Chapter 607: The Leveler
âWe are back underway and Valencia lead. What response could we see from the club from North London, or will Valencia reaffirm their position in this game? We wait to seeâ
As Clive Tyldsley said, Valencia led, but that didnât tell the full story.
Since the restart, they kept pouring forwardâdisciplined but relentless.
Declan Rice had paid heed to Artetaâs instructions and was now the link between the defence and the attack, but the edge the Gunners were known for wasnât there.
Zinchenko stepped into that inverted midfield role like a fifth conductor, hoping to offer Odegaard more freedom, and the Norwegian took it, as he began roaming like he was searching for the thread that would finally unravel something.
But every cut was blunted.
Pietro and Guerra had begun dropping deeper to reinforce the midfield wall.
Tarrega commanded the back line like a seasoned centre-half twice his age, and Mamardashvili was louder now, directing traffic as though barking could plug the spaces Arsenal had started to find.
They were holding on but barely.
Another sequence unfolded after Saliba slid a rare grounded pass to Odegaard high up the pitch.
Ădegaard, turned then laid it off to Saka, back to Rice, then to Izan, who had dropped deep again, making Arsenalâs formation look like one without a striker.
Izan, who had lost visibility in the match, as the fans called it, hadnât really disappeared.
Heâd been there in every pulse.
Every tempo change passed through him.
But he hadnât pierced.
He was conducting, not creating.
To fans, it mightâve looked like he was drifting, coasting in the half-space, linking without hurting.
But the seasoned eyesâthose in the dugouts, on the pitchâknew better.
Baraja, sensing that things were too quiet, started pacing up and down the dugout, slipping instructions to players whenever he could, but his men looked to have gotten comfortable after scoring, and when a team got into that mood, things happened to them.
Ădegaard slipped a short ball into Izan after the latter called for it.
He received it fifteen yards outside the box, still with his back to the goal, with Pietro and Sosa already converging.
Javi Guerra shuffled in behind, just in case he needed to defend against some weird pass from Izan, but it never came.
Izan turned slowly.
His first real decision.
Then something changed.
He stilled.
A tiny pauseâonly a heartbeat, but enough for everyone watching to feel the shift.
âHeâs been patient. But perhaps⊠patience has expired.â Peter Druryâs voice came low over the commentary feed.
Sosa reached for the ball, sticking his foot in front of Iz, but the latter was gone before Sosa could react.
Izanâs burst left him behind in a blink, leaving Sosa grasping for shirts he couldnât catch.
Guerra re-adjusted his intentions as he stepped forward with Pietro, looking to double-team Izan, but that wasnât going to happen.
Izan split them both with a burst of speed that felt inevitable once it began.
His boots hardly touched the grass.
His stride was reduced to short ones as he kept the ball at the edge of every knock forward. It wasnât flashy, but it was efficient.
He was moving now, fast, low, direct.
âAnd now lookâlook at the ground heâs eating into,â Clive Tyldesley said, rising into urgency.
âHeâs sliding through the midfield like it doesnât exist! Valencia have to do something here?â
Pietro, who hadnât lost sight of Izan, came again.
This time with more.
He lowered his shoulder, his intent clear.
Izan wasnât going to lead him on.
Izan staggered and fell forward after Pietroâs leg clipped his ankle, the away fans surging in volume while calling for a foul.
But the whistle didnât come.
And Izan didnât wait.
He got up in one motion, still carrying the ball as he caught the Valencia players who were waiting for a whistle off guard.
âHeâs up! He wants more! No foul, no pause!â Druryâs voice spiked. âThis is himâraw and unfiltered!â
He broke into the right side of the box now, his angle narrowing by the second as the white shirts began flooding back.
Foulquie, arriving to cover, instructed Tarrega to move towards Izan, and he did, thinking the ball had drifted too far.
But not for Izan.
He stabbed at the ball with his left to steady it, then snapped his eyes across the pitch, just for a second, nd where he saw Martinelli limping toward the far post, not sprinting.
Still, Izan decided.
He dragged the ball back to his left foot, slowed his body and pulled Tarrega in, but that was the mistake.
