God Of football

The Emirates was already alive with movement when Izan and Olivia arrived through the players' hospitality entrance.

The buzz of thousands building toward kickoff was low and steady, like a hum beneath their feet.

They moved past stewards and ushers with familiar nods, heading toward the box seats reserved for squad members not involved in the day's match.

Izan walked with his hands tucked into the pocket of a black hoodie, the hood hanging loose over his shoulders.

He didn't need the Arsenal badge on the pass lanyard to be recognized.

Olivia, in a clean white knit and fitted jeans, stayed close, not clinging but comfortable.

They reached their seats just a few minutes before kickoff.

It was elevated but not distant from the crowd, nestled within a row of VIPs and familiar faces.

There were murmurs when they sat—nothing loud, nothing direct.

Just a small ripple of acknowledgment moving through the nearby seats.

A few turned their heads. A couple of camera phones lifted discreetly.

Olivia leaned toward him, whispering with a smile, "You weren't joking about people staring."

"They're staring at you."

"Please," she laughed softly. "They're already plotting their fantasy teams with you back next week."

He gave her a look but didn't argue.

The pre-match screen sequence had started—clips of previous goals, fan footage, a quick spotlight on supporters from around the world—and then, as usual, a sweep across the crowd.

It was playful, light, the kind of thing people waved at and laughed about. But the camera settled—just briefly—on them.

It wasn't staged. But it felt like it.

There he was, seated with arms folded, the faintest smile on his face, and Olivia next to him, legs crossed, leaning ever so slightly into his space with a raised brow.

The Emirates let out a mix of laughter and cheers, a pocket of fans near their section letting out a mock chant of "Izan! Izan!" like he'd scored a winner.

Olivia laughed under her breath. "I can't believe I'm on the big screen."

"You should've worn the shirt," Izan muttered, motioning to the Arsenal training kit poking out from under someone else's jacket in the row ahead.

She shrugged. "I'm the one people will be asking about later."

One fan called out from below, "Oi Izan—get back out there next week, yeah?"

"Shouldn't have been a red, lad!"

He gave a small, casual thumbs-up in reply but didn't play into it more than that. Olivia nudged him lightly.

"They really love you."

"Until I fluff a backheel in a derby."

The whistle blew, and attention shifted to the pitch.

Arsenal kicked off with their usual tempo—sharp, organized, and patient.

Brighton came with structure, sticking tight between the lines, but from the very first few passes, Izan could feel that Arsenal looked locked in. Even without him.

Martinelli, now back on his left, and Havertz who filled in more centrally in his absence, played like they had something to prove.

Ten minutes in, he burned past Lamptey and forced a save at the near post.

On the opposite flank, Saka had already drawn two fouls with that tight close control of his.

Ødegaard operated in tight spaces, floating between the lines with calm authority.

From their seat, Izan watched without blinking.

His arms stayed folded, but every movement was noted—where the space opened up, which second balls went unchallenged, who looked switched on and who didn't.

"Can't you just watch," Olivia said, glancing sideways with a slight smile. "You're always studying something."

He didn't answer right away. Then he looked at her, "I'm counting where they'd be in a good position."

Olivia watched the pitch for a few seconds. "You do this even when you're not playing?"

"Especially when I'm not."

He leaned slightly forward, gaze fixed. In some ways, this felt worse than being benched.

Not because he couldn't play, but because he wasn't allowed. Suspended. Punished for something he didn't regret doing.

He didn't let that sit on his face though—not here, not with the whole stadium watching.

The breakthrough came in the 34th minute. Declan Rice picked out Ødegaard with a sharp diagonal, and the captain spun, releasing Jesus between Brighton's back line with a perfect first-time pass. One touch. Bottom corner.

1-0.

The stadium roared. Not a goal-of-the-season contender, but clean. Clinical.

Izan stood with everyone else in the box, clapping once or twice before settling back down. Olivia turned toward him with raised brows.

"Pretty nice."

"Very," he said, eyes already back on the replay on the screen.

"You'd have passed that?"

"No," he said. "I'd have tried to chip the keeper and probably gave Arteta a shock."

She laughed and rested her chin against her hand as she looked at him. "You look good up here too, you know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you're not just a footballer. You don't disappear when you're not on the pitch."

He didn't say anything for a moment.

"Don't say that. I'm nothing like comfortable here."

Olivia just smiled at his words and turned towards the pitch.

Brighton pushed back near the end of the half, but their chances lacked conviction.

