Chapter 574: Done With Them.
[Second Half]
The camera faded in from the studios of the halftime pundit session just as the players began walking back onto the pitch.
The lights were a touch sharper now, the shadows longer, the cold air sinking further across the grass.
Brentford looked tenseâshoulders squared but heavy.
Arsenal, on the other hand, looked settled, as if they werenât satisfied with their first-half showing.
The ball wasnât rolling yet, but the tone had already returned.
âWell, if you thought Arsenal would slow down at four-nil, I wouldnât count on it. That wasnât just a dominant halfâit was controlled, purposeful. And with the kind of movement and passing we saw? They donât need a reset. They need the whistle.â
Down on the pitch, Izan jogged out slowly with Ădegaard beside him.
The Norwegian leaned in, muttering something lowâsomething only meant for one person.
Izan didnât answer.
He tied his hair back instead, pulling the band snugly and letting his fingers settle just above the knot as both sets of players walked to their respective positions before the referee joined Mbuemo at the center of the pitch.
A couple of moments later, Brentford kicked off.
They didnât charge.
They tried to build, testing the waters with quick passes and positional changes of players.
But Arsenal closed quickly again, and within a minute, the ball was back at Izanâs feet.
Thatâs when the change became visible.
Brentford adjusted their shapeâimmediately.
Frank had pushed three onto him now.
One in front.
One behind and the other rubbing off his shoulder.
They didnât press with violenceâthey hovered.
Angled their runs, and shadowed him in every zone he drifted into.
But it didnât matter.
The first time he touched the ball, he let it roll across his body and away from pressure.
The defender on his back lunged, but Izan had already let the contact slide past him like water over stone.
Another closed from the right and again, Izan dipped, let him commit, then rode the bump with a shrug of the shoulder and used the momentum to skip into open space.
âTheyâve tripled him up. Literally three-on-oneâand still no touch on the ball.â
âI donât know if itâs physical strength or just⊠balance. The defenders are right there. Theyâre grabbing shirts, clipping anklesâbut they canât even disrupt him, let alone stop him.â
He didnât look hurried.
Every step, every change of direction, was clean.
Not flashy.
Just exact.
Then it came.
Brentford lost shape againâa bad pass across midfield that Rice intercepted before flipping it forward into Ădegaard.
The captain didnât even look and just rolled the ball first time to Izan, who had already started moving before the ball was halfway to him.
He took it on the turnâright boot across his body, dragging the ball into space.
One man, Norsgaard, stepped in but Izan glided past him as if he wasnât there.
Another reached for himâshirt stretched in his fist.
Izan shifted pace, stayed upright, and shook it off.
Now he was through.
Clean.
Inside the box.
Flekken came rushing again.
But Izan wasnât thinking about passing, even with Saka to his right.
He wasnât thinking at all.
He was executing.
One touch to steady.
One to lift.
The ball curled from the inside of his right boot, rising just enough to clear the keeperâs shoulder, and dipping just enough to fall behind him.
Net.
Ripple.
Silence.
Thenâ
GOOOOOOOOALLLLL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
âWelcome to Izan Wonderland. Hat-trick. Seventeen years old. Away from home. First match of the year.â
âAnd he makes it look like itâs just⊠part of the job and to be honest, for him, it is just another day at work.â
Down on the pitch, Izan stood still inside the box, chest rising slowly under the floodlights.
The ball sat behind him in the net, barely bouncing.
No wild celebration followed.
No chest-pounding or knee-sliding.
Just a glance upward, brief and privateâlike checking the sky to make sure it was still there.
Before he started.
1
2
3
Three goals, each representing a finger he threw up.
And all of it was done without drama.
âYou can send one defender, two, even threeâitâs not going to matter. He doesnât beat pressure with tricks. He just absorbs it.â
âAnd when he moves, itâs like heâs already lived the next two seconds of play. Like weâre all catching up.â
A ripple of reaction circled the stadium.
On one side, Arsenalâs traveling fans chanted his nameârhythmic, unforced, not wild with celebration but steady, almost reverent.
On the other side, Brentford supporters sat with their hands in their laps, heads tilted slightly, not in anger but disbelief.
A few clapped.