You always think youâre with the upper hand until a pass breaks you, and it did as Izan planted his left foot.
And then, like he was writing with his boots, he wrapped his right foot behind his left and struck a Rabona, clean and precise weaving its way through the chaos with a curve born from arrogance and calculation, bending towards the keeper, arcing toward the far post with the kind of shape that wasnât normal.
Martinelli arrived late to the party, his form not that convincing, but he had still arrived.
He threw his body into the line of the ball, head-turning just enough to glance it past Mamardashviliâs desperate reach as it hit the side nettingâinside.
And the noise⊠fractured.
The Valencia fans couldnât see if the ball had scored, but the Arsenal fans in the corner detonated into screams and flailing limbs.
The bench erupted while Arteta punched the air and turned away, laughing under his breath like he couldnât believe what heâd just seen.
âOh, my word⊠Football with audacity as its spine,â Tyldesley barely managed.
âA Goal of the highest order. A rabona from nothing, and a header from a man who can barely runâArsenal are level through sheer imagination.â
The Mestalla had frozen.
Even Valenciaâs defenders didnât react right away.
Rioja looked at the linesman, hoping for the flag while Tarrega cursed under his breath, stunned not by the goal but by the fact that Izan had gone for it.
And then Drury, reverent, full-throated,
âYou cannot teach this. You cannot design this. You can only witness it.
Izan, through bodies, through bruises, through every reason not toâ
has turned the tide in the most audacious way imaginable.â
âThis is no ordinary footballer. This is football with a heart and at this moment, itâs beating faster and sharper than anyone elseâs.â
Martinelli was mobbed by teammates.
But every finger pointed elsewhere. Towards the same direction and the same kid.
At Izan.
He walked back toward halfway point, unsmiling.
Still breathing heavily.
A job half-done.
Valenciaâs bench stirred while Baraja stared forward, chewing the edge of his nail, his face carved with something between tension and respect.
The home fans could only look on as a player they once used to admire, bringing their team down a peg.
âWe are all square,â Clive Tyldesley said, steady and low.
âBut nothing about this feels balanced.â
Valencia kicked off, and from the north stand, the Ultras roared back into life.
âÂĄValencia! ÂĄValencia! Amuuunt Valencia!â
Flags rippled, shirts came off, and smoke flared briefly, as the echo rolled down from the top tier like a warning bell.
It wasnât just noiseâit was memory. Identity. A demand to respond.
Baraja stood at the edge of his box, arms folded, jaw clenched as he watched his men.
The ball moved between Mosquera and Tarrega now, both defenders exchanging glances as they looked for a reset.
Arsenalâs press didnât come immediatelyâjust shadows lingering in dangerous pockets, letting Valencia feel the weight of every pass.
Pietro dropped to receive after spotting no one near him, but Declan Rice was on him the moment the ball reached his boot.
A crunching shoulder, legal, just enough to knock the rhythm out.
Valencia had kicked off, but Arsenal were still in control.
The crowd tried again.
âValencia, que bote Mestalla!â as they tried to will their team into the game, but even that had a tremor in it now.
Guerra dropped the ball to GayĂ , who shaped to turn upfieldâand found Saka waiting.
GayĂ turned again and then rolled the ball to Mosquera.
âMestalla roars, but Arsenal have turned the volume down on the pitch. Valencia had kicked off in defianceânow they search for breath.â
Tarrega, who now held the ball, looked up and saw no clear way out with the ball, so he sent it along the right wing.
Zinchenko tracked it in the air and took it down on the bounce while Odegaard clapped once, calling for it central.
And just like that, Arsenal had the ball again.
Pietelli stood near the centre circle, hands on hips, head low for a second.
Then he turned and jogged back into shape, jaw tight.
He could feel itâmomentum was slipping, and the goal they had scored hadnât even been worked on themselves.
Behind him, Pietro clapped his hands loudly.
âÂĄVamos!â he shouted, waving his teammates up the pitch.
Sosa followed, pushing forward to engage the midfield line again.
But the calm was no longer theirs as Arsenal had now taken back the match.
A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading, and Iâll see you in a bit with the Golden Ticket Chapter.
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