Chapter 609: See It Now, Don't You?

Chapter 609: See It Now, Don’t You?

There was a moment after the match restarted—just a flicker—where the match held its breath.

No whistle. No break. No foul.

Just a quiet shift in energy, impossible to measure but impossible to ignore.

The ball moved, yes.

But the rhythm had changed.

Not slower. Not quicker. It was just… different.

It was tense, coiled like a spring pressed too tight.

Something was coming.

Everyone felt it.

Players were breathing harder—not from fatigue, but from something deeper.

Their eyes shifted faster.

Their steps grew sharper.

Like predators and prey who both knew the storm they dreaded had crept in.

The crowd still roared, but their chants began to stutter.

The thundering “Valencia! Valencia!” started losing its rhythm, broken up by gasps and silences as held notes never released.

They were waiting—not for a pass, not for a whistle but for a moment.

On the Arsenal bench, Mikel Arteta moved to the very edge of his zone.

One hand folded beneath his chin, the other twitching by his side, his foot tapping the turf without rhythm.

Across from him, Baraja began to pace again, faster this time but his stride had a bit of restlessness to it.

He looked like a general trying to decide whether to send reinforcements or wait one more beat before the gates gave way.

The midfield had turned into a war zone.

Every pass came under pressure.

Every movement drew heat.

Fouls came in clusters—clipped heels, yanked shirts, thrown shoulders.

But they only came when the ball touched one person.

Izan.

Three yellow cards.

All for tackles on him, all tactical and all very necessary because when they didn’t foul him, he punished them.

“You can feel the tension here inside the Mestalla with the crowd threatening to boil over. Arsenal are looking to cement their position in the game but Valencia are not letting up because they are just within one of Arsenal.”

Then it happened, Rioja, moving with the ball went for a more adventurous option, choosing to switch to Diego Lopez on the left flank but his passing ability didn’t match that of the range he threatened to reach.

Izan, lurking in the middle, jumped and took the ball onto the tip of his toes and that sent the Valencia fans groaning but his pass to Saka after that was wasted by the Englishman who had tried going alone.

The whistles came—not from the referee, but from everywhere else.

From Baraja. From Arteta. From the crowd.

The pace had been shattered.

The match was running now like a bull without reins.

Because Baraja had unleashed his counterpunch.

Diego López and Rafa Mir had crept up.

No longer tracking back, no longer tethered to defensive lines.

They were now shadows on the flanks, playing off Zinchenko and Ben White’s blind spots—hanging at the edge of risk, just waiting for the right switch and it appeared.

López on the left took hold of the ball and and touched it inside to Piatelli, who spun and dropped it into Sosa’s path.

Sosa, meeting the ball didn’t waste anytime and just arrowed it across the pitch to Rafa Mir who was already on the run.

Zinchenko scrambled to catch him, coming shoulder to shoulder and even trying grappling at some point but Rafa Mir broke through.

Baraja stepped forward into the sunlight of the touchline. “¡PAUSA!” he shouted. “¡PAUSA!”

Slow it down. Play with control. Don’t rush this.

But it was too late.

Rafa Mir wasn’t slowing.

He didn’t cut into the box—he darted toward the corner, narrow-angle, nowhere to go.

Still, he faked a shot, spun sharp, and sliced a cutback toward the penalty arc, low fast and cruel.

Gabriel stuck a leg out.

The ball deflected and for a moment, it looked safe.

The Arsenal end started to breathe.

Until—

Piatelli.

He stepped out of nowhere, like a phantom in white, following through with purpose as he smacked the ball towards goal.

“PIATELLI!—” Tyldesley’s voice cracked as the ball curled clean—then slammed against the post with a deep, ringing thud.

“Denied! Denied by the post!” Drury shouted.

“He had it. He had it!”

The rebound pinballed awkwardly across the box, with both players fighting to get to it.

But Partey ultimately got there first and then he let it fly.

A diagonal, high and long—like a flare shot across no-man’s land.

For a second, it looked wasted.

Until two figures moved.

Rioja X Izan.

The stadium held its breath again.

Rioja had the lead.

He had the inside line.

