Chapter 562: December Crunch [2]

Fwe, Fwee, Fweeeeee!!

The whistle blew and the scoreboard displayed:

Crystal Palace 1 — Arsenal 5.

And the jeers that met the final whistle had more weight than the goals that came before it.

Palace fans didn’t expect a win, maybe not even a draw—but this?

This felt like something else.

The camera cut to the away end where the Arsenal fans had stayed loud all game, but now they were celebratory.

Arms wide, voices hoarse as they sang like the three points weren’t the only thing they’d come for.

Banners rippled in the night wind.

“NORTH LONDON’S FINEST.”

Down at pitch level, the red shirts gathered near the halfway line, some exchanging shirts, others just catching their breath.

Blake Jonah’s voice slipped back in over the post-match shots.

“Well, if there was any thought of a hangover from the Carabao Cup thriller… I think we can put that to rest.”

“Definitely,” said co-commentator Michael Dawson.

“That’s two meetings in a week and Crystal Palace shipped eight goals between them. Arsenal just… have levels.”

He wasn’t wrong.

The first half had been anything but smooth.

Palace started strong, with Clyne buzzing around the channels and Doucouré snapping at heels.

It was 1-1 at halftime, with a freak own goal canceling out a well-worked Saka opener.

But from the 50th minute onward, Arsenal flipped a switch.

Ødegaard pulled strings, Rice took control, and Izan?

He stopped drifting wide and started dictating.

A quick trivela assist to Martinelli made it 2–1 to Arsenal.

Then a darting run and a disguised pass that set up Havertz for 3–1.

The fourth came as a result of a scuffed clearance, and Izan pounced—left-footed, low and clean past Henderson.

And the fifth?

A soft layoff from Trossard, chipped across by Zinchenko, and Izan slipped it for Saka who curled it far post.

Clinical, sharp, and efficient at its finest.

“Five goals, four different scorers,” Dawson added. “But one conductor.”

The camera found Izan, walking toward the away fans now, his Player of the Match plaque tucked under his arm.

He waved slightly and just clapped as some of the fans in the away end, leaned forward, chanting his name.

Others just recorded in silence, their faces saying enough.

“Arsenal had to dig deep midweek,” Blake Jonah said.

“But tonight, they didn’t just win—they imposed themselves. With Izan running the tempo like he’s played this league for five years.”

“They’re top of the table. And on nights like this, you see why.”

Then the camera panned back to the scoreboard one last time.

1 – 5.

No confusion. No chaos. Just control.

Arsenal walked off the pitch like they’d done it before.

Because at this point—truthfully—they had.

…

The mood at Colney on the 24th was impossible to miss.

Light snow drifted along the edges of the training pitches, but the cold couldn’t cool the energy.

Laughter and music were leaking faintly from the gym.

Coaches calling drills through grins instead of grit.

Unbeaten.

Top of the Premier League.

Still standing.

Inside the warm corridors of Arsenal’s training facility, the mood was no less lifted.

Players filtered through in high spirits.

Christmas was close.

But the joy in the building wasn’t about trees and gifts—it was about position.

Momentum.

Belief.

The last time Arsenal had made it this deep into a season without losing?

You’d have to scroll back a couple of decades.

And as the players got to work, passing drills and warmups under the soft winter light, a quieter conversation was unfolding near the offices—between manager and sporting director.

Edu Gaspar leaned casually against the wall of the manager’s room, sipping from a paper cup that smelled vaguely of cinnamon and coffee.

“Tell me, Mikel,” he said with a half-smile.

“Are we doing this? Are we actually going invincible again?”

Arteta didn’t look up from the whiteboard just yet.

His eyes were on the tactical magnets, frozen in a moment of mid-thought.

Edu chuckled.

“I’m serious. Because if you are—if you pull this off—I swear, Kroenke’s gonna be backing up Brinks trucks all summer. Bonuses, salary hikes, bronze statues. You might get your face on a training pitch.”

Finally, Arteta turned.

His look wasn’t stern—but focused.

That familiar kind of laser-sharp that didn’t entertain too many hypotheticals.

“No,” he said plainly, calm as ever.

But before Edu could tease him for the answer, a flash of red passed the open doorway.

Izan.

Hair tied back in his usual half-bun, boots clacking gently on the tile as he jogged past with his gym bag slung over one shoulder.

