Chapter 661: Game On

Marco Silva, Fulham’s coach, didn’t waste any time getting into the groove.

“Stay switched on!” he bellowed from the touchline, stalking the technical area like a man trying to physically grab the nerves out of his players.

“No sleeping! Watch the runs! STAY ACTIVE!”

His voice sliced through the noise, sharp and commanding.

Several of his players looked his way, some nodding, others already bouncing on their heels, getting blood into their legs.

On the other side, Izan had his hands on his hips, already facing the Fulham centre-backs like a man waiting for the gates to drop.

And then, for a moment, the stadium held its breath.

One final silence before the storm.

And then, FWEEEEE, the match began!

Arsenal knocked it off first as the ball rolled gently back to Rice before moving left and right as if being tested for weight.

But the rhythm never had time to form.

Before the clock hit five, the Emirates had already groaned four times — once for Martinelli being clipped mid-sprint, twice for Ødegaard being body-checked off his balance, and most recently for Izan being stepped into just as he looked to turn into space.

“And that’s four already,” came the voice of the commentator, clipped and almost amused.

“Four fouls in five minutes. You can see what Fulham’s trying to do here. Set the tone, disrupt rhythm, and remind Arsenal — especially the younger ones — that this won’t be a gentle evening.”

The game didn’t breathe.

Fulham took possession in their half and Arsenal immediately hunted — pressing in clusters, snapping at passing angles.

Timber surged forward from the right, forcing Cuenca into a blind swing of the boot.

He whipped the ball high up the pitch, more of a desperate clearance than a pass.

It spiralled, hung, and dropped towards Jiménez and Saliba, with both rising to meet the ball.

Or rather — one did.

Because when Saliba launched upward, he Mexican ducked out at the last second.

The Frenchman’s frame crumpled mid-air and twisted downward, landing in a clumsy sprawl as the Arsenal players immediately began calling for a foul, but the referee waved play on.

“Saliba’s been sent flying!” the commentator reacted, half in shock, half in critique.

“And that’s clever, if a bit cheeky, from Raúl Jiménez. He knew exactly what he was doing there.”

Jiménez didn’t wait and immediately chased after the loose ball.

He cushioned it with his right, dragged it into control with his laces, then whipped a curling pass out to the left.

The ball zipped over Gabriel’s outstretched boot and landed at the feet of Emile Smith Rowe.

Gasps echoed as a flicker of recognition swept the home crowd — one of their own, in the wrong kit.

Emile Smith-Rowe, perhaps eager to prove something, killed the ball with his first touch before the second sent him past Declan Rice.

He slipped through a channel, dipped his body, and let fly — a right-footed shot whipped hard and low across the goal.

“Smith Rowe! That’s bending, but, oh, what a stop from Raya!”

The stadium roared in relief because Raya, fully stretched, had read it perfectly.

The Spaniard flew across his line again and clawed the loose ball wide with both hands, thudding to the turf just as the ball kissed the outside of the post.

On the touchline, Mikel Arteta was already barking.

His arms waved, urgent, cutting shapes in the air.

Whatever rhythm he’d envisioned for the opening five minutes had been shattered, and he wasn’t about to let it continue.

“Fulham making themselves very known early on,” the co-commentator muttered. “And this is what I meant before kickoff. They’ve come here to play a little dirty, play a little loud — anything to knock Arsenal off their stride.”

The corner was delayed for a moment.

Lukic and Sander Berge were busy — not jostling for the ball, but hovering.

Both stuck close to Izan, flanking him like shadows because they had seen him do things time and time again from that kind of space, and they weren’t about to let him do it again.

“They’re not even pretending,” the commentator noted.

“Two Fulham players are marking Izan. And if you’ve watched Arsenal this season, you know why. One clean touch on the break, and he’s gone.”

The corner was forming as the crowd grew restless.

The corner soon came in hard and flat from Smith-Rowe as a whip across the face of the goal that ignored the chaos and aimed for the chaos beyond it.