One header skidded wide. One half-volley ballooned over.

Ødegaard had another chance at the other end just before the whistle—right idea, wrong finish. Inches off the post.

Halftime arrived with the score still 1-0. A solid lead, even if not a commanding one.

As the players headed down the tunnel, the camera cut to the stands again.

This time, Izan saw it before Olivia did. He leaned into her, quietly:

"They've got us again."

She blinked and sat up straighter. "Good. I did my hair for this."

The halftime buzz around them was loud—conversations about goals, missed chances, the new tactical shape.

Izan's thoughts were already a week ahead, already itching to return.

"You think we'll get a third cameo?" Olivia asked with a grin.

"They'll stop once I'm back on the pitch."

"I don't know," she teased. "We're a pretty photogenic couple."

He didn't argue. Instead, he settled deeper into his seat and glanced at the pitch one more time.

...

The second half began with Brighton showing more ambition, perhaps sensing Arsenal's rhythm was just a step off without their usual width.

Mitoma, lively as ever, had shifted centrally in search of more space, but Saliba and Gabriel weren't offering any.

Despite Arsenal's lead, the match never truly settled.

Brighton had too much quality to fold and in the 59th minute, they found their way back.

Pascal Groß slipped a smart ball between Zinchenko and Gabriel, catching them flat for a second.

Ferguson's run was timed to perfection, and his first-time strike zipped low past Raya at the near post equalizing for the away side.

1–1.

The Emirates groaned, but only for a moment. The response came not from panic, but urgency.

From the stands, Izan leaned forward in his seat, elbows on his knees.

Olivia glanced at him, smiling when she caught how intently he watched the pitch.

He didn't even realize he'd been bouncing his right leg until she placed a hand on his thigh, steadying it.

"You're not even playing," she whispered.

"Doesn't mean I can't will my team on," he muttered.

Arsenal pressed again. Odegaard sprayed passes with surgical precision. Havertz, who had been quieter in the first half, started drifting into more dangerous pockets.

But the final ball kept missing. Saka looked exhausted from constant double-marking. Jesus buzzed but couldn't quite get free.

The breakthrough came in the 76th minute, and it came from the man who had been waiting for his moment all game.

A long spell of possession worked the ball from right to left.

Rice found Zinchenko on the underlap, who cut inside and squared to Odegaard at the top of the box.

The captain didn't take a touch. He simply nudged it into space—and Leandro Trossard, on as a sub, ghosted between defenders to meet it first-time.

2–1.

The Emirates roared. Izan stood up with the rest of the crowd, clapping once, then folding his arms with a small smile.

Olivia leaned toward him and murmured, "That guy's not bad, huh?"

He chuckled. "I taught him that."

She laughed as the replays showed Trossard sprinting away in celebration, the rest of the squad piling onto him.

The final ten minutes were tense but not frantic.

Arteta brought on Jorginho and Tomiyasu to tighten up midfield and secure the lead.

Brighton threw bodies forward, but nothing came of it beyond a hopeful cross that Raya plucked from the air with confidence.

When the fourth official's board went up with four minutes of added time, the crowd rose, willing their side to finish the job.

And they did.

The final whistle blew, and the Emirates responded with a wave of sound. Relief. Joy. Three points.

Full-Time: Arsenal 2 – 1 Brighton

Goals: Jesus (34'), Trossard (76') – Ferguson (59')

"That's how you dig out a win," the commentator said over the closing broadcast shot, the camera panning across jubilant fans.

"Arsenal, without their teenage sensation on the pitch, had to find other ways through today—and they did.

Odegaard brilliant. Trossard sharp. A tight one, but another big three points for Mikel Arteta's side, who stay right in the thick of it."

The shot cut to the executive seats, briefly catching Izan and Olivia as they rose.

A ripple of cheers echoed when Izan gave a subtle wave, but he was already guiding Olivia down the aisle before the focus shifted back to the pitch.

As they walked toward the stadium's private exit, Olivia leaned in.

"They showed us on the screen again," she said.

"I saw," Izan replied, barely hiding his grin.

"They caught my good side."

She nudged him with her elbow. "All sides are your good side."

He looked over at her. "Alright, now you're just trying to get us back home early."

She raised an eyebrow. "And is that a problem?"

He didn't answer. Just held her hand tighter as they stepped through the tunnel, the echoes of the win still lingering behind them.

A/n: Chapter number 3 out of a lot. Slowly but surely getting there. Have fun reading and i'll see you with the next chapter.