Chapter 474: Broken Anchor

The moment it left his foot, the Etihad crowd sensed what was coming.

Erling Haaland had been quiet until now, granting the match had just started—but that didn’t matter.

City’s Norse behemoth had ghosted between Saliba and Calafiori and leaped like a tower unmoored from Earth.

David Raya lunged forward, arms stretched and body poised—but it was futile.

Haaland met the ball with a thudding, ruthless header.

Bang.

Top right corner. Net rippling like a bullet had passed through it.

“End to End football here at the Etihad and Haaland answers back with thunder!” Drury’s words punched through the rising noise.

“You give him one chance, just one look, and he will punish you! Dread for Arsenal as they couldn’t keep their lead even after such a splendid goal by their young talisman to put them up front.”

The Etihad exploded. Blue shirts flared, arms raised, throats unleashed. Smoke plumed from the stands.

Pep Guardiola, who had crouched with a hand over his mouth since the restart, sprang to his feet and pointed at his players with a mix of rage and satisfaction.

His message was clear: Do not let it get to your head.

Haaland didn’t run to the corner.

He turned and roared into the sky, then slammed his fists into his chest, a primal scream tearing from his throat as Sávio leaped to his back with Doku and Gündogan following behind.

On the touchline, Arteta clapped forcefully—not at the goal, but at his own players, urging them to keep their composure, his face a portrait of defiant steel.

Izan, still catching his breath after his goal barely two minutes prior, jogged back toward the halfway line.

As he passed Haaland, the two exchanged a look—mutual recognition between two forces not yet done with the night.

The scoreboard now read:

Manchester City 1 – 1 Arsenal

Minute: 9

This was already shaping into a classic.

………….

The ball was placed on the center spot once again, glistening faintly under the bright September sun.

With the score level at 1–1, there was a thrum of renewed anticipation in the Etihad stands, as if both sets of fans sensed that this wasn’t going to be just another league fixture—it was becoming a spectacle.

Kai Havertz stood over the ball, exchanging a quick glance with Izan Hernández beside him.

The whistle came, sharp and piercing, and just like that, Arsenal restarted play.

Havertz touched it short.

Izan stepped in and rolled it swiftly left to Declan Rice, who immediately pinged it wide to Martinelli on the near flank.

“Well, here we go again,” Peter Drury’s voice hummed with a touch of incredulity.

“Is this going to be Arsenal’s turn to do what City just did?”

“They’ve got the pace. They’ve got the bite,” Jim Beglin followed up, his voice rising.

“And if that lad—Hernández—gets on the ball again… buckle up.”

Martinelli trapped the pass on his instep and charged forward, dancing just inches inside the touchline.

He drew Akanji out wide before slipping a disguised pass inside, where Izan was already ghosting into the left channel, barely marked.

With his first touch, Izan dragged the ball across his body, like pulling a curtain open, then exploded.

The change of pace was brutal.

He left Gündogan flat-footed and darted between Dias and Rodri, who’d both stepped out too late.

It wasn’t a dance this time.

It was a blur of limbs, a flash of control, and raw acceleration.

One touch. Another. Then another.

The ball never strayed far, yet each touch carried him yards.

As he cut inside toward the edge of the arc around the box, the City crowd, still reeling from their own celebration, fell silent.

“Slick feet again from Hernández! He’s taken off like a rocket!” Drury cried.

“He’s leaving trails behind him!”

Just as Dias lunged to close him down, Izan slid a short, reverse-weighted pass across the edge of the box to Bukayo Saka, who had peeled away from Gvardiol.

Saka didn’t hesitate. His first touch set it, his second bent it.

A curler—vintage Saka—shaped beautifully toward the far corner.

“Curled it—ohhh!” Jim Beglin shouted as the ball bent past bodies, the Arsenal faithful watching on.

But then it clipped the outside of the far post.

Woodwork.

Gasps erupted in the stadium—away fans halfway in the air, hands already reaching skyward.

Arsenal’s bench had lurched forward.

Arteta had spun on his heel, already ready to leap, before stopping cold.

The ball ricocheted out to the right, where Kyle Walker, always alive, reached it first and hoofed it clear into the middle third.

“Off the post!” Drury exhaled.

“Arsenal nearly so nearly restored their lead through Saka! Hernández again, the architect. He is electric today.”

