Chapter 467: 2 On The Night

“Lightning start from Atalanta!” Fletcher’s voice rang.

“The half’s barely thirty seconds old and they’ve already gone and equalized!”

The noise was thunderous—an avalanche of celebration rolling across the pitch.

Arsenal players looked stunned.

Saka stood still at the halfway line, blinking.

Arteta clenched his fists on the sidelines, glancing at Gian Gasperini on the touchline.

But then—

A sharp whistle. A pause in the pandemonium.

The referee pressed two fingers to his earpiece and raised a hand.

The celebrations slowed. Players turned.

VAR check: Possible foul in the build-up.

Groans stirred in the stands like an approaching storm cloud.

On the big screen, the words “CHECKING GOAL – POSSIBLE FOUL” flashed in white over a red background.

“What’s this?” Fletcher said again, his tone suddenly on edge.

“Hold on… they’re going back to look at something in the build-up.”

The replay began.

And there it was.

Five seconds before Lookman received the pass, Ruggeri had come through Izan from behind near the halfway line—elbow raised, shoulder jammed into the base of his spine.

It was subtle, but the impact had folded Izan momentarily, his body bending forward like a hinge before he hit the turf, clutching at his lower back.

“There it is,” McManaman said grimly.

“That’s late. And that’s sneaky. The ref didn’t catch it, but VAR’s done its job.”

“Completely off the ball,” Fletcher said.

Izan was away from the play. That’s reckless. No reason for it, except to take the kid out of the equation.”

On the sidelines, Arteta was livid.

He pointed at the screen, waving three fingers and shouting toward the fourth official.

On the pitch, Izan was back on his feet now, but clearly still in discomfort, rubbing his back as he moved gingerly toward the sideline.

The referee jogged to the pitch-side monitor, watched the footage once, twice, then turned and blew his whistle with a sharp motion.

The goal was disallowed.

A collective gasp of frustration erupted across the Gewiss Stadium.

The Atalanta players protested with raised hands and aggrieved faces, but the referee wasn’t interested.

He pointed back to the spot where Izan had been fouled.

“Arsenal free kick,” he said before turning to Ruggeri and giving the player a yellow card.

“That’s a big let-off for Arsenal,” McManaman said.

“And again, who’s at the center of it? Izan gets taken out like a target, and it swings the whole game.”

Fletcher added, “You can’t overstate his impact tonight. Whether it’s goals, runs or getting fouled—it all bends around him.”

From the away stand, Arsenal fans reignited in song.

“You fouled the wrong lad, oh, you fouled the wrong lad!”

A new chant rolled out as Izan nodded toward the crowd, shaking off the pain.

The tempo resumed like a ticking like an unstable bomb edging toward chaos.

Atalanta doubled down, pushing bodies forward with intent.

Zappacosta and De Ketelaere rotated smartly, trying to pull Arsenal’s midfield out of shape.

Ruggeri overlapped incessantly while Lookman dropped deeper, trying to unpick the Gunners’ defensive lines.

But Arsenal held firm.

Ben White lunged into a clean tackle on the newly introduced Juan Cuadrado near the edge of the box, winning applause from the away end.

Gabriel, on the next Atalanta attack, snuffed out a bouncing through ball intended for Scamacca, clattering into him legally in the process.

William Saliba was nearly imperious—interceptions smooth, clearances measured, presence undeniable.

Meanwhile, Izan wasn’t just weathering the pressure. He was turning it.

In the 56th minute, he drifted inward from the right touchline, danced past Zappacosta with a low shoulder feint, and threaded a pass between two lines toward Havertz.

The German laid it off first-time for Trossard, just subbed on for Martinelli, who whipped in a ball that Saka stretched for, only to be denied at the last second by a sliding Hien.

Fletcher’s voice rose again, “Brilliant build-up! And again it starts with Izan!”

On the touchline, Arteta’s mind was already turning toward preservation.

The score was still 1–0, but the clock moved too slowly.

By the 62nd minute, Thomas Partey was readying to enter.

Arteta, jaw tight, gave the Ghanaian one last nod as Jorginho, who had battled gamely all night, jogged off to a supportive clap from the traveling support.

“Experience for experience,” McManaman observed, “but Partey brings legs. Arsenal looking to kill the chaos before it starts.”

Atalanta answered with intent, bringing on Zaniolo and Pasalic to inject fresh legs and aggression into their press.

The Italians’ movement sharpened—quick diagonal switches, decoy runs, attempts to overload Arsenal’s flanks.

But even amid the storm, Izan continued orchestrating moments.

The Arsenal fans burst into another chant:

“Sixteen years, no fear, IZAN’S OUR ENGINEER!”

Then, in the 71st, a sudden spell of possession found Izan again—he pivoted under pressure and slipped a disguised pass toward Saka, who immediately laid it off for Havertz.

The forward turned, and fired, but Carnesecchi—diving at full stretch—palmed it wide.

Corner.

Arteta clapped on the sidelines but called over Zinchenko.

Calafiori was ready.

The Ukrainian defender nodded, knowing his night was done.

The Italian, cool and focused, jogged on to shore up the left side, which had begun to strain under constant Atalanta overlap.

Minutes later, Havertz dropped deeper, allowing Izan to keep freedom in the attacking midfield role.

The fluid switch puzzled Atalanta, who’d started tracking Izan tighter—until he popped up suddenly on the left, received from Trossard, and fizzed a cross into the danger zone that just eluded everyone.

McManaman whistled, “He’s everywhere tonight—right, left, in the middle—like smoke in a room, can’t catch him.”

As the 77th minute ticked in, the Gewiss Stadium buzzed. Atalanta threw everything forward. Crosses rained in.

But Saliba rose to meet one, Gabriel cleared another with a violent volley, and Partey screened like a wall, absorbing pressure.

Finally, Arteta gestured once more.

Trossard slid inside, and Saka took a quick sip from his water bottle as instructions were relayed.

Arsenal’s shape tucked into a narrow 4-5-1 midblock—every man compact, organized, breathing in sync.

Atalanta had the ball. But Arsenal had the grip.

By the 80th minute, it was still 1–0.

But every heartbeat at the Gewiss Stadium said it wouldn’t end like that quietly.

From the 81st to the 88th minute, it was as if they were chasing not just a goal, but their very breath, throwing every man in blue and black up the pitch.

Their backline stepped into Arsenal’s half, with even Hien surging forward as an auxiliary midfielder.

Zappacosta and Ruggeri bombed down either flank like it was the first minute of the match, not the last.

Ederson screamed for the ball centrally, while Lookman and De Ketelaere danced on the edges of Arsenal’s box, trying to pull defenders out of shape.

Shots came from every angle.

Pasalic let fly from twenty-five yards—blocked by Calafiori, who didn’t flinch.

Scamacca peeled off Gabriel and nodded a looping cross downward—Raya dove, parried, and scrambled to smother before a rebound could be poked home.

The home crowd roared louder and louder, urging something, anything, to happen.

But Arsenal stayed locked. Bent, but unbroken.

“It’s all Atalanta towards the end here. Can they make someth- uh, what do we have here. Ederson has just taken a touch too heavy” Darren Fletcher said as Saka pounced on the loose ball.

He intercepted, held it for half a second, then turned sharply toward the halfway line, leaving Ruggeri sliding past into nothing.

Hien, the last man back, immediately started retreating.

Cuadrado, much older but chasing like a man possessed, tracked back from deep.

But before he could even process the angles, Izan was there.

“Saka… finds Izan—he’s off!”

One touch, then two—soft and precise as rain.

He took the ball into stride from Saka with a deft nudge, never breaking pace, his eyes already calculating.

Hien closed in with a burst of desperation, leaning into the challenge—but Izan dipped his shoulder, nudged the ball right around the defender’s leg with a feathered toe-poke, and exploded into the open pitch beyond.

Cuadrado was sprinting now, twenty yards back and closing fast, but it was too late.

Izan was already surging into the box, alone, the Gewiss crowd rising in unison, half in dread, half in awe.

Carnesecchi came out—too quickly and a tad too desperately.

Izan looked up, raised his right leg like he was about to shoot—

“Surely now!” Fletcher said in sync

—and the keeper committed, sprawling low to his left.

But Izan didn’t shoot.

He waited a heartbeat, dragged the ball calmly around Carnesecchi with a sideways touch, keeping his balance even as Cuadrado lunged from behind, and opened his body to slot the ball into the empty net.

The ball rolled over the line, and just as it nestled against the back post netting, the traveling Arsenal fans exploded in disbelief.

Limbs everywhere. Flares burst to life. Scarves twirled in the air.

Darren Fletcher’s voice cracked through the airwaves: “That’s it! That is the moment! Two for Izan Hernández, and what a goal that is! Devastation to domination in a blink! The person the whole of Bergamo dreads has struck again. 2-0 for Arsenal here.”

A/n: Okay. Sorry for the late release. Have fun reading and we have two more for the day as this is what I was supposed to release yesterday.

Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.