izan nodded, already jogging back into position, hands on his hips, breathing lightly.

On the touchline, Arteta barely moved, only muttering something to Jorginho, who had approached, his eyes still fixated on Izan as he spoke.

"It's not just his pace," the commentator said.

"It's the composure. The timing. Look at that angle of the cross—it's perfect for a striker's run. Arsenal have something really special out on the left today."

Villa tried to adjust. Kamara dropped wider to double up, but there was still no joy.

Zinchenko, smart as ever, fed Izan again—this time with Kamara shadowing—and once more, the young winger dipped his shoulder, sucked both men in, and slipped through the smallest of channels like water through cracks.

The crowd rose as one.

"Oh, he's gone again—Izannn! Beats two—and Cash is beaten again! It's panic in the Villa box—cutback to Jesus! Saved by Martínez!"

That time, only the goalkeeper stood between Arsenal and the opener.

Cash now looked over to the bench, motioning with a hand—some mix of disbelief and frustration.

He'd been turned inside, outside, then left behind, all within a span of twenty minutes.

Leon Bailey jogged back 30 yards, visibly irritated to have to help cover. But even that didn't change much.

The next time Izan received it, he didn't even bother with touches.

He let the ball roll across his body, flicked it with the outside of his left foot, and breezed into space before either of them reacted.

A gasp went up from the Villa Park crowd. Not just Arsenal fans. Everyone was reacting to his moves.

"You can see what this means," the co-commentator chimed in.

"They've put two on him. They've tracked his runs. They've tried to isolate him—nothing's worked. He's in total control."

And still, Izan showed no signs of slowing.

Arsenal's midfield kept feeding him. First Ødegaard. Then Jorginho. Then Tomiyasu from deeper angles.

All roads led to that left touchline—and that impossible-to-pin-down teenager.

By the 26th minute, Unai Emery was up from his seat, motioning frantically, speaking with his assistant.

They'd already burned through their Plan A.

On the pitch, Cash hunched slightly with his hands on his knees, sweat pouring, jaw clenched.

And just as he straightened up—Arsenal came again.

Jorginho received in midfield, turned sharply, and sprayed it wide back to Izan again.

By the half-hour mark, Villa had had enough.

The finesse wasn't working. Tracking Izan wasn't working. Doubling up? Still useless.

So they went to what teams sometimes do when skill outpaces structure: they got physical.

The next time Izan received a switch from Tomiyasu, the challenge came immediately.

Lucas Digne stepped across hard, shoulder first, and sent him stumbling sideways, barely keeping his balance.

It wasn't dirty—but it was deliberate.

"Nothing wrong with that," the commentator offered.

"Just a bit of muscle from Digne. Trying to remind the youngster he's still in a Premier League game."

But Izan didn't even look up at the defender.

He just flicked his wrist, telling Ødegaard to show quicker next time, already jogging back into space for the next phase.

Villa doubled down.

Moments later, it was Kamara, late with a trailing foot as Izan turned near the halfway line, catching him across the ankle.

"Oof—that's late," said the co-commentator.

The referee gave the free kick but kept his card in his pocket.

Arteta stepped out of the technical area, visibly annoyed.

"You watching these?" he called out to the fourth official, gesturing with a flat hand to his ankle, but got no reply.

He huffed angrily before returning to his coaching box under the urging of Carlos Cuesta.

Still, no protest from Izan. He just took the ball again, turned, and kept going.

Then came the moment that lit up the stadium.

Izan picked up possession on the left touchline—again.

Cash met him—again, but this time, the winger faked inside, drew contact, then darted down the line at pace.

The angle tightened near the corner flag.

Izan slowed, trying to draw a foul or win a clean angle to cross, shielding the ball.

And that's when it came.

Cash lunged from behind, catching Izan high on the calf with the toe of his boot as the ball trickled out.

Izan stumbled and gritted his teeth but didn't go down. He slammed both palms against the advertising boards to stay upright.

The stadium buzzed.

Arteta exploded.

"That's a foul!" he barked at the fourth official, stepping beyond the line now.

The referee blew his whistle.

But he pointed—not to the foul—but to the corner flag.

Corner.

Gasps and boos rang out from the Arsenal section.

"You're joking…" the commentator muttered.

"That's a foul. He's clipped him. No attempt to play the ball."

Even some neutral fans in the lower rows looked stunned.

Izan glanced back at the official but didn't argue. He grabbed the ball himself and placed it on the arc.

Ødegaard approached him. "You good?"

Izan nodded, short and sharp. "Yeah."

Odegaard looked at him for a while before turning.

"Okay then," he said as he turned to look at Izan once again.

"Just give me space to whip this," Izan said.

Ødegaard nodded and then jogged off.

And there Izan stood, hands on hips, catching his breath, the corner of Villa Park roaring around him—and only getting louder.

The flag stood still as Izan placed the ball beside it.

The Villa Park crowd hadn't quieted, but the moment seemed to shrink everything else around him.

His hands adjusted the ball ever so slightly, the laces of his boots lightly tapping the grass as he stepped back.

On the edge of the box, Saliba was locked with Tielemans, nudging shoulders, exchanging shoves, each pretending the other didn't exist.

Inside the six-yard box, Watkins shouted instructions to McGinn while Emi Martínez flapped his arms, calling for organization.

Izan lifted his left hand high, then dropped it—his cue.

He didn't go for flair. No stutter-step. No short pass. Just a clean technique.

His body twisted, planted, and swung through the ball.

The delivery came in fast, dipping viciously as it curved toward the near post.

The ball zipped through the air, a sharp bend pulling it away from the keeper's outstretched hand and directly into Saliba's path.

The center-back had peeled off at the perfect moment. Tielemans caught watching the flight for a second too long—and leapt.

His forehead met the ball with sheer commitment, the impact echoing faintly even over the roar.

Thud.

The header wasn't subtle. It was a missile, and Martinez didn't flinch.

The ball tore through the top corner of the net, sending the away section into pandemonium.

GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLL.

The Arsenal fans behind the goal leapt up in synchrony, red shirts bouncing, fists in the air.

Saliba didn't even wait—he was already sprinting toward the corner flag, grinning, eyes fixed on Izan, who was meeting him with a roar.

They collided in celebration—shoulder bump, Izan yelling, "That's the line! You hit that line, and it's yours every time!" as he pointed at the turf where Saliba had ghosted in from.

Saliba laughed, bumping heads with him lightly. "You keep delivering like that, and I'll start getting used to scoring."

The pair turned toward the touchline, jogging back to regroup.

Then—Peeep!

The whistle again. The referee stood, arms out, signaling.

Everyone slowed, unsure.

A yellow card. Then another.

He pointed—first at Izan, then at Saliba.

"What?!" Izan's eyebrows shot up, his hands briefly going to his hips.

Saliba turned sharply.

"You've got to be kidding."

Neither of them had taken off their shirts. Neither had celebrated with the crowd. No taunting.

Just two players connecting after a well-worked goal.

Only the fans in the corner understood immediately.

They had celebrated just in front of the referee—maybe a little too close for his liking. Petty.

The roar of protest around Villa Park only grew when the fourth official confirmed it: "Yellow cards—Saliba and Izan, excessive celebration."

Back in midfield, Ødegaard shook his head and muttered something under his breath. Jesus exchanged a baffled look with Zinchenko while Arteta paced in disbelief.

"Well… that's a puzzling one," the commentator said dryly.

"The teenager delivers another corner with quality—Saliba heads it in with conviction—but both are booked… for what? Being too excited?"

The score stood, but now two of Arsenal's key men carried yellows—five minutes before the half. And the match had only just started catching fire.