The ball was bouncing toward the left corner.

But he also had something else.

Doubt.

One glance back—he saw Izan gaining.

A second glance—closer.

A third—

Too late.

Izan had already passed him.

He devoured the ground, steps snapping across the pitch like a wild mustang.

Rioja reached out, trying to grab onto the last bits of Izan near him but he missed.

Izan leaned in, body folding, and nudged the ball forward with just enough spin—

Just as he reached the byline.

Izan reached the byline with a ghost’s touch, keeping the ball inches from rolling out.

His boots slid over the chalk line, body angled like a tightrope walker.

Rioja was still there, chasing, panting, heart pounding in his ears.

He tried to lean into Izan’s side and tried to block the space.

But Izan wasn’t looking for space.

He was creating it.

He stepped over the ball once, twice.

Then with a single, fluid twist, he dragged it under his sole and spun—a quick, effortless turn that pirouetted him past Rioja in the blink of an eye.

A Berbatov spin, but meaner. Sharper. Surgical.

“That’s filthy,” Tyldesley said, nearly laughing. “Rioja just got turned into scenery.”

Rioja lunged but missed completely, tumbling past like a door left swinging in the wind.

The fans groaned and jeered but they went quiet after seeing Izan on the verge of breaking into their box.

The north stand fell momentarily quiet.

Even the Ultras had no language for what they’d just seen.

But Izan wasn’t done.

Foulquier came flying in from the inside channel, eyes blazing, boots hammering the turf as the only line of defence.

Izan, spotting the pursuer from a mile away shifted the ball to the other foot and then with a tap of the outside of his boot, he sent the ball cleanly between the onrushing Foulquier who had found it hard to stop at the last second.

The latter tried to turn, arms flailing, twisting to recover—but Izan was already past him.

“Oh come on!” Drury gasped.

“That’s Foulquier undone. Nutmegged and Izan still has the ball here. What is he doing next?”

Now Izan was inside the box, the ball under his command like it was waiting for his word.

His boots barely skimmed the grass as he shifted the ball side to side, checking the run of defenders.

Tarrega and Gaya were closing, and Martinelli was arriving like a bullet from midfield—screaming for it.

The angle was tight.

The pass was there.

But Izan didn’t release it.

He looked once—just once—and made a decision.

Martinelli wouldn’t reach it in time.

Gaya was cutting it off.

A pass meant compromise and didn’t do all that just to compromise at the end.

He came to rule, so Izan slowed, planted his feet and with a grunt——

[Gravity Arc Lv 4, Activated]

He curled it.

His body twisted around the ball, right foot arcing through with elegance and venom.

“He’s gone for it himself!” Tyldesley gasped. “Oh my…”

The ball spun, rising and dipping at once, headed for the far side—the wrong side—from where Mamardashvili had set himself.

The Valencia keeper lunged but he was too late as the ball kissed the far post, bent inside, and smacked into the net like it had always belonged there.

A pause.

Then an eruption.

The away fans burst into noise, a sea of limbs and voices and scarves as the bench emptied.

Saka spun in circles, screaming toward the pitch.

Ødegaard threw both arms into the sky.

“That is unspeakable!” Drury shouted over the chaos.

“From nothing. From nowhere. A curler shaped from his own logic—and it destroys the defence!”

Martinelli arrived late and slid to his knees behind Izan, who still hadn’t raised his arms.

He stood there, hands at his sides, eyes sweeping across the stadium as if asking:

“You see it now, don’t you?”

Gaya turned away, fists clenched, jaw locked.

Rioja crouched, elbows on his knees, staring at the grass while Foulquier stayed still, hands on hips, face blank.

“Calm as you like it,” Tyldesley said, more quietly now.

Izan walked back toward halfway.

His teammates caught up eventually, surrounding him.

Martinelli leaned in close, laughing breathlessly.

“You could’ve passed.”

Izan just smiled. “You wouldn’t have made it.”

Martinelli shoved his shoulder and pulled him into the group hug anyway while the away crowd roared, the home side staring on with abated breaths.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun reading and I’ll see you during the day with the Golden Ticket chapter.

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