Chapter 573: Demolition Job
Van den Berg finally lost grip and stumbled backward, off balance, and out of the play, and Izan wasnât going to stop to acknowledge it.
He stayed locked in, his boots kissing the turf with each stride, the ball gliding beside him as if it too knew better than to get in his way.
âAnd heâs still goingâBrentford havenât laid a finger on him thatâs counted yet!â
The space openedâjust enough.
The other half of the Brentford center-back pair, Nathan Collin, who was already coming to cover er was shifting weight, expecting Izan to go wide as it was the logical move.
Open grass to the left, space to cross, and teammates starting to make their runs.
But Izan didnât take it.
He cut right instead, dragging the ball across his body and snapping it behind his plant foot in a motion too quick for most defenders to react to.
The center-back tried to recover, one foot tangling with the other, stumbling backward in a blur of red and white.
Another defender, the left back, Lewis Potter, stepped in late but physical.
He barged in with shoulder first, arms raised, trying to make it look clean, trying to make it messy.
Izan stumbledâfinally.
The contact sent him tilting forward, legs unbalanced, one arm shooting out to brace himself.
His stride shortened, rhythm faltered, but he didnât stop.
Not yet.
The ball bounced slightly off his knee, caught up under his boot, and he had to adjust on instinct.
There was no elegance in the recoveryâjust raw survival.
Momentum, muscle memory, the feel of the pitch under his studs.
He lifted his head.
Flekken was rushing out, body low, arms wide, ready to make himself as big as possible.
And Izan, with one half-stumble still trailing behind him and the ball barely stable in front, caressed the ball.
He chipped.
A delicate flick.
A weightless, audacious lift.
The ball floated just over Flekkenâs shoulder as the keeper dove, and slipped beneath the bar like it had been dropped in slow motion.
The net rippled.
Izanâs boot touched the groundâ
âand then he fell.
Flat, just past the penalty spot, knees hitting first, then palms, his chest heaving as he lay there for a second, face turned up to the sky.
No celebration.
Just breathe.
âOh, my wordâŠâ
âThatâs absurd composure. Heâs barely upright, the keeperâs already collapsing on him, and heâs had the presence to clip that over Flekken like it was a training ground chip.â
âThey tried everythingâtugs, kicks, shoulder checksâand he still picks his moment. Thatâs the boy weâve grown to like and adore. Thatâs some nerve.â
The camera cut briefly to Arteta on the touchline, jaw tight, arms crossedâbut the faintest twitch of a smile creeping onto his lips.
âAnd itâs Arsenal who take the lead hereâsix minutes inâand of course, itâs him.â
âNew Yearâs Eve⊠and itâs New Year, New Izan.â
âYou can talk all you want about stats and graphs and progression curves all you want, but thatâs a player who understands the game in the moment. That chip doesnât happen without vision and control, most players donât unlock until theyâre ten years deeper into their careers.â
Izan slowly rose to his feet, brushing off his forearms while Saka jogged over, patting his back with a grin and a shake of his head like even he didnât know what to say.
Ădegaard followed a second later, arms out, laughing lightly as he muttered something only they could hear.
On the replay, the entire sequence was even more brutal.
The croqueta.
The shirt pull.
The stumble.
The chip.
Not stitched together like highlights, but unfolding like inevitability.
âItâs not just a great goal.â
âItâs a reminder.â
âThis kid doesnât just ride tacklesâhe rides expectation. And every time you think youâve seen the ceiling, he brings a sledgehammer and raises it again.â
Back on the pitch, Izan walked back toward the halfway line, shirt slightly untucked, expression unreadable.
One-nil.
Six minutes in.
The first game of the year, and he was already on the scoreboard.
âThatâs 21 goals in 18 for him. 31 goal contributions if we add his 11 assists, which is the most of any player in the league, same with his 21 goals, making him the leader in both charts. This is just a monstrosity of a playerâŠ.â
âŠâŠ
The ball rolled back to the center circle, and the restart came quicker than most teams wouldâve preferred after conceding so early.
Brentford players didnât linger.
No protests, no stallingâjust quiet urgency and darting glances between them as they lined up again.
Wissa clapped his hands, trying to lift the energy, while Captain NĂžrgaard shouted across the midfield line, calling for tighter spacing.
Even Flekken, from deep in his box, raised a fist and called out defensive cues like he could hold the game together through sheer volume alone.
They needed to settle.
To respond.
To breathe.
But Arsenal had already sensed the stagger.
The momentary lack of rhythm.
