Chapter 518: Man Of The Match

The Emirates stood to its feet like it had been yanked by a string after the ball hit the net.

Izan opened his arms wide, flying, and then—calmly, deliberately—kicked the ball into the empty goal, sending the home fans into pure bliss.

2-1.

GOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAL

“Fantastic football from Izan Hernandez. He’s done it. Again. Izan has ripped this game apart. From a goal-line clearance to a solo thunderbolt—Arsenal lead in what has turned out to be a wonderful match, and the world has just been reminded once again who this boy is!”

The camera found him, arms out, face to the sky, swallowed by the noise as his teammates approached from behind.

On the bench, Arteta tightened his fists, heaving a sigh of relief as Izan celebrated.

And the fans were just staring, looking on as their pure footballing phenomenon celebrated.

…

Shakhtar kicked off again to restart the match, but it wasn’t the same match anymore.

They moved forward—desperate now, hurried—but it was too late for composure and too early for miracles.

Their passes felt rushed, nervy.

They tried long balls, direct runs, anything to pierce Arsenal’s lines.

But nothing stuck.

Every second touch belonged to Arsenal’s midfield—Merino, Rice, Ødegaard—closing, pressing, strangling.

The Shakhtar attackers looked like they were running through water, every advance undone before it could bloom.

The minutes bled out.

One attack snuffed out at the halfway line, and another lost in a tangle near the right flank.

One last desperate through ball cut out cleanly by Calafiori, whose goal-line clearance earlier still echoed like a drumbeat in the fans’ minds.

Then, at last, the whistle.

A roar went up, less a scream now, more a long, thunderous exhale.

“Well, there you have it. Shakhtar gave everything. They defended with a kind of fury, a kind of pride. And they nearly held on. But in the end… ”

The co-commentator chimed in, softer, humbled:

“Izan… that run, that goal—will be talked about for days. Not just because of the pace, or the finish, or the timing… but because of who did it. With all the pressure in the world, and somehow, he made it look easy.”

The stadium announcer’s voice broke through the noise, lifted by the crackle of the PA system:

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Man of the Match… number 10, Izan Hernandez!”

A cheer tore through the Emirates—pure, unanimous, electric.

Izan lowered his head and smiled as he made his way toward the small podium set up just off the pitch, past the touchline.

On the way, he shook hands with two Shakhtar players—Kevin and Riznyk—each with tired eyes and forced smiles.

Flashes popped from cameras as Izan stepped in front of the platform, the lights gleaming off the damp strands of his hair, sweat still clinging to his neck.

He took the award and walked towards the tunnel after getting enough light from the flashes that had bathed him earlier.

….

CBS, Night Live,

The studio lights were warm.

The mood was split between awe and analysis.

At the familiar table sat Kate Abdo, Thierry Henry, Jamie Carragher, and Micah Richards—each leaning slightly forward, eyes still a little wide from what they’d witnessed.

Kate spoke first. “Well… where do we even start?”

Micah whistled low. “My brother is doing the most on the pitch. Two goals tonight as well. That takes him to 6 goals in 3 games now. Unprecedented for any player to do so. I just hope we can enjoy his game because I think he will go off for Arsenal this season.”

Carragher leaned in, elbows on the desk.

“From the goal-line clearance to the counter—this game flipped in ten seconds. That boy didn’t just win it. He owned it.”

Kate, smiling at the input of the previous two, turned towards the last man.

“Thierry, let’s talk about what everyone’s already bringing up online. The Ballon d’Or race. It happens in a few days, and I’m sure the fans would want to hear the input from a legend of the game.”

Henry didn’t hesitate.

He gave a small, thoughtful nod. “He deserves it,” he said, quiet but firm.

“As much as any of the two players ahead of him in the rankings. He’s got the numbers, the moments, the weight. What more do you ask for?”

He paused. Then gave a little sigh.

“But… let me be honest.”

The room leaned slightly toward him.

“I don’t think he’s winning it.”

Carragher nodded while Micah raised a brow.

Henry shrugged. “Not because he isn’t the best. But because those people on the podium-those voting panels—they can’t stomach the idea of giving it to a child. They’d call it premature. Unprecedented. Maybe even degrading to the legacy. So they’ll go with the safer name. The familiar story.”

He shook his head.

“And that’s one side of football that really hurts the game and kills the spirit of players who know they deserve it but have been shunned. I just hope Izan keeps his cool if he doesn’t win. He’s still got a lot of chances.”

Kate gave a knowing smile, then turned to the camera.

“We’ll be back after the break.”

………..

Steam hung in the air.

The sound of cleats being tugged off, tape being ripped, and laughter slowly returning filled the space.

They had clinched the 3 points in an unexpectedly tough game, so the mood was nice.

Arteta stood in front of them, arms folded, expression somewhere between proud and annoyed.

“You did well,” he said. “Really well.”

A few claps sounded, led by one of the team clowns, Nwaneri, while Izan sat on the bench with a towel around his neck, boots still on, head bowed but smiling.

Arteta’s tone shifted.

“I’m glad we won, and I don’t like to nitpick, but let’s be honest. Thirty-eight shots! Two goals.”

A pause.

He looked around the room.

“We have four days until our next match, so tomorrow’s rest day—after rest—we’re on the pitch. Shooting drills. All of you.”

Groans and laughter, mixed in together, sounded while Izan shrugged and pointed at his chest like I did my part, earning a light slap to the back of the head from Saka.

The mood was light now.

And deserved.

…..

Izan had done his part for the night, so Miranda too had to do hers.

She sat near the back, by the window, alone, elegant, and exactly on time.

The restaurant was dimly lit, jazz humming low through overhead speakers.

A tall glass of still water sat untouched beside her phone, which she scrolled through with deliberate grace.

On screen: the match recap.

Arsenal 2 – 1 Shakhtar.

Izan: 2 goals, 9.4 rating.

She watched the second goal again, slow-mo—him racing past defenders, that last nudge around the keeper, the arms-out celebration.

The whole stadium on its feet.

She smirked, showing a satisfied expression as a shadow approached from behind her.

A man, sharply dressed, early forties maybe, with the polished confidence of someone used to closing deals.

“Judging by that smile, I take it your client played well tonight.”

Miranda looked up without flinching, already knowing who the voice belonged to.

“Well?” she said, tapping her screen to pause Izan’s run mid-stride.

“He set the Champions League on fire again today, and may I remind you that he’s still sixteen years old.”

The man pulled out the chair across from her.

“I saw. Impressive doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Miranda raised an eyebrow, locking eyes.

“You’re not here to be impressed.”

“No,” he replied, folding his hands on the table.

“I’m here because we want Izan. We want him to represent us as a partner. A sort of Global ambassador, if you would. We haven’t really done something like this in this field, but we could start with him.”

He paused.

“No co-branding. No second billing.”

Miranda leaned back in her chair, lips curling.

“Now that,” she said, “is my kind of conversation.”

She reached for her glass, finally taking a sip as the man sitting across from her smiled, grabbing his glass also.

……….

The sun was just beginning to push through the curtains, soft streaks of gold casting long shadows across the room.

Olivia zipped up her bag, slinging it over one shoulder as she moved quietly through the small kitchen.

She set a plate on the counter—toast, eggs, a little fruit—and covered it with a napkin.

“Breakfast’s on the counter,” she called out gently, turning back toward the hallway.

“I’ll be home early. We can cook something together, yeah?”

Silence.

Then, from the bedroom, muffled under a thick duvet:

“Hmm.”

Olivia smiled to herself, shook her head, and grabbed her keys.

“Get some rest. You’re the internet’s favorite person right now.”

No response.

Just the quiet sound of blankets shifting.

She opened the door, paused for a second to look back, then stepped out and pulled it closed behind her.

Inside, the apartment fell still again.

And in the next room, Izan stayed buried in the covers, oblivious to the raging debate on the internet.

A/N: Okya guys, last of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.

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

Creation is hard, cheer me up!