CHAPTER 675: CREAKS IN THE SHIP.

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.

........

"Mate, I swear down—if that was not a foul on Izan before their goal, what are we even doing here? I’ve seen that blown in a U-12s match."

A middle-aged man in an Arsenal shirt shook his head, hands wrapped tight around a plastic pint cup, foam spilling over the sides as he turned to the group next to him.

"I’m tellin’ you," his friend replied, voice scratchy from yelling, "if that’s any other ref, he doesn’t hesitate. We’re getting mugged out here."

"Three fouls from Van Dijk," the former muttered to no one in particular.

"Three. Only got booked for the third. What, is there a delay system now?"

"Izan’s gonna score," he said quietly.

"He has to. This feels like one of those games where if he doesn’t do it, no one will."

His friend nodded.

"Slot’s gambling. If Izan breaks one line cleanly, the space behind opens like a wound. I think Arteta sees it, but it’s how he can take advantage of it? That is missing."

The camera panned across Wembley—fans still settling into their seats, flags still waving with hopeful expressions on their faces.

.......

The scoreboard still hadn’t changed.

Sixty-one minutes were now gone, but it was still one-nil to Liverpool.

Every second since the restart had been a siege.

Arsenal were no longer probing cautiously.

They were pressing with shape and speed and venom, dragging red shirts into the corners and then switching play before the midfield could breathe.

What started as a tactical response had turned into something more primal—momentum in its purest form, building and building like pressure behind glass.

And at the centre of it all was the same teenager they’d targeted, fouled, and bloodied in the first half.

He hadn’t stopped.

Since walking out of that tunnel, he’d been a live wire.

There was no dramatic scowl and no grand gestures.

Just sharp movements, timed runs and subtle feints to shift the Liverpool triangle’s edge and test its limits.

"Sixty-one minutes gone," Alan Smith said from the broadcast gantry, his voice even but pulled taut, "and this second half—it’s been all Arsenal. But more than that, it’s been all about that boy. Izan. The kid hasn’t let up once."

"You can see the shape Liverpool are trying to hold," Jim Beglin added, slightly leaning into his mic.

"Still rotating into that containment triangle when he drifts inside. Van Dijk, Mac Allister, Trent... sometimes Konaté stepping in. But every time he gets on the ball, something happens. Even when it doesn’t result in a shot, you can see the panic. The scrambling. That’s control, even if it’s not on the scoreboard yet."

There was a pause as the stadium buzzed through a near moment—Rice had just fizzed a low cross into the six-yard box, but Alisson claimed it again, arms wrapped tight around the ball like it was a life vest.

"And fair play to Alisson," Jim continued.

"There are keepers who’d lose their heads by now. That save a few minutes ago—getting down after the deflection from Konaté? That’s top class. Pure instinct."

"You know, when you look at the age, the expectation, the way this final’s gone, most players, not to talk of 17-year-olds, would’ve disappeared after that first half. At this point, I can’t even look at him as a kid anymore with the way he carries himself."

The crowd noise rose again—first a murmur, then a wave.

Arsenal were in possession again, recycling from the back with Lewis-Skelly curling a ball inside to Rice, who immediately pinged it toward Odegaard near the halfway line.

Liverpool’s press looked slow now; the incessant running had finally started catching up to them.

Odegaard turned, and then with a glance, swept a high diagonal toward the right touchline.

"And here we go again—Odegaard looks up, switches it long—he’s found the boy wonder in space," Alan Smith leaned forward slightly.

The ball dropped out of the sky like a coin tossed by the gods as Izan cushioned it with one touch on the instep, the ball barely leaving the grass as he shifted it forward into stride.

He could already hear the panic in the Liverpool back line by the subtle call to reset by Van Dijk.

Trent Alexander-Arnold stepped up to meet him again, jaw set, every part of his posture screaming readiness.

He’d been spun a few times already, and he couldn’t afford it again.

But Izan was as clever as he was quick.

He feinted left, twitching his shoulder as if preparing to bolt down the line with the kind of electric pace that had made Wembley buzz since kickoff.

Trent bit on it, posture already looking to follow what he thought would be one of the fastest sprints he had ever gone in his life, but all he saw was Izan’s shadow moving the other way.

The forward slipped the ball under Trent’s trailing leg instead—smooth as water, sharp as a whisper—then followed it with a diagonal cut in behind.

Before Trent could turn, Izan was already accelerating toward the channel between the recovering Van Dijk and the covering Konaté.

There wasn’t space, and it was looking like a dead end, but he welcomed it.

Van Dijk moved to close the gap—arms out, ready to shepherd—but Izan threaded the needle with one final touch, toeing the ball across the Dutchman’s body and into the gap on the edge of the box where Gabriel Jesus appeared with a perfectly timed run.

He was already ahead of Konaté, ghosting into the blindside, and latched onto the ball with one quick lift of the chin.

He didn’t need much time on the ball because he already knew what to do in his mind.

Slipping his foot under the ball, he chipped it.

Alisson was off his line fast—unreasonably fast—but the chip was graceful, measured, and aimed just inside the far post.

For a breathless second, time hung with the net looking like the destination for the ball, but that would be too easy.

The keeper’s fingertips flicked it.

It wasn’t a strong save, but it was just enough.

The ball spun midair, kissed the tip of the far post, and spun out toward the corner flag like a toy top, chased by gasps from all four corners of the stadium.

"Oh my word. That would’ve been the move of the final."

Jim Beglin was already half out of his chair.

"That was unbelievable. The composure from Izan to break through, the timing on the run from Jesus, and the audacity—audacity—to chip it like that..."

Jesus, already in motion to celebrate, threw his hands to his head, a shocked expression on his face as he fell to the turf.

Izan had already stopped running, boots planted at the edge of the box, eyes following the flight of the ball like it owed him an explanation.

The Arsenal end let out a groan—not the defeated kind, but something raw and breathless, as if the hearts of the thousands of fans had been jolted forward and left dangling mid-beat.

And then the sound swelled again: clapping, shouting, roaring.

The chant was gone, replaced by pure urgency.

They had seen enough.

The goal was coming, and they believed it now.

"And Alisson... what a save. That is top, top goalkeeping. But it’s survival now, not control. Liverpool are hanging on," Alan continued, breath catching.

Down on the touchline, Arteta had spun toward his bench, arms wide, shouting instructions and pulling one of his bench players in the person of Nwaneri closer.

His lips moved rapidly, eyes scanning the pitch like a man watching a dam begin to crack.

He didn’t shout at the players—just barked once, short and sharp, then snapped back toward the fourth official.

On the opposite touchline, Arne Slot’s face had tightened.

He stood still, but his hands were gripping the sleeves of his black jacket like he was holding onto something slipping.

The plan he had worked on for almost 2 months was starting to creak, not that it was Izan-proof since the start of the match, but he could see where it was going, and he didn’t like it.

A/N; Okay, another Chapter to thank you guys. I have a class in 5 minutes so see you in the evening with the last of the day.