Chapter 611: Starting As You Meant To

Chapter 611: Starting As You Meant To

There was no shouting in the tunnel.

Only footsteps, echoing soft and tense on concrete.

22 men, warriors, stepping back into a storm of something they knew only one could come up on top, or for them to share the spoils but that wasn’t what either of them were looking for.

Both sides stood in loose clusters, scattered across the concrete corridor like chess pieces waiting for someone to move first.

The tension from the first half hadn’t lifted—it had just sunk lower, heavier in the air.

Arsenal stood mostly to the left, a few leaned against the wall, others fidgeting with their tape or passing half-empty water bottles between them.

No one spoke much.

On the right, Valencia weren’t much different.

Still humming with Baraja’s words, some players bounced on their heels, others hunched forward, hands on hips, sweat still damp on their backs.

Izan stood near the front of Arsenal’s half-group, swaying lightly from foot to foot.

He felt eyes, boring holes into him so he tilted his head slightly—just enough to catch Piatelli watching him from the other side.

The look they shared wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t warm either. It just existed, like something unfinished.

A glance that asked no questions and answered none.

The crowd was warming up again, their voices like smoke drifting through cracks.

Then—

Clap. Clap.

The referee stepped in, voice raised but even.

“All right. Let’s go.”

The players filed out after the words of the referee, and the noise rose like a resurrection, a pure noise—a cocktail of fear, anger, hope, belief, and spite.

It poured down from the seats in waves.

“And we back again after the halftime break. If you’re just joining us, it is Arsenal 3, Valencia 1, but from what Valencia showed towards the end of the half, it won’t be like this forever, ” Peter Drury said, his voice almost reverent.

“From silence to sound. From stillness to fire.”

“It’s no longer about moments now,” Clive Tyldesley followed.

“This half will be about control… or the lack of it.”

The players spread across the pitch some jumping to release the tension inside their bodies, while a few, like Izan stood still, already drawing their plans.

The officials checked their watches as the away end roared.

They had watched their team, go on the back foot and come back to embarrass the home side with 3 goals in a span of 20 minutes but the home side didn’t let up either.

It had kept quiet after the half, but now, it roared back.

As the referee raised the whistle to his lips, Arteta crouched low on the edge of his technical area with Baraja standing on the other side too, watching to see if his men would rise to the occasion or falter.

The whistle blew after the still and then kick-off.

Valencia didn’t hesitate.

There was no circulation through midfield.

The ball shot backwards, then out to the right in one swift motion.

Tarrega hit it high, the first time—diagonal, floating, falling into the space where Rafa Mir was already accelerating.

Zinchenko caught off guard, turned and ran as his head snapped toward the ball, then toward the man.

Mir beat him to it—barely.

He took the first touch sharp, then cut in toward the right edge of the box, his shoulder dropping into Zinchenko’s chest as he turned.

Zinchenko extended an arm—minimal, but there.

Rafa Mir fell, flatter and easier than a slice of bread in a tornado would fall.

It was enough.

The referee’s whistle was instant, shrieking and piercing as the Arsenal players snapped their heads towards the source of the whistle.

Penalty.

“Well now!” Tyldesley’s voice cracked. “What a call! Less than a minute into the half—and Valencia are handed a lifeline! A textbook example of coming as you mean to as Valencia get a penalty, seconds after the start of the second half.”

Arsenal players stopped, stunned for a heartbeat—then swarmed.

Gabriel was first, palms out, and furious.

Ødegaard wasn’t far behind, pointing at the ground, shouting, “He’s already falling!”

The referee shook his head and signalled again.

Decision made.

“That’s so soft,” Drury said, his tone tilting.

“Zinchenko does touch him—but is that a foul in this context? Or is that just… pressure, playing its role?”

Ødegaard’s protests didn’t stop.

The captain’s voice rose even though he knew it would take a world of convincing for the referee to change his mind but what came next made the away fans tremble.

The referee reached for his pocket.

Yellow.

Ødegaard stared hands in his hair, resignation etched on his face.

Rice stepped in, placing a hand firmly on his chest.

“Leave it, Martin. Come on.” His voice was low, urgent. “It’s gone.”

Slowly, the Arsenal players peeled away—each still muttering under their breath.

And through it all—

Izan hadn’t moved.

He was nowhere near the action.

At the edge of the centre circle, he squatted, both elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely interlocked.