He didn’t stop.

Just offered a nod toward the two men, and kept walking toward the pitch.

The pause between them lingered.

And Arteta, still watching the boy disappear down the hall, let his silence stretch a second longer before finally speaking again.

“Well… maybe.”

He cracked a smile, a rare glint of it.

Then he looked back at Edu and added, “If I had just one more Izan…”

A shrug. Half joking. Half dead serious.

“…though we both know there’s no such thing.”

Edu sat there smiling wryly, saying that they had to break the bank for Izan, and if another one was to show up, he wasn’t even sure they could they their hands on him before others did.

The quiet lingered in the room as Arteta and Edu got up, staring through the glass panel where Saka was trying in earnest to form a ball from some of the little snow that had fallen, even though he had already failed a couple of times.

“Well let’s see if we can stay unbeaten till the end of the year” Arteta said as he glanced at their next match against Ipswich.

……..

The air over the Emirates was thick with December moisture, the kind that clung to scarves and fingertips.

Little snow pellets hovered—falling slowly but not threatening.

The stands were full well before kickoff, a buzzing hum simmering beneath the usual Premier League anthem.

“Welcome to the Emirates,” said Mark Pougatch, his voice relaxed but alert.

“Where Arsenal stand unbeaten—seventeen matches played, zero defeats, and still riding the kind of form most teams can only dream of.”

“And it hasn’t just been about systems or tactics,” Clive Tyldesley added, as the camera swept over the touchline.

“It’s been about him. That lad. Number ten. Izan.”

Izan stood beside Saka, head down, tugging once at the top of his right glove.

The kind of quiet focus that didn’t need music or hype.

His boots were blacked out, nothing flashy—but the tension in his calves told the truth: something was about to break.

“Arsenal made light work of Palace last time out,” Clive said.

“And I expect Ipswich to put up another performance but I’m not sure it will end any differently today.”

The whistle soon blew and the match began.

Rice received first.

Pivoted and passed to Timber.

Arsenal didn’t surge—they melted forward, like a slow pour of pressure.

Ødegaard found space.

One glance.

Then—

Into Izan.

He hadn’t dropped deep.

He hadn’t drifted wide.

He was exactly where no one expected him to be: threading between Ipswich’s lines like a knife in a seam.

The first touch was lazy.

Tempting.

The kind that begged a challenge and he got it after two Ipswich defenders bit.

And just like that, the spell broke.

With a shimmy of his shoulder, Izan let the ball roll past him, dragging it into his stride as if the pitch had tilted in his favor.

He didn’t accelerate—not yet.

He just glided diagonally, pulling attention with him.

One. Two. Three white shirts.

And then—he broke.

A sudden burst, Short sprint.

Then the pass.

Oh, the pass.

Not straight.

Not curved but bent between limbs and laces.

A slicing no-look that came from his heel like a whisper.

“Here we go!” Mark said, half rising.

“It’s already on here!”

Saka caught it in full stride.

First touch wasn’t just good— but it invited the shot.

He didn’t wait and just lined it up.

“SAKAAAA” Mark shouted as Saka blasted the ball and the next second, “GOAL!” Clive exploded.

“It’s in already!” Mark shouted, above the crowd noise.

“A minute and forty-seven seconds—and Arsenal are off!”

The Emirates erupted.

People didn’t scream in shock.

They screamed in delight.

That grin you wear when a magician does the trick you’ve seen before—but it still stuns you.

Saka peeled away toward the corner flag, hands out.

But halfway there—he stopped.

Turned and pointed.

Back toward the midfield circle.

Toward the boy who hadn’t even lifted his arms.

Izan gave a slight smile and a thumbs-up before turning to his half.

The snow, had turned into rain and finally began to fall—soft, steady—and the lights caught it in halos above the pitch.

“Bukayo Saka with the finish,” Mark said, once the stadium noise had dipped.

“But that pass… there’s only one player in the league doing that consistently this season and it’s one boy.”

“Izan,” Clive replied.

“Just seventeen a few weeks ago. And already breaking the rules of how this game is played.”

Ipswich who barely had time to touch the ball before it happened, before he happened, looked stunned.

And for a second, the knew, it was going to be a long match.

A/n: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll be back with the second in a jiffy.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!Have some idea about my story? Comment it and let me know.