Chapter 680: End-To-End

Izan stepped to the spot, cradling the ball in his hands like it was alive.

He lowered the ball, squatting slightly to place it on the white dot, adjusted it once and then nudged it a fraction with his fingertips before backing up a few steps away.

Alisson was already bouncing on his line.

The Brazilian keeper muttered something under his breath — a prayer, maybe. Or a curse, but Izan didn’t look shaken.

He just stared.

“Look at that,” Martin Tyler breathed, reverent. “This is it. This could determine the fate of the two teams. Is this it, or is Arsenal going to pull out an extra-time game affair?”

Izan tilted his head as the referee raised his arm… and brought the whistle to his lips for the umpteenth time in the game, and then the Shrill blast.

“He’s ice cold,” Alan Smith murmured, barely above a whisper.

FWEEEEEE, and

Izan took one step—

Then another before his third and final stride cut sharper, body angled slightly left, and in the same motion, he whipped his right foot through the ball—

The ball soared into the top right corner, brushing the underside of the crossbar as it kissed netting—unstoppable.

Alisson had guessed right… But it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d flown.

“Uh, lovely!” Alan Smith gasped.

“That is unsavable! Top right, a postage stamp of a target—and he found it. The boy has nerves of titanium!”

“That is a grown man’s penalty,” Beglin echoed. “Not just precision, but violence behind it. He rifled it.”

The net still rippled as Wembley erupted—except Izan wasn’t among those erupting.

Instead of sprinting off in celebration, the 17-year-old turned coolly toward the goal, stepped in, and scooped the ball back out of the net like he had a problem with it.

“He’s not celebrating…” Drury noted, voice tilting with intrigue.

“He’s not celebrating!”

“The scoreboard says it’s 2-all, but to Izan, he thinks they’re still losing,” Tyler muttered, watching Izan jog with the ball back to the centre circle.

“To him, it’s not over. This isn’t equal footing—it’s unfinished business.”

Izan planted the ball at the halfway line, then pointed downfield to no one in particular.

On the touchline, Arne Slot looked rattled.

He pointed frantically, palms pressed down like a man urging calm.

He shouted at Van Dijk, barked something at Konaté—slow it down. Kill the rhythm.

Push for extra time.

But his players weren’t moving like believers anymore.

They dragged their feet back into position like men who’d just had their plan shattered by a child.

As Izan bounced once on his toes, Curtis Jones stepped up to the ball and glanced around.

Then, he gave it a small tap forward—

But after Jones’s pass, Liverpool surged forward without warning.

All at once, Luis Díaz, Darwin Núñez, Mo Salah, and even Cody Gakpo, who’d tucked back to help defend, now swept forward—storming into Arsenal’s half like wolves unleashed.

The Mersyside team flooded the final third of the north London giant, no longer respecting shape or restraint.

Controlled madness or tactical abandon?

You could say what you wanted, but from the view of anyone watching the game, it had thrown Arsenal into distress.

“Wait—what is going on here?! This is everyone from Liverpool!”Jim Beglin called as the Reds surged forward.

“They’re throwing the kitchen sink now, Jim! They’re doing what Arsenal did earlier… It’s an all-out assault!”.

Gabriel and Calafiori shouted, waving hands furiously—organising, backpedalling, bracing.

Timber was screaming over the roar, backtracking with wild urgency.

And behind them all, Raya’s voice cut the night air like a whip:

“GET IN SHAPE! RIGHT SIDE, DROP—DROP!”

But Liverpool didn’t care.

They wanted chaos.

And chaos was exactly what they got.

From his deeper, inverted pocket, Trent Alexander-Arnold received the ball calmly from Curtis, and he scanned with a half-glance, then swept a lofty, curling diagonal toward the weak point he’d already identified.

Not Gabriel.

Not Calafiori.

Alan Smith called, “He’s picked out Saliba’s zone… smart. The less aerially dominant of the back three.”

William Saliba stepped up to contest, but Darwin Núñez was already there—standing in front of him, not jumping, not challenging, just… anchoring.

Holding. Nudging. Subtle, annoying, but it was legal enough or at least, the official didn’t notice such a small gesture.

Saliba’s knees bent, arms flared as he jumped, but he only went up a bit.

The ball arched cleanly over Saliba’s struggling leap and bounced on the space behind him where Gabriel reacted—instinctive, wild.

But Cody Gakpo was sharper.

He darted in from the inside-left channel like a predator with the scent of blood.

