Chapter 529: Foreboding [GT ]

Chapter 529: Foreboding [GT Chapter]

Izan’s knee dipped and buckled.

He hit the turf with a short exhale.

The whistle blew hard.

The foul was clear.

The ball was still spinning, half a yard from where Izan landed.

He got up.

Fast.

Didn’t look at the referee.

Didn’t wait.

Saka was already moving.

Izan’s boot came under the ball, quick and quiet, and he pinged it low and clean across the pitch.

Not floated—fired.

The ball curved once, skipping just slightly off the grass.

Saka didn’t stop.

He didn’t settle.

He let it bounce once and struck it first time—laces through the ball, his body perfectly shaped, like the whole thing had been rehearsed a thousand times in his backyard.

The strike was devastating.

It rose just slightly, then dipped—hard and sudden—at the far post.

Kelleher dove. Konaté slid.

Neither touched it.

The ball crashed into the side netting.

The Emirates didn’t cheer.

Not at first.

It burst.

A sound that came from thousands of people losing their minds at once.

“SAAAAKAAAAA!” Peter Wallace roared.

“A LASER FROM THE RIGHT BOOT—AND IZAN’S VISION STARTED IT ALL!”

“That’s world-class thinking,” Marsha cut in.

“The freekick wasn’t just quick—it was perfect. The weight, the angle—everything. Izan saw what no one else did.”

Saka slid on both knees toward the corner flag, arms spread wide.

His teammates followed like a red wave, smothering him in celebration.

Back near the center circle, Izan walked slowly forward.

Mac Allister passed by, huffing, gaze sideways.

Izan said nothing at first.

Then, as he passed him.

“Still tight. Still me.”

He kept walking, as MacAllister turned, eyes trailing Izan’s back still.

Just the ball on the center spot again—and the scoreboard reading:

Arsenal 2 – 1 Liverpool

……….

The stadium hadn’t settled from Saka’s goal when Liverpool pushed right back into Arsenal’s half.

No panic.

Just resolve.

In the 52nd minute, Salah drifted again—wider now, pulling Trossard out of the line like string from a seam.

He feinted back, then exploded forward on his right, slicing a pass between the lines.

Gravenberch timed his run perfectly.

He ghosted into the space just outside the box and touched it once to steady, once to shoot—low, angled, hard.

Raya was sharp.

He dropped fast, extended one arm, and pushed it wide.

The crowd clapped, heaving a sigh of relief but the same couldn’t be said for the Liverpool crowd that was trying to will their team to equalize.

“Liverpool aren’t waiting,” Peter Wallace noted.

“They’re going punch-for-punch now.”

“Don’t blink,” Marsha added.

“You’ll miss something.”

Arsenal, not looking to be outdone, came out with a lightning answer in minutes.

It began in their own half after Partey robbed Mac Allister with a sudden reach of his boot.

He turned quickly, slipped it to Merino, who gave it early to Izan who stood hugging the touchline still.

With the ball under his boot, like it was stitched to his laces, Izan weaved across the face of midfield—first past Gravenberch, then shimmying by Jones with a shoulder dip.

Van Dijk stepped forward looking to shove Izan off the ball but the latter halted and slid the ball in reverse.

Trossard ran onto it at the top of the box and fired a low shot toward the Liverpool goal but Kelleher got down and pushed it away—but only to Rice who had pushed up high.

The captain’s follow-up rose too high, kissing the top of the bar before sailing into the North Bank.

“Nearly again!” Dion shouted. “They’re turning defense into art!”

The Liverpool fans at the away end started chanting, almost holding on for their team and it sparked something in THE REDS.

It all started innocently—Mac Allister collecting the ball just inside his half, turning toward goal with Rice closing in fast.

Then came the snap.

A subtle twist of the hips, a quick drop of the shoulder—and just like that, Declan Rice was off balance, half a step behind.

Mac Allister didn’t even sprint.

He just surged forward with composure, brushing past Rice’s arm as if shedding a coat.

The pitch opened up in front of him and Arsenal’s back line was flat.

Too hollow.

Gabriel took a step up trying to size up to MacAllister but that was his mistake.

Mac Allister threaded the ball into the right channel with surgical weight—low, slicing, and spinning just so.

And Salah was already on it.