That hesitation in the spine of the Brentford midfield, where composure shouldâve been.
Ădegaard adjusted his armband while Saka hovered near the right channel, hands open.
And Izanânow deeper, now measuringâdidnât speak a word.
The ball kicked off again, but the crowd hadnât fully found its voice.
That early silence, the kind that came not from confusion but from anticipation, was spreading.
Brentford passed short to the right, looking to build through the flanks, but Rice stepped in almost too early, cutting off the outlet pass with the kind of timing that wasnât reactive, but predictive.
He didnât need to touch the ball more than once.
He cushioned it, then played it sideways to Ădegaard.
The captain didnât rush.
He turned slowly.
Let Brentford drift toward him.
Then slid the ball backward toward Izan, who had dropped just past the halfway line into his own territory, almost level with Gabriel.
It looked like a recycling move.
A reset.
Until it wasnât.
Izanâs first touch was soft but purposeful.
He didnât pause, didnât even glance up again.
Instead, he shifted his weight, pivoted slightly onto his left, and whipped a diagonal pass from deep.
It wasnât a hopeful ball.
It was a code executed with angles, pace, and backspin that made it obey gravity like a veteran conductor waving in silence.
It hummed across the turf with impossible efficiency, cutting diagonally between two Brentford lines and dropping into that golden zone behind the left-back, and behind all that, was Saka, who was already sprinting to meet it.
âOh, my⊠What a pass! From that deep?! From his own half! Thatâs not just visionâthatâs clairvoyance!â
Saka met it in stride.
Didnât have to adjust his body or touch.
He let the ball bounce once, then touched it forward with the inside of his right boot, sprinting now into Brentfordâs collapsing final third.
Flekken came out fast, legs wide, arms raised, mouth open, shouting something to no one that could stop what was already happening.
Saka didnât blink.
He rolled it calmly past the keeperâone touch, low and composed, into the inside panel of the near post.
Goal.
Two-nil.
Inside ten minutes.
âAnd there it is! Arsenal again! Itâs so simpleâbut itâs surgical!â
âWhat do you even do with that? You lose the ball near midfield and within four touches, youâre two goals down.â
âAnd guess who started it? Guess whoâs playing like he can see the match in advance?â
âThat ball from Izan⊠Itâs not just smart. Itâs cruel. Heâs baiting them into pressing high and punishing them from sixty yards away.â
The players didnât over-celebrate.
There was no sliding, no badge-pointing.
Just smiles, nods, handshakes.
Ădegaard clapped Saka on the shoulder.
Rice jogged up with a grin, muttering something behind his teeth.
But the one they all turned to firstâagainâwas still standing near the halfway line.
Izan.
He hadnât moved.
He just watched it happen like heâd drawn it on a whiteboard before kickoff.
His chest rose slowly.
No grin.
No celebration.
Only a half-turn and a slow jog back into position, arms swinging lightly at his sides.
âThey came into this match talking about whether Arsenal could keep the momentum going after the break.â
âWellâmomentumâs one thing.â
âBut this⊠this is ruthlessness at its peak.â
âNew year. New match. Same Izan.â
âAnd somehow, stillâbetter.â
âŠâŠâŠ..
Thirty-five minutes later, the whistle blew sharp and final, and with it, a strange hush swept over the Brentford Community Stadium.
The home fansâthose who hadnât already slipped down into the concourseâsat slumped in silence or blinking in disbelief.
The scoreboard glared down without apology:
Brentford 0 â 4 Arsenal
Izan walked with Ădegaard and Martinelli beside him, expression steady, not smiling but clearly⊠in rhythm.
The fourth goal had sealed the weight of it but before that, it was Izan againâhis secondâcollected near the edge of the box after Ădegaard and Zinchenko rotated the play right, waiting for Brentford to over-shift.
Izan stepped into the gap just outside the D, took one touch, and then rifled it into the top left corner with a strike so clean Flekken didnât even dive.
The fans roared in celebration, but the players just turned toward him again, like it was obvious that he was going to score.
The Fourth, ironically, had been the messiest.
Saka had nearly buried a cross from Izan after another blind diagonal, but his shot pinged off the keeperâs glove, falling awkwardly off the post.
Martinelliâlurking just inside the six-yard boxâdidnât waste it.
He swept it in on the bounce, shrugged, and jogged back with a grin.
The Arsenal bench had half-stood when it went in.
Arteta, on the touchline, just pumped his fist in the air as his team continued the demolition job.
A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading, and Iâll see you in a bit.
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