He dragged the loose ball into his possession with a touch, and then with another, he carved it into space just outside the 18-yard box.

Jorginho came sliding across—boots skidding, grass flying—but instead of clearing, he nudged it sideways off his shin.

Straight.

To.

Luis.

Díaz.

“Oh no—not him again!” Alan Smith’s voice sharpened as the Colombian took hold of the ball.

Timber was already flying in from the side—repeating the exact same movement that had created Liverpool’s opener.

He landed hard, shoulders squared, body between Díaz and the goal, like a last wall of resistance.

But Díaz wasn’t passing this time.

He fainted, left, then pulled the ball back with a delicious drag onto his right boot.

“Timber’s isolated!” Jim Beglin roared.

“He’s gone too far! Díaz—he’s gone for it!!”

The Colombian flared his arms, planted his left foot and bent a perfect curler with his right—effortless and wicked.

It tore through the air toward the top right corner like a homing missile, kissed with spin and swagger.

Time slowed.

Everyone—everyone—froze.

Timber twisted, mouth open in disbelief, while Jorginho, still getting up from his slide, turned slowly to watch.

Raya, not expecting such a shot, could only watch as the ball streaked past him.

Alan Smith gasped, “That’s going in—!” he called, but the ball showed it had other plans.

“OH—CROSSBAR!!” Jim Beglin exploded as the ball hit the bar with a clang!

It struck the underside of the bar, rattling with a brutal echo that shot adrenaline through the stadium and for a moment, the ball hovered—spinning, suspended like fate had hit pause—then dropped vertically.

Right on the line.

The ball spun in place, dangerous and indecisive—

Until Riccardo Calafiori arrived with pure Italian vengeance, hammering the ball off his right foot and sending it deep into the night sky.

“Cleared! Cleared!” Alan Smith cried. “That was millimetres from heartbreak, but Arsenal survive—by a thread and Liverpool cannot believe it!”

The ball hadn’t travelled far after Calafiori’s desperate clearance.

It spun off the Wembley turf like a wounded thing—half-dead but still dangerous—until Ethan Nwaneri rushed in, reading it quicker than anyone else in red or white.

He took a deft touch with the instep of his left foot and burst diagonally across the pitch, carrying it toward the right touchline near the halfway circle.

From the corner of his vision, Izan began to approach—arms out slightly, asking.

A pass was forming.

But before Nwaneri could release it, a sudden leg swept across him.

Crack!

A flash of boot on shin.

Mo Salah, hustling back with desperation rather than malice, had tried to poke the ball clean.

But instead, he’d caught Nwaneri flush across the lower leg.

The Arsenal midfielder stumbled and let out a sharp wince as the whistle rang out and the referee blew hard and sharply, hand to the sky.

Alan Smith called from the gantry, “Nwaneri’s gone down—Salah just mistimed that, trying to recover.”

But before Smith could even finish his thought, something unexpected unfolded.

Izan Miura didn’t wait.

He darted forward, scooping up the loose ball with purpose, waving Nwaneri to play it.

And to his credit, the teenager understood.

From the floor, Nwaneri twisted and tapped the free kick sideways—barely a second after falling down.

The Liverpool players roared in protest—but it was legal.

The referee had signalled advantage by allowing the restart.

Jim Beglin barely got a word out—”Wait—he’s *already taken it?!”—

And Izan was off.

He turned as he received the ball, dragging it behind his standing leg as Mac Allister lunged.

But Izan wasn’t slowing down.

With a flick of his heel and a lift of the ankle, he danced the ball over the incoming Argentine’s boot—so subtle, so fluid, like skipping a stone over water.

Then came the magic.

Without pausing for breath, Izan rotated his hips and swept the outside of his right foot against the ball.

It curved.

Hard.

A trivela, pure and perfect, like an artist curling paint into an empty canvas.

The ball spun violently in mid-air, curling outward and wide toward Arsenal’s right flank.

“What a ball! Outside of the boot! That’s outrageous!”Jim Beglin shouted now, almost startled,

The crowd gasped in tandem as Martinelli, who had just crossed the halfway line, saw it coming—spinning toward him like a divine message written in flight.

He opened his stride, legs pumping, and stretched his right foot outward—

The ball dropped.

And Martinelli reached for the touch.

To be continued

A/n: HAHAHAHAAHAHAHAAHAHAHHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Sadist mood activated. Ya’ll really thought I was going to end the whole game this chapter. Think again. But don’t worry, I will see you right after this with the last of the day.

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