Chapter 581: The Standard.

Brighton were bending after the second goal from Izan.

Not yet breaking—but bending in every direction Arsenal forced them to.

The crowd’s energy, once punchy and loud, had dimmed to background static, murmurs replaced by unease.

And Izan was in the middle of it all.

Again.

It started in the 35th minute.

A pocket of space near the touchline opened, and Rice fed a low ball into Izan, who had dropped deeper.

Before the Brighton crowd could adjust their focus, Baleba crashed into his back—shoulder and arm clattering into Izan’s spine just as the teenager pivoted away.

The contact wasn’t outrageous.

But it wasn’t legal either.

Izan caught himself as his boots skidded slightly.

But instead of falling, he stayed upright and turned—not to the referee, but to Baleba.

A single glance and then a small shake of the head.

Then, he raised a hand.

The referee blew the whistle.

And pulled out a yellow.

“Finally,” muttered Saka, jogging toward the scene.

“He’s been doing it all game.”

Ødegaard, more measured, placed a hand gently on the referee’s elbow.

“Not saying card them for every play but they have to recognise the consequences. That’s two, maybe three times now he’s been hacked after the ball’s gone.”

The referee nodded.

“I saw that one. That’s why the card’s out.”

“Then keep watching,” Ødegaard said, not in a rude tone but assertively.

“Well, you can see the Arsenal captain stepping in—not just to protect Izan, but to make a point. There’s been a few late challenges, and it’s boiling under.” the first commentator said.

“And Izan’s not one to dive. If he stays up and still draws a foul, you know it’s there. Good call from the ref to get a handle before halftime.” the other added.

Two minutes later, another flashpoint.

Izan drifted wide, spinning out of pressure, drawing Estupiñán in one-on-one.

A quick touch to the outside, then a stop-start burst back inside, and the left-back lunged with a sweeping foot—late and clumsy.

Izan hit the turf.

This time, he didn’t get up straight away.

Zinchenko rushed over, arms flailing.

“That’s reckless.”

The referee was there fast.

Another whistle.

Another card.

Yellow for Estupiñán.

“Well said. They’re targeting him because they can’t stop him. That’s the clearest compliment you’ll get in football and already dealing with this kind of treatment this early and never once rising to it emotionally goes to show Izan’s maturity beyond his year.”

The half ticked into stoppage time and Arsenal pushed again—Ødegaard finding Martinelli on the wing, who zipped it across the box for Saka.

A slight deflection threw the shot off just wide, and Verbruggen scrambled to reset.

The Brighton fans shifted nervously in their seats hoping for the whistle but it wasn’t coming.

Fabian Hürzeler paced into his technical area, arms folded, clearly feeling the weight of the last ten minutes.

On the opposite side, Arteta crouched near the sideline, fingers clasped over his mouth.

Then he stood upright again, calm, focused.

He didn’t need to say anything.

The momentum was clear.

Izan dropped into midfield again, calling for the ball, and got it but rolled it short to Trossard as fast as he got it.

Then Trossard to Ødegaard before, the latter sent it back to Izan, who was now at the top of the arc.

Baleba stepped in again—tentative this time.

But Izan didn’t need to force it.

He faked, shifted his weight, then held it.

Let the ball roll across his body, drew Baleba one way, then slipped it to Rice who fired away, just before the final whistle blew.

“And there’s the whistle! Brighton breathe again—just. Because make no mistake, they needed that whistle. It’s 3–1, but it could’ve easily been four or five.

Arsenal have turned up the dial, and Izan’s been in the thick of it—drawing fouls and just being more than a headache for Fabian Hurzeler’s men. And the crowd knows it. That away end’s not stopping. If anything, they’ve only gotten louder.”

This time, the halftime whistle didn’t just stop the half.

It saved Brighton from drowning in it.

……..

The studio lights dimmed just enough to let the match footage replay behind them—bright and relentless in the aftermath.

Final score stamped in the top right:

Brighton 1 – Arsenal 4

Below it, three names rotated with the goal markers.

Izan. Martinelli. Saka.

And then again—Izan.

The camera cut back to the panel.

Karen Carney leaned forward first, elbows on the desk.

“I mean… what more do you say?” she said.