He didn’t check his run.

He didn’t need to.

He peeled off Trossard’s shoulder like he’d been planning the moment for minutes, not seconds.

One touch to gather, and suddenly he was past the 18-yard line.

Partey approached—composed, upright, delaying the tackle.

Salah didn’t hesitate.

A sharp chop with his left boot sent the ball inside, across his body causing Partey to commit but he did so too late and wrongly.

Salah kept running, now angling inward toward the goal.

Gabriel recovered—but there was no time.

Just the faintest window and the next scene saw Salah curl his body and wrap his foot around the ball, striking it with his instep—not hard, not flashy.

Just a pure, low whip reminiscent of one of his first-half escapades.

The ball arced outward, curling around Gabriel’s trailing boot, then curling back toward the far post.

It spun like it had been curved on a string, gently but unstoppably veering inward.

Raya dove full stretch.

His fingertips brushed the air beside him but it never reached the ball’s.

The ball kissed the inside of the post and snapped into the net.

It didn’t slam.

It whispered.

But it carried louder than a scream.

The Emirates froze.

Not quite—frozen.

Not in disbelief that Salah had scored.

But at how he’d done it.

With the touch.

The ice.

The precision.

“GOOOOOOOAAALLL Mohammed Salah. Nine times out of ten he scores and now he finally does with his second real chance of the game. Arsenal are livid with themselves for letting him loose.”

Trent punched the air.

Mac Allister grinned without celebration, walking slowly toward the center circle like he’d known it was coming.

Salah didn’t yell.

He simply stood and raised his finger to the sky, eyes cool, jaw set.

“That’s cold,” Marsha said in the booth, voice low. “That’s Salah.”

“From a crack in the shape,” Peter added, “he just breaks your heart.”

Scoreline updated on the screen:

Arsenal 2 – 2 Liverpool. Minute 61.

And the balance of power shifted again.

Liverpool’s players were already jogging back to their half as the ball nestled in the Arsenal net.

On the touchline, Arteta stood still for a moment, jaw tight.

Behind him, the Emirates had dimmed—less noise now, more noise waiting.

Up in the booth, the commentary resumed, more composed but no less cutting.

“Well… now anything goes,” Peter Wallace said.

“Back level at 2–2, and you can feel the tension shifting again.”

“This is the kind of match where no lead feels safe,” Marsha added.

“You have players on both sides capable of brilliance—and mistakes. And now they’ve got just under thirty to decide it.”

The ball was placed at the center spot and the whistle soon blew.

Arsenal moved, slipping between Liverpool’s midfield and their line, trying to settle in areas with space but they would get marked as soon as they tried to settle.

Izan, ever the opportunist saw MacAllister and Trent pushing toward him so he took advantage.

“Merino, looks and spots Izan and now Izan has the ball” Peter Wallace spat as Izan took control of the ball.

He peeled away, pulling Trent with him, and played the pass early—angled, slick, and disappearing behind the defense like it had been hidden up his sleeve.

Martinelli broke onto it.

He took a touch, opened up, and fired away.

The ball streaked towards the Liverpool goal, beating Kelleher from the view of the fans.

But the post wasn’t.

The sound was cruel—metal against leather.

It echoed like a hammer on a bell as the ball rebounded back into play and no one in the stadium breathed until Robertson smashed it away.

Liverpool wasted no time after the clear from Robertson.

Robertson kept running after the clearance, receiving it again on the overlap and bending a low cross across the face of the goal.

Núñez flew in like a missile., trying to nudge the ball in but Gabriel got there with will.

He hurled his body across the turf and caught the strike square in the ribs as the ball cannoned away.

But back it came again, through Salah this time.

He dropped deep to collect, spun Timbers who was having a rough match with a twitch of his ankle, and released Gakpo who had come on for Luis Diaz down the left.

The Dutchman cut in and fired again but Raya flew down.

The save was clean—full stretch, fingertips—and the Emirates roared, not because it was safe… but because it wasn’t.

The ball returned to Arsenal with Izan bolting down the left like he had something to prove to Usain Bolt.

“Every time he touches the ball,” Peter said, “it feels like something’s about to happen.”

And for the umpteenth time that match, something was, about to happen.

A/N: Hope this was a bit more bearable than the last chapter.

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