Chapter 525: Blindsided
A pause where everyone processed what had just happened.
Then came the noise.
From the Liverpool endâdetonation.
A thunderous wave of red shirts surging to the front rows, fists pumping, limbs colliding, strangers embracing like theyâd just seen lightning strike gold.
âVirgil Van Dijk. Towering. Relentless. And just like that, Liverpool draw first blood in North London.â
Van Dijk didnât sprint to the corner flag.
He didnât rip his shirt or dive into a celebration.
He turned slowly, walking back to his half like a man clocking out of a shift.
Eyes straight, chest out, and adjusting his armband on the way back.
As if to say: This was always going to happen.
Gabriel stood motionless near the penalty spot, staring at the place heâd lost the duel.
His jaw clenched, teeth grinding, while Saka punched the post with his bare hand and mouthed a curse.
Partey shouted at no one in particular, both arms raised in fury.
Raya stayed kneeling, hands on his thighs, shaking his head softly, like a man watching his house flood after sealing every window.
The Emirates made a sound that wasnât quite a groan, wasnât quite disappointment.
It was the sound of a crowd realizing the narrative had slipped for a momentâjust a momentâand that was all it took.
In the booth above the chaos, Peter Wallace leaned into his mic, voice heavy.
âSo, itâs Liverpool 1, Arsenal nil here at the Emirates.â
Marshaâs tone dropped. âYou felt the tension building⊠but you never expect it to break this clean. Arsenal were in control. Now theyâre chasing.â
Dion barely spoke.
Just let out a breath and muttered, âThatâs a real captainâs goal. No noise. Just execution.â
And amid the noise, amid the fury and readjusting of boots and minds, Izan walked slowly back toward the center circle.
With a little smile on his face.
He looked at the ball.
And nodded once as Martinelli passed the ball back.
The match restarted, but Arsenal werenât aggressive with their plays.
Arsenal didnât sprint.
They didnât storm.
They shifted back and forth, making sure to bore Liverpool out of their minds.
Rice took the first touch back, calmly playing into Partey, who turned with deliberate ease and fed Gabriel.
The ball moved across the back line like a breathing exerciseâcontrolled, slow, meaningful.
On the touchline, Arteta stepped to the edge of the technical area, yelling something with both arms outstretched, his fingers twitching as he pointed toward the left flank.
But the sound was swallowed whole.
The Emirates wasnât quiet anymore.
It was roaringânot in panic, but in defiance.
Thousands of fans sang, chanted, clapped, stomping rhythm into the foundations, trying to lift the players with sheer volume.
Only those nearest to the touchline caught Artetaâs words.
The rest? Reading cues in body language, in glances, in the way Izan spread his arms and called for shape.
Arsenal shifted into gear.
White carried the ball forward, drawing Luiz Diaz out of position, then slipped a smart inside pass to Izan, who turned away from Mac Allister and immediately found Rice with a clipped ball.
Rice didnât force it.
He waited, scanned, and dropped it backward when nothing clean emerged.
They werenât chasing the game.
They were trying to reclaim it.
Arteta clapped hard from the sideline, pointing at the tempo, urging calm, but again, only Timber on the near side saw him.
The rest played through instinct, through habits drilled into muscle and memory.
Izan dropped deeper to receive, touched the ball with the inside of his boot, and shielded it as Alexander-Arnold pressed in.
He held, turned, and let the pressure soak before laying it off to Merino with a quiet flick.
The rhythm was slower now. But it wasnât passive.
It was measured.
And Liverpool, though ahead, didnât press recklessly.
They knew what one false step could cost.
Arsenal were playing it safe, but it was getting boring for the fans.
The Emirates began to murmurânot angry, but restless.
You could hear the voices splitting into fragments, pockets of unease drifting across the stands.
âGet forward!â someone barked from the East Stand.
âWeâre one down, not one up!â
A clatter of hands slapped thighs, boot heels shuffled anxiously.
Arsenal were playing like a team trying not to concede a second.
But what the crowd wantedâwhat the match demandedâwas response. Fire. Intent.
Then, finally, something cracked the pattern.
It came from Merino.
Just as the ball cycled back to him and Mac Allister started to step up, he turned on his first touchâshoulder dropped, head swivelingâand saw what no one else had.
Izan on the wing.