“That wasn’t just another good performance. That was ownership. He owned that match from the moment it kicked off.”

John Doe was already nodding.

“Yeah. It’s the second time in a week he’s done it too. Brentford before, and now Brighton away—a side that don’t usually get dominated like that in their own ground.”

Gary Neville cut in, more measured.

“It wasn’t just the goals. You could feel when he was about to change the pace of the game. When Brighton tried to reset, he just… didn’t let them.”

The screen behind them showed Izan’s second goal in slow motion—a glancing replay of the turn on the edge of the box, followed by the low strike into the far corner.

Textbook in execution yet, anything but ordinary.

Neville pointed toward it.

“And look at the timing here. This is the 68th minute. Arsenal were 3–1 up. He could’ve coasted. But he doesn’t. He makes this move like the game depends on it.”

Doe added, “And I thought it was smart from Arteta—took him off in the 80th minute for Havertz. Game done. Let him hear the crowd, let him take the applause. Because if you’re being honest, he had done everything.”

Karen smiled slightly.

“Two goals, one assist, and probably another dozen passes that could’ve been goals if someone was sharper at the end of them.”

The screen shifted again, this time, showing fans, still in their seats, scarves up and chanting even after the final whistle.

Neville watched it, then shook his head.

“This Madrid noise. Perez this, Madrid that. I understand each party involved. For the Arsenal crowd, Izan is like a Messiah and for Perez, Izan is like wanting to make a wrong right because they had missed out on such a player because of their arrogance and now Arsenal have him.”

Doe leaned back.

“They do Neville and they’re not just building around him anymore. They’re playing around him. He’s become the centerpiece and not just in name but also in responsibilities.”

The screen in the studio split in half, and then full before a face appeared on it.

Cesc Fàbregas appeared in crisp lighting, seated against a subtle backdrop of framed shirts and leather-bound notebooks.

A player’s room, now worn into a thinker’s space.

Karen Carney smiled first.

“Well joining us now—someone who’s worn the shirt, worn the armband, and knows exactly what it takes to grow young at Arsenal: Cesc Fàbregas. Cesc, good evening.”

Cesc nodded.

“Good evening.”

“So I’ll ask you directly, Cesc—two goals, an assist. What do you make of Izan?” Karen Carney inquired and Cesc’s answer came without hesitation.

“He’s the best player in the world right now and I think a lot of people and players will agree. I don’t say that lightly. Not just for the numbers—but for what he makes others do around him. You don’t play like that by accident. You play like that because you are a step ahead of the pitch.”

He paused, then leaned slightly closer.

“But I’ll be honest—what stood out most today wasn’t the goals. It was the scream. That one after his first goal. Did you catch it?”

Gary Neville nodded.

“You think it meant something more?”

“Definitely,” Cesc said. “Izan, since he arrived at Arsenal, has been very… measured. Not cold. Not disconnected. Just locked in. Do you remember Valencia? He used to flare up. To clap back when fouled. You’d see his face change. That fire was raw.”

Gary Neville nodded.

“We were saying that. He seems more… composed now.”

“Which is good,” Cesc continued.

“Growth demands it. But sometimes, you need the emotion too. That scream wasn’t for the cameras. It wasn’t even for the fans. It was for him. It said—’I’ve kept quiet, I’ve stayed focused, but I feel all of it.'”

Karen Carney leaned in.

“And that’s what leaders do, yeah?”

“Eventually, yes,” Cesc said.

“You don’t become a leader just by playing well. You become one by letting people see what it costs you. That goal—followed by that scream—was a message to everyone watching that he’s not just surviving pressure. He’s using it.”

He sat back, his tone softer now.

“I know what that moment feels like. When you stop being ‘the prospect’ and start becoming the standard. It’s a weight. But watching him today? He’s ready.”

The studio nodded as one and Gary Neville cracked a smile.

“Well said, mate.”

“You’ve just written the front page of every paper tomorrow,” Carney added and Cesc laughed.

“Then I hope they spell his name right. Because it’s one they’re going to be printing for a long, long time.”

A/N: Have fun reading and I’ll see you in the morning with the first of the day. Don’t shy away from any feedback as It is wholely accepted and gladly welcomed.

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