Arsenal’s line dropped too late, and Castagne met it at the far post with a thumping header.

The ball, destined for the back of the net, needed just a few seconds to settle, but Raya stepped up again, pushing the ball out with otherworldly reflexes.

“Big, big moment again!” the commentator gasped. “That’s two now, both times Raya having to save Arsenal from going behind!”

Before Fulham could reset for a rebound, it was cleared — not just hoofed out but recovered smartly by Myles Lewis-Skelly, who dropped deep, collected the ball near the edge of his box and slowed everything down.

He didn’t look for the obvious out ball but just paused and let Fulham’s pressure slide past him like rain off a coat.

He then opened his hips and found Declan Rice with a sharp inside pass.

Rice took it, scanned, and was about to turn when someone stepped in fast.

Izan.

The latter didn’t shout or gesture animatedly for the ball, but just angled toward the ball with his body in that way that made the intention loud without a word, and Rice understood.

Izan took the ball in stride, and immediately, Fulham reacted — two men on him. Berge again, and Robinson, both adjusting angles like they’d trained for this moment.

But Izan didn’t stop.

He dragged them with him, left boot on the ball, right arm fending off space, then twisted his frame and swept the ball diagonally across the pitch, and straight into the right half-space where Leandro Trossard was stationed.

And just like that, Arsenal were breathing in Fulham’s half.

Trossard’s first touch was tight, second was a fake, and the third had his marker spinning the wrong way.

But he didn’t burst forward.

He twisted again, waited and checked his shoulder like he was looking for something or waiting for someone, but he didn’t have to wait that long.

Because, there, right ahead of him in that split second was Izan, again, surging into the pocket between the lines like he’d never left.

From the backline to the front in a matter of seconds.

Trossard didn’t hesitate and slipped the ball between Fulham’s full-back and centre-half, with the ball being just a short slide of the boot, but nonetheless, Izan was there to take it.

One defender was still glued to him — shoulder close, arm brushing Izan’s ribcage — but it didn’t matter.

He had momentum now.

Each stride uncoiled effortlessly beneath him, long legs whispering against the grass like they’d been carved for this moment.

“And here we go again…” the commentator’s voice murmured low and steady, not shouting, not gasping — just knowing.

Like everyone else, he’d seen this story before.

Izan knocked the ball forward toward the space at the arc of the box, but then, it began to close.

Three Fulham shirts converged.

One came from the right, sliding across the grass with studs slightly raised — reckless, desperate, while another pressed in from behind, shoulder low, crouched like a spring-loaded trap.

The third stayed high, guarding the box entrance like a lock on a door.

They had the angles.

They had the numbers.

But did they have the nerve?

Izan didn’t even blink. His head stayed upright, chest relaxed, eyes scanning not for gaps — but for fear.

And when he found it, even just the flicker of hesitation in one defender’s feet, he was moving.

He drew his right foot back with a pause.

The pause was so slight — just enough for tension to pool inside the stadium like thick fog.

Then—

BAM

The shot exploded off his boot and straight through bodies, between a flailing leg and the keeper’s gloves.

And then—

CRACK.

The crossbar screamed.

The ball slammed against it with a gut-punching smack, clanging metal and shaking the goalframe so hard it echoed around the Emirates like a gunshot in a tunnel.

The rebound fired upward into the sky, then dropped violently back down, bouncing just outside the six-yard box before spinning wide.

A roar that turned into a groan that turned into applause.

And above it all, the stadium buzzed with the sound of 60,000 voices unsure what to feel — relief, awe, or frustration.

“Crossbar! My word — you give him a fraction, and he makes you pay for it!” the commentator finally burst out, the authority back in his voice now, rattling off words like he was trying to catch up to the chaos.

A/N: It seems I always type the two chapters and sleep. Sorry guys, I will really catch up with the last 3 chapters so we get in schedule for the upcoming week. See you in the morning or afternoon depending on when I wake up. Bye for now.

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