A few stood up and just⊠watched him walk while a few started leaving the Brentford community stadium, not bearing to see their team being dismantled like an overdue Lego set.
Because how do you boo a seventeen-year-old who just dismantled your defense without saying a word?
Izan turned and jogged back toward midfield with his arms loose and his shoulders still.
Brentford 0 â Arsenal 5.
And it wasnât the score that lingered in the air.
It was the sense that something had just changed.
Quietly.
For good.
âŠ.
A few minutes later, the camera began lingering on the rows of thinning seats along the Brentford end.
A few scarves remained draped over shoulders, but most of the crowd had filtered out by the time the scoreboard had ticked past six.
By seven, entire sections stood empty.
Only a few die-hards remainedâhands in pockets, still, eyes tracking the pitch like they were hoping for something less final.
The commentary team had dialed back the energy.
The voices were low now. Reflective.
âYouâd be forgiven for thinking this was an Arsenal home game.â
âYeah, the only sound left in the stadium is coming from that pocket of away fans. And honestly, theyâve had every reason to sing.â
âBrentford⊠they didnât just lose control of the game. They lost the shape of it. And Arsenalâespecially that front lineâmade them pay for every single step.â
The camera cut from the stands to the pitch.
Players shook hands.
Nothing showy.
No grins stretched too wide.
Just the kind of professional courtesy that follows a job done ruthlessly well.
Ădegaard shared a word with Jensen.
Zinchenko offered a quick shoulder bump to a Brentford midfielder while Salnia hugged Raya like the result had barely registered.
And then the camera pulled backâwide-angleâcapturing it all before it tilted upward toward the scoreboard one last time.
BRENTFORD 1 â ARSENAL 7
The image held for a moment.
Nothing needed to be said, then, âSeven-one. Arsenal started the second half of the season with a statementânot just about form but pure ruthless play by Izan to demolish Brentford on the night.â
The broadcast cut to Izan.
Walking slowly behind the others, shirt clinging with sweat, match ball tucked under one arm like it had been promised to him days ago.
He didnât look up at the camera.
Didnât wave.
Just walked, gaze forward, boots brushing grass like he hadnât finished yet.
A graphic overlay followed him on screen just as he entered the tunnel.
IZAN MIURA HERNANDEZ â FULL-TIME STATS
Goals: 4
Assists: 2
Pass Accuracy: 98%
Dribbles Completed: 11
Minutes Played: 90
Touches: 110
âŠ
BRENTFORD â AWAY DRESSING ROOM â POST-MATCH
âŠ..
The noise was muffled nowâjust low chatter, the occasional scrape of studs on tile, running water in the background.
Shirts had been peeled off, socks rolled down, and ice bags passed out, but the mood wasnât explosive.
Arteta stood near the center of the room, not on a bench, not raised, just there.
âGood. Very good,â he said plainly without raising his voice.
He paused, letting the quiet settle around his words.
âThatâs what happens when we play with intention. When we donât let the other team shape the tempo. When we trust ourselves to punish mistakes, and we donât chase anything.â
He looked around the room, meeting a few eyes.
Saka, Ădegaard, Martinelli.
Then he landed on Izan, who sat near the back, towel around his shoulders, boots off, still lacing his sneakers slowly.
âI donât need to tell you what that was,â Arteta continued.
âYou know.â
âRecover. Get home. Refocus. Because the jobâs never just one game.â
And that was it.
No extra pageantry.
He stepped aside.
And the players returned to what they were doing and a few moments later, Izan stepped out into the chilled air.
A few fans remained behind the barriersâArsenal supporters mostly
This wasnât about football now and tightening behind the barricade as Izan moved towards the team bus.
The doors of the bus hissed open he came to a stop in front of it.
Inside, the cabin lights adjusted softly to his and the presence of the other players but Izan had his eyes on a different prize.
This wasnât about football now.
This was about home.
A/N: Last of the day. Been having a bit of trouble so sorry if you feel like the quality has dropped a bit. Will make amend and it might sound insincere but Iâm really sorry for the messy schedule. I really am trying to get back into the groove of things so please, bear with me for a bit. See you in a few with the Golden Ticket chapter and the first of the day.
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