Chapter 674: Tactical Revamps.

Chapter 674: Tactical Revamps.

The referee moved towards Van Dijk and then pulled out a yellow card towards the player who had already accepted his fate.

Boos poured from the Arsenal end like boiling water while cheers rose just as fiercely from the other side.

But none of that mattered to Izan.

He pushed himself up slowly, blades of grass stuck to his arm, jaw clenched like stone.

Odegaard jogged over, hand on his shoulder.

“You good?” the captain asked, voice low as Izan gave a small nod, sucking in air through his nose.

“That won’t be enough to stop me,” he muttered before turning towards the ball.

The Arsenal end of Wembley found its voice again.

First one voice.

Then another.

Then a wave.

“Izan! Izan! Izan!”

They were on their feet.

Every single one of them.

Clapping, shouting, chanting.

Like they’d just watched him walk through fire and not burn.

……

The whistle cut through Wembley, sharp and unsparing.

The roar that had trailed every Izan touch now shifted into a collective murmur—frustration, disbelief, even a trace of anxious anticipation.

Arsenal, for all their control, still trailed 1–0.

In the broadcast booth above the halfway line, the pundits leaned over their monitors as the halftime highlights began to roll.

Karen Carney’s brow furrowed at the slow-motion replay of the goal—Luis Díaz sliding the ball into the net, but only after Izan had been clipped near the centre circle.

“That’s the talking point, isn’t it?” she muttered, voice low but cutting.

“You’ve got a 17-year-old bursting through a line, takes contact—clear contact—and the referee waves play on. Seconds later? Goal and somehow, it stands.”

Andrew Stewart, another pundit, folded his arms, watching the moment again, Izan tumbling forward with a spray of turf, looking up in disbelief as the play surged past him.

“What I don’t get,” Andrew said, “is the body language from the ref. You see Arsenal freeze for a split second, like they’re waiting for the whistle. Odegaard’s already raising a hand. Then it’s too late.”

Rio Ferdinand, seated between them, let out a breath through his nose.

“It’s a final, yeah, you don’t want the ref blowing for every little thing—but that wasn’t little. That was a transitional foul in the middle third. You stop that in the Premier League week in, week out.”

The camera feed cut briefly to Izan again, on the sideline minutes after the goal, rinsing the blood from beneath his nose as a medic handed him a cotton plug.

Beside him, Arteta spoke into his ear, quiet but firm.

“That was the moment,” Rio added.

“Credit to him, though. He doesn’t lose it. No shouting. No, throwing his arms around. That’s a 17-year-old keeping himself together after being fouled, after conceding a goal, after literally bleeding for it.”

Karen tapped her pen lightly against the desk, still staring at the screen.

“What Izan’s doing today—being a consistent pressure point, showing discipline, creating—he’s doing it without forcing it, and that is why I think he is the best player in Europe right now, even when you take away the huge goal and assist tally.”

Another replay played: Van Dijk stepping across him minutes after the goal, cutting off another drive with what could only be described as a tactical shoulder barge.

No booking. Then the next one, a more obvious tug—finally, a yellow.

“It’s becoming a pattern,” Andrew Stewart said.

“Van Dijk’s fouled him three times already. Each one more desperate than the last.”

“And yet,” Karen continued, “Arsenal haven’t let their heads drop. You look at Lewis Skelly, you look at Declan Rice—even when they go behind, they’re snapping into shape, keeping control. They’ve managed the emotions better than I expected.”

Rio gave a slow nod.

“That’s why I’m not reading too much into the scoreline. Liverpool have the lead, yes—but they’ve been reacting, not dictating. Arsenal are asking the questions and very soon, they will get the answers they want.”

The footage returned to the benches as it emptied, with both teams heading down for the tunnel.

“With that in mind, how do you think of the refereeing so far, Andrew?” she said before turning towards the younger analyst.

Andrew scoffed.

“We’re seeing a match that needs better protection for players like Izan. That’s not me saying give him special treatment—but he’s been fouled, bloodied, and ignored. That goal shouldn’t have stood.”

Karen’s eyes narrowed slightly, thoughtful.

“The worry is consistency. If the ref’s setting a high bar for fouls, fine—then keep it consistent. But when one of those missed calls leads to a goal… that’s the kind of moment players remember.”

