CHAPTER 664: FULHAM’S FAITH

"Arsenal lead at the break. One goal to nil. But something tells me there’s more to come, and Marco Silva and his men are in for a ride here at the Emirates"

Behind that voice, the screen replayed it again: Izan gliding past one, two, three shirts, dragging the ball onto his right boot with the lightest touch, before sliding it across to Martinelli on his left — the Brazilian thumping the shot low.

A deflection, a keeper’s outstretched leg, and then Cuenca scrambling it away just in time. No second goal. Just another gasp.

As the players disappeared down the tunnel, and the crowd thinned toward the food stalls and staircases, there was still a kind of charge in the air — like the stadium hadn’t quite exhaled from what it had seen.

A match not decided, but it looked all but certain.

........

[Away dressing room]

"Okay, guys... listen up."

Marco Silva’s voice cut through the low murmurs and the hiss of boots being unlaced.

"Let’s be honest, yeah? They were supposed to be up by two. Three, maybe. That’s what should have happened, and that was what even I expected before the game, but it didn’t"

A few of the boys looked up.

Anderson was still towelling off sweat while Cuenca, a first-half hero, leaned forward with both elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor.

"Look around." Silva pointed casually, like he was checking the air.

"You lot kept it one. One bloody goal."

He walked across the dressing room, stepping over a couple shin pads and a loose water bottle that rolled underfoot.

"They had spells. Izan got loose once and punished us. That’s what top players do. But otherwise? We didn’t roll over. We didn’t collapse."

He stopped, turning to face them properly now.

"They were swinging punches, and we kept our shape. We kept our nerve. And now — now it’s halftime, and they’re only one goal better off. That’s not a disaster. That’s a chance."

He paused just long enough for it to land.

"You hold them for forty-five more, yeah? And take that one moment — just like they did — and you flip it. You flip this whole match."

"They’re flashy. They’ve got Izan, Trossard, and Martinelli flying down the sides. But they don’t like pressure when it’s them who have to hold on. They don’t like a fight when the gloves come off."

His assistant stepped in with a dry marker and clicked the board to life, sketching something simple — a little drag run from Traore, the overlap on the right, numbers in the box.

"Trust the plan. Keep it compact, press in twos. And when it’s time, commit. We won’t get many chances at the Emirates. But we will get one."

He looked around again, meeting eyes this time.

One by one. Robinson. Raul. Smith Rowe.

"You’ve kept it at one, lads. That means you’re in it. Now let’s go out there and remind them that London derbies don’t get decided at halftime."

YES COACH!

........

[VIP]

Komi’s tone was light but unmistakably sharp.

"Slow down, Hori. You’re not a truck. Eat like a lady, please."

Hori didn’t even pause chewing.

"I am eating like a lady," she said with her mouth full, lips pressed tightly together in mock formality.

"A very, very hungry one."

Before Komi could respond, Miranda cut in, lifting an eyebrow as she nudged a paper napkin toward the teenager.

"She’s fifteen, not five. And also the same person who swore she wasn’t hungry when we were leaving the house. We won’t be the ones crying when some hobo and a camera with nothing to do takes a picture of her like this and puts it on the internet."

Hori groaned and flopped sideways on her chair in exaggerated betrayal, but quickly backed up and grabbed the napkin from Miranda.

"I wasn’t hungry then! But then the air changed!" She gestured dramatically at the Emirates crowd outside the glass suite, the lights, the buzz.

"Now I’m starving and being persecuted."

"You’re being called out for inhaling your third Cola," Olivia said dryly from the far side of the table, nursing a drink and watching the drama unfold with mild amusement.

Hori leaned forward, her bottom lip puffed out, eyes squinted in playful threat.

"I’ll tell Izan what you’ve all done to me. And then you’ll see."

Miranda didn’t even look up from her phone.

"Oh, do. He’ll probably join in. He likes teasing you more than we do."

That earned a gasp and a huff from Hori, who dramatically crossed her arms and turned toward the glass like she was done with the world.

"I’ll remember this. All of you. Just wait till I get my inheritance from Grandma."

