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God Of football

Chapter 466: Lightning Start To The Second Half [GT ] (Page 2/3)

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In the far corner, Kai Havertz adjusted his shin pads, readying himself mentally for the second half.

Mikel Arteta stood before the squad, arms folded, sweat darkening the collar of his black quarter-zip.

His voice was steady and calm, but the intensity never left his eyes.

“First twenty minutes—beautiful. Compact pressing and good transitions. We were dictating,” he said, eyes scanning his men.

“But after that water break, they changed something. You felt it.”

Nods all around. The players knew.

It hadn’t been tactical—Atalanta had stepped up like someone had flipped a switch.

“They started to stretch us between the lines. We lost our verticality. And now with Martin out…” Arteta hesitated, letting the reality settle.

“That changes the geometry of how we play.”

He tapped the whiteboard beside him, pointing at the gap in midfield.

“Kai, you’ve filled up top now. But someone’s going to need to link with Declan and Jorginho here.” He gestured toward the middle third.

Then a voice cut in from the row of benches.

“I’ll do it.”

All eyes turned.

Izan was sat near the end, legs stretched out, chest rising with post-match exertion.

A staffer was still running a TheraGun along his hamstring, but he looked unfazed, gaze locked on Arteta.

“That’s where I played back in Valencia. It’s natural to me,” Izan said.

“I can drop in, pick up from deep, and still run at them.”

There was no arrogance in his tone—just confidence.

Measured and intent.

Arteta studied him for a moment, then exchanged a glance with Carlos Cuesta.

“You sure?” Arteta asked, stepping forward.

Izan nodded.

“Let Kai hold their line. I’ll operate between. Drag their pivots. Create from there.”

From across the room, Declan Rice gave a faint smirk.

“That’ll give them something to think about.”

Saka chimed in, “You reckon you’ve got the legs for both wings and ten?”

Izan cracked a smile. “We’ll find out.”

Arteta turned back to the board, marker uncapped.

He adjusted the pieces, circling Izan’s new role, outlining triggers, passing lanes, defensive recoveries.

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“Alright,” the manager said, voice low but sharp.

“We have to adapt to whatever they throw at us. This is Champions League football—no one hands you anything. You take it with your strength.”

The buzz of the massagers quieted as everyone leaned in.

“We’ve still got forty-five minutes to send a message. Let’s do it well,” Arteta said before leaving his men.

…….

“You’re watching the UEFA Champions League live from northern Italy,” Darren Fletcher’s voice laced through the tension as the camera panned across the stadium.

“It’s 1–0 to Arsenal after a first-half thunderbolt from sixteen-year-old Izan Hernández, but with Ødegaard off injured, the Gunners have reshuffled—”

“Yeah,” Steve McManaman cut in, “and you just know Atalanta won’t go away quietly. This place is a pressure cooker now.”

And within seconds, it boiled over.

From the kick-off, Retegui took control, tapping to Éderson, who spun past Kai Havertz with a sharp pivot.

The Brazilian slid it quickly to Scalvini, who angled his pass forward, low, and zipped it to Zappacosta, racing down the right.

The ball barely touched the turf before Zappacosta knocked it forward for Lookman, already peeling off Ben White’s shoulder.

Lookman didn’t hesitate.

He took one touch inside, slicing through the edge of Arsenal’s final third, dragging White and Saliba with him.

His body fainted right, then cut sharply left, slipping through a gap barely wide enough for daylight.

Space opened for a second—just a flicker of it—and Lookman threaded a low cross toward the penalty spot.

Charles De Ketelaere was already there, ghosting past Saliba.

He didn’t even break stride.

The Belgian’s left foot came across his body, meeting the pass sweetly.

The ball arrowed toward the far corner—low, violent, unerring.

David Raya dived full stretch but couldn’t touch it.

The net snapped, bulging at the seams, and the Gewiss exploded.

Blue smoke cannons burst behind the goal, flags flailed like waves of war, and the Curva Nord erupted in full voice.

De Ketelaere slid on his knees across the grass, arms spread wide, his teammates surging around him.

Lookman leapt onto his back, pumping a fist into the night sky.

“Lightning start from Atalanta!” Fletcher’s voice rang.

“The half’s barely thirty seconds old and they’ve already gone and equalized!”

The noise was thunderous—an avalanche of celebration rolling across the pitch.

Arsenal players looked stunned.

Saka stood still at the halfway line, blinking.

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