The halftime highlights closed with a final look at the scoreboard:

Liverpool 1 – 0 Arsenal

As the camera panned out, Rio leaned back and exhaled.

“I don’t think this match is done. Not by a long shot.”

…….

[Liverpool dressing room]

The door shut behind Arne Slot with a soft clack, barely audible over the sound of boots scraping the floor and water bottles being passed around.

His presence, though quiet, was commanding.

All heads turned as he walked to the centre of the dressing room, letting the tension breathe for a moment.

Then, calmly, he spoke.

“Well done,” he said, his voice low but firm.

“That was not an easy forty-five. You stuck to the plan. You pressed in the right zones. And you showed courage in big moments. We’re forty-five minutes away—forty-five—from lifting the first trophy of the season. So keep your heads. Keep the tempo. We didn’t come here to admire Arsenal. We came here to win.”

Slot’s eyes moved to the back after that, locking onto Van Dijk first, then Konaté.

“Virgil. Ibrahima. You two—be smart now. Izan’s looking to draw something. He’s not just dangerous with the ball—he’s clever without it. Virgil, you’ve already got a yellow. One mistimed step, and we’re down to ten.”

Van Dijk gave a subtle nod, jaw clenched.

“We need heroes, but more than that,” Slot added, voice dropping slightly, “We need discipline. Stay compact, stay sharp, and if you need to step back a few yards to hold shape, do it. Don’t take unnecessary risks.”

He took one last scan of the room, then gestured towards the tunnel.

“Keep the fire. But keep control. Forty-five minutes.”

His players fired back with a flurry of nods as Arne Slot turned to look at the board in front of him.

Everything was going according to plan, and that was what was bothering him.

Meanwhile, inside the Arsenal dressing room, the atmosphere was tighter and quieter.

A few of the staff were huddled around Izan as he washed the last remnants of dried blood off his face.

The medic replaced the plug in his nostril again—tighter this time before they gave him another change of jersey, as the one from the first half had been dragged to stretch by all those tussles and grabs.

He was now good to go.

Arteta stepped into the middle of the room, his hands resting on his hips.

The look in his eyes was intense but measured.

He waited until every player’s gaze had met his.

“They’ve shown their hand,” he started, pointing to the marker board now filled with a fresh layout.

“Slot’s trying to close our right side. Izan is being double-marked—triangled, mostly. They’re rotating Mac Allister, Trent, and the nearest centre-back every time he cuts in. It’s not just man-marking. It’s containment.”

He tapped the board.

“What that’s doing is thinning their left when we move fast. It’s narrow. They’re gambling on keeping the centre locked, even if it means leaving space elsewhere. We’re going to exploit that.”

Before he could finish, Izan straightened up from the bench, running his sleeve across his lip and speaking up.

“If Van Dijk’s sitting on a yellow,” he said, voice clear and calm, “he’s not going to dive in unless he’s absolutely sure. That gives me room. He’ll hesitate, and I think I can use that. If I run at him right—fast and direct—I might pull him into a mistake. Even if I don’t, it could crack open space behind him.”

There were nods around the room.

It made sense.

Arteta held Izan’s stare for a moment, then nodded once.

“Alright. I like the idea. But listen to me—don’t force it. I don’t want you thinking about drawing fouls more than creating chances. If the moment comes, take it. If it doesn’t, recycle. Don’t chase a red just because we want an extra man.”

He stepped closer, voice lower now, addressing not just Izan but all of them.

“We don’t have the luxury of depth anymore. You all know that. We can’t afford another injury—not to you, not to anyone. So be sharp, be brave, but be smart. Win this with your heads as much as your legs.”

He stepped back, gave a single clap, and looked around.

“This is a final. So play like you want that trophy on the bus after the match.”

The Arsenal players roared in unison as Arteta nodded once and then stepped out. It was time for the second part of the Final act.

A/N: On second thought, here is a chapter of gratitude. I realised I could finish this before 2, so I did. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you in the day with the extra two to close this out. Also, the world-building and plot for the new novel is going very well, and I wish I could show you guys. This is very hot-stakes football, kind of like Bluelock but realistic.