Their laughter was interrupted by a sudden, swelling roar from the stands that rolled through the ground and rattled even the windows of the box.

On the pitch below, the players were emerging from the tunnel in jogs and short sprints.

The game was restarting.

And just by the tunnel entrance, barely lit beneath the overhang, Marco Silva leaned in close to Willian — the Brazilian warming up during the break and now stripped, ready to come on.

"Stay wide when you can, but drift central if you see the gap. Izan’s the channel. Close it when he starts dancing. You’ve seen stuff like this before, so use your experience."

Willian nodded, rolling his neck once, twice, stretching out his arms as the stadium announcer’s voice began to echo through the bowl.

"...and coming on for Fulham at the start of the second half..."

Willian jogged toward the pitch while Marco Silva stayed still for a second longer, eyes narrowed.

Then he turned without a word and walked back toward his technical area.

Fulham restarted the second half with a quick back pass and a cautious reshuffle — but whatever calm they’d hoped to reestablish didn’t last long.

Arsenal pressed.

Arteta’s men swarmed out of their half like they’d been launched, line after line of red cutting into Fulham’s build-up like a tide.

Rice stepped up.

Martinelli mirrored him on the left, and Odegaard stayed central.

Even Lewis Skelly, young and tireless, was hounding Cuenca now, with the Spaniard being forced into a quick decision.

He took a breath and whipped a crossfield ball toward the right flank, where Willian brought it down near the touchline, arms out for balance, the white of the ball almost glowing against the black of his boots.

The first touch was soft.

The second? Pure samba.

A faint flick with the outside of his boot nudged the ball around Mikel Merino’s planted foot — and then he was past.

Just like that.

It was vintage Willian, soaked in rhythm, one-two shimmy and glide.

"Lovely feet from Willian there..." the commentator’s voice trailed through the rising swell from the Fulham corner.

The away end found their voice again, roaring him on as he charged into space.

Lewis Skelly, recovering, chased — not hard to do when you were 18 and fearless — and caught up by the edge of the final third.

But Willian slowed, shifted, and dropped the shoulder to feint Lewis, showing why he was a veteran.

Raul Jiminez and a few other players called for a cross, but Willian had other ideas.

After going clear of Lewis-Skelly, he cut inside and let it fly.

It wasn’t a screamer — not yet — but it had venom, curl, and that ugly dip that made hearts stutter.

But just before it could test Raya, it struck a wall — or rather, a man built like one.

William Saliba had already turned his hips, eyes fixed, and took the full shot into his ribs with a low grunt.

The ball dropped awkwardly, pinged forward once in a scramble, and then spun loose near the edge of the box.

Straight to Izan.

Because of course it did.

...

[Mid A/N: Well, who did you think it was going to go to]

....

He didn’t need to think — the ball arrived like an invitation, and his first touch already had intent.

He turned into it, dragging it forward into the arc of Emile Smith Rowe’s outstretched boot.

The former Arsenal man lunged, stretching for a deflection, but Izan pivoted — body low, eyes calm — and executed a Berbatov spin that left both the ball and Smith Rowe behind him.

But the touch had pushed the ball a little far, and Willian saw it.

He stepped and closed the space, trying to snap it back — but Izan wasn’t finished.

With his left, he flicked it across his body.

With his right, he met it again — a tiny touch, just enough.

Then came the roll.

The crowd felt it before they saw it — the weight shift, the sudden slowness — and then he rolled the ball gently through Willian’s legs.

Nutmeg.

The groan and cheer were instant.

"Goodness me!" the commentator blurted. "Izan — looking more Brazilian than the Brazilian there!"

Willian spun, half-turning in disbelief, but Izan was already gone — bursting past into open grass, one hand lifting for balance, legs opening into a sprint.

There was space now.

Too much space.

And Izan was about to turn on the jets.

To be continued...

A/N: Okay, guys. The final one. 5/5 and it’s done. As I said, we might have to do the first Chapter of the new day a bit later. Also, I will put the Berbatov spin in the comments for those that don’t know, so don’t worry. As usual, have fun reading, and I will see you in a bit. (Probably in 18 hours or something)