God Of football Chapter 692: A Sip Too Far.

The noise after the goal was deafening — until it wasn’t.

A sharp blast of the referee’s whistle cut through the celebration like a blade.

Darren Fletcher’s voice came through.

One by one, the Arsenal players’ expressions shifted from triumph to confusion, heads turning toward the referee and then the touchline, and there it was.

The assistant referee’s flag — held high, unmoving.

And just like that, the explosion of joy in the stands faltered into a rumble of groans, disbelief rippling through the crowd.

Fletcher’s voice held a mixture of excitement and hesitation,

The din inside the Emirates was a volatile mix — half the stadium still riding the wave of Trossard’s finish, the other half already bristling at the interruption.

Izan, who had been jogging toward Trossard to join the celebrations, slowed, his expression tightening.

Odegaard was already striding toward the referee, gesturing animatedly, with White, Gabriel, and Havertz close behind.

The man in black, however, was unmoved.

He brought a hand to his ear, head tilted slightly as he listened to the VAR room, his other palm raised to keep the Arsenal players at bay.

The little circle of red shirts stalled a couple of feet from him, forced to retreat a step under his firm wave.

The crowd’s volume swelled, thousands chanting and jeering, the sound morphing between anger and the impatient hum of hope.

Darren Fletcher’s voice carried over the noise.

For a heartbeat, maybe two, it seemed like the