His head was down, eyes fixed on the grass, watching a single blade sway in the breeze like the penalty decision hadn’t reached him.

“All the Arsenal players complaining about the call but Izan, strangely, remains in silence,” Drury noted.

Gaya stepped forward, ball in hand, planting it with care on the spot.

With Izan gone, the role was his again—as it once was, when they played together.

Gaya stood over the ball, placing it down with quiet confidence.

The crowd behind the goal swayed restlessly—some shouting, some praying, all waiting.

Raya stood tall on the line, bouncing on his toes, arms out, trying to read the run-up as the referee finished sending all the other players out of the box.

Gaya took three short steps back and after the referee’s whistle sounded, he didn’t hesitate.

He ran forward and struck it hard with his left—clean and rising, just enough curl to send it bending away from Raya, who guessed right but couldn’t reach it.

The ball smashed into the left side of the net, just inside the post to make it Valencia’s second of the night.

“Valencia pull one back!” Clive Tyldesley shouted as the replay began.

“Straight out of the dressing room—straight into the game again!”

On the pitch, Gaya sprinted to the corner flag, arms wide, pumping his fists toward the fans before turning towards the net where Sosa had grabbed the ball from Raya and was heading towards the halfway line.

His teammates swarmed him, shoving and shouting and half-smiling faces as they reached their half of the pitch.

Back on the touchline, Baraja’s voice cut through the noise.

“Sosa, Pietro, Guerra—on him. No space. No breathing.”

He didn’t shout much but his players knew who he was talking about.

From that point on, Izan wasn’t just being watched—he was being stalked.

Valencia’s shape pulled back into a low block, midfielders clustered close, wingers tucked in.

They weren’t pressing the ball high anymore—they were sitting compact, tight, waiting for a loose pass, a broken rhythm, a crack to counter through.

Arsenal, sensing the squeeze around Izan, shifted their play.

Ødegaard and Rice began rotating higher, looking for pockets.

Nwaneri floated left, stretching the back line.

The ball zipped between triangles, always looking for an opening—but it wasn’t flowing as freely now.

Izan had space on the ball, yes—but it was always followed by contact.

On his first touch after the restart, he received the ball near the halfway line and turned quickly, one flick off the outside of his left boot sending Sosa off-balance.

He darted forward—only for Guerra to step in with a body check, absorbing Izan’s momentum and bumping him just hard enough to break the flow.

The referee gave the foul.

But it was forty-five yards out.

Baraja didn’t flinch.

That was exactly where they wanted it.

Again, a few minutes later—Izan pulled wide to the right, touched and spun through two, then tucked the ball under his foot with that signature swagger before following with a drag back and a little stutter step.

And suddenly, it was like watching Ronaldinho at full tilt—legs rolling, hips swinging, defenders flinching at ghosts.

Pietro, who was now on Izan held slid in getting the ball and the man but he got the man first so the referee awarded another foul but kept his cards in his pocket.

The crowd groaned—some even cheered.

Valencia knew what they were doing.

They weren’t going to let Izan beat them on the scoreboard from a set piece.

Not from close.

Still, Izan kept coming.

The more they surrounded him, the more he moved like he wasn’t playing in lines anymore.

The ball dropped to him near the centre circle again after Nwaneri’s weaving attempt failed.

He didn’t trap it—he lifted it over Guerra’s foot and took off like he’d been launched.

One stride. Two.

Then he tucked it left, right past Pietro.

Sosa came in from the blind side—but Izan saw him.

He dropped his shoulder and feinted, pulling the ball across his body.

He was halfway through the movement when a hand gripped the back of his arm.

Then another grabbed his waist.

And down he went.

Hard.

The referee’s whistle blew out loud.

Another foul.

“They’re letting him run,” Tyldesley said.

“But only so far. Then it’s a tactical foul. Again and again. The referee might have to start being a bit more strict here.”

“They don’t want to see him near that box,” Drury added. “Not with a dead ball. Not with feet like his.”

Izan sat up, brushing grass off his forearm eyes on Rafa Mir who made a helpless expression, mouthing “My hand are tied” to Izan who just smiled, got up slowly, collected the ball, and rolled it back to the spot with a calm expression—but his eyes weren’t calm anymore.

A/N: Hello, this is the last of yesterday. I’m working on the next two chapters so see you in a bit with the first of the day and another GT chapter before we end with the last of today. Byee

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