Groans and cheers clashed. Arsenal fans clutched their heads, laughing in frustration.

One was caught on camera yelling, “I thought it was in!” while his friend beside him just shook his head, hands on knees, laughing breathlessly.

Pep Guardiola was pacing again, arms crossed over his chest, lips moving silently, probably already tweaking three phases ahead.

It had been just over ninety seconds since Haaland scored.

And yet Arsenal nearly returned fire.

The clock ticked toward the eleventh minute with the match still brimming from its electric opening. Arsenal and City had traded blows like seasoned prizefighters—one with venom, the other with brute inevitability.

And now, as the game throbbed into its next phase, the midfield began to tighten, both teams probing not with chaos, but with control.

The ball was lifted high into the air from a diagonal switch, City trying to reset their shape.

As it arced down from the heavens into the busy midfield, Kai Havertz and Rodri both rose, arms slightly spread, eyes locked on the ball.

They clashed mid-air with a heavy thud—shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip—before tumbling awkwardly onto the grass.

The whistle went.

Foul, in City’s favor.

“Collision between two giants there—and the referee sides with the hosts. Free-kick to City.” Drury said as the referee approached the duo on the ground.

Rodri was the first to rise while Havertz groaned, holding his side for a beat, but stood just behind him.

Rodri waved a hand, brushing off teammates who hovered to check on him.

The Spaniard didn’t look overly troubled, though he moved gingerly at first, rolling his ankle slightly before jogging it off.

Jim Beglin was already analyzing.

“That’s a bruiser of a coming-together, and you hope that doesn’t linger. Rodri’s so crucial to how City play—especially without De Bruyne today.”

Rodri stayed on. He barked some orders, repositioned himself into that deep central pocket, and even got a touch or two, albeit lighter ones.

The game flowed. Martinelli and Doku exchanged paces down their respective wings.

Izan drifted between the lines, dancing dangerously close to the half-spaces.

Bernardo Silva was busy as ever, scurrying like a conductor between the vertical corridors, trying to dictate the rhythm.

But something wasn’t right with Rodri.

By the 18th minute, he had already twice gestured toward the bench—not in panic, but subtle signaling.

His stride had shortened.

His pivots looked more mechanical than fluid. He tried to intercept a through ball from Rice and winced as he stretched a little too far.

Drury noticed first.

“Is Rodri still feeling the aftershock of that earlier clash with Havertz? He’s moving with noticeable discomfort.”

Beglin murmured his concern.

“It might be more than a knock now, Peter. That’s not the Rodri we know—he’s barely anchoring.”

As City tried to build through the middle in the 21st minute, Rodri received the ball under moderate pressure from Saka and Havertz.

His first touch was a beat slow, and his second was heavy.

A chorus of Arsenal shirts collapsed in on him. Rodri poked it away—but immediately stood still, grimacing as he placed his hands on his hips.

That was it.

Pep Guardiola turned, already gesturing toward the bench.

“No more gambles,” Beglin said with certainty.

“Pep’s seen enough. He knows Rodri can’t continue.”

The fourth official’s board flashed.

Number 16 OFF.

Number 8 ON.

“Kovacic is the man,” Drury announced.

Rodri’s race is run. Odegaard out for Arsenal… and now Manchester City are forced into their own midfield reshuffle.”

Rodri jogged stiffly off the pitch, jaw clenched in frustration, greeted by Pep with a pat and a few clipped words.

The Spaniard took his seat, wrapping a jacket over his legs, face taut with disappointment.

As Mateo Kovacic crossed the white line and took his place in the center of the park, the weight of the clash swayed anew.

Arsenal, in a show of sportsmanship, kicked the drop ball back to City following Rodri’s substitution.

But the hosts, still adjusting to the sudden change, looked momentarily disjointed.

They tried to build rhythm again, moving the ball left toward Doku, but Jurriën Timber read the danger with pinpoint timing.

He stepped in, strong and clean, nicking the ball off the winger’s toes before he could twist into gear.

A sharp turn, a glance up the pitch—Timber didn’t hesitate.

He threaded a precise pass through the press and into the feet of Declan Rice, who was already opening his body to drive forward.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in the afternoon with the 2nd and another bonus chapter if You guys hit me with those Golden tickets or if I’m feeling good which I’m not mostly nowadays.

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