He was hugging the touchline tight, a few yards behind Alexander-Arnold, almost like heâd been biding his time out of sight.
Merino didnât hesitate.
He slid the ball diagonally through the half-space with precision, like threading a needle at full speed.
The pass sliced the field open.
Trent turned and ran, but the race was over before it began.
Izan was already at full tilt.
Boots pounding into the turf, arms pumping, head upâhe devoured the ground between him and the ball like it had insulted him.
Trent chased, stretching every stride, but Izan didnât even check his shoulder.
There was no fear. No doubt.
âHere comes Izan!â Peter Wallaceâs voice surged into the feed.
âThatâs the first time theyâve found him cleanâand look what itâs caused!â
âHeâs eaten that gap alive!â Dion shouted.
âTrentâs chasing shadows!â
The crowd rose.
It wasnât cheering yetâit was anticipation like thousands of lungs holding one collective breath.
Izan reached the ball just as it neared the edge of the box, his first touch perfect, pulling it slightly inward to set up the cross.
But he never got to strike it.
A red blur slammed into him from his blind side.
Konaté.
It wasnât a reckless tackle.
It was force.
Sheer, unforgiving mass, thrown into motion with the intent to stop everything and everyone.
Shoulder met ribs, hip met hip, and Izan was launched off balance, his body twisting mid-air before crashing down hard on his right side.
The ball rolled away harmlessly, and then the whistle came a second later.
But Izan didnât move.
He clutched his midsectionâone hand splayed across his chest, the other curled near his stomach.
His face was locked in a grimace, mouth open, trying to suck in air that wouldnât come.
The Emirates exploded.
âFoul! Thatâs a foul!â Peter shouted.
âAnd itâs a clear oneâKonatĂ© didnât play the ball at all!â
âYou can hear it from here,â Marsha added, voice tight.
âThatâs not a simple collision. Thatâs brutal. Thatâs deliberate.â
Players swarmed the scene.
Saka ran to the referee, arms out, voice raised, while Rice tried to pull Konaté aside, but the centre-back just shrugged him off and turned, walking away like nothing had happened.
The referee followed him, whistle in hand, face sternâbut then only reached into his back pocket for a warning.
Just a wave of the hand.
No card.
The groans turned to fury.
Boos rained down from all sides.
Konaté jogged back to position and gave Van Dijk a quick fist bump on the way, smirking.
Van Dijk didnât say anything.
He didnât have to.
âThis is outrageous,â Peter said.
âNo yellow. No caution. That was a body check, not a tackle.â
âAnd itâs on Izan,â Dion added.
âTheyâve been targeting him since he danced past MacAllister and Trent earlier. You knew something like this was coming.â
On the sideline, Arteta was screaming now, directed at the fourth official, at the referee, at anyone who would listenâbut the stadium drowned him out.
In the VIP section, a figure stood up and slammed her fists against the front barrier.
Hori.
Her face was red, her mouth wide open as she roared toward the pitch.
âTHATâS A RED! HE COULDâVE BROKEN HIM!â
Miranda reached out instinctively, trying to steady her, but Hori wouldnât sit.
Komi held her daughterâs arm, her own lips tight in silence.
Even Olivia, usually calm, was glaring down at the officials with clenched fists.
On the field, Izan finally rolled to his side, still holding his solar plexus.
Timber and Saka knelt beside him, waving to the bench for the medics.
The match had turned now, not in the scoreline, but in the mood.
This wasnât beautiful anymore.
It was war.
And everyone knew it.
The medics knelt quickly beside him, one hand checking his ribs, the other gently pressing against his back.
âYou alright, Izan?â one of them asked, his voice low but urgent.
Izan nodded faintly, still on his side, eyes clenched shut as his breathing began to slow.
One sharp inhale, then anotherâshaky but steadying.
âJust got the wind knocked out,â he muttered, voice hoarse.
The other medic tapped his shoulder.
âTake your time. Weâve got you.â
As they helped him to a seated position, the camera panned to the referee, now organizing the wall at the edge of the box.
âHeâs okay,â Peter said.
âIt looked bad at first, but Izanâs sitting up. Breathing again. Heâll want to take this himself if they let him.â
âThey wonât,â Marsha added. âBut you get the sense he might anyway.â
A/N: Second of the day. Have fun reading and Iâll see you in a bit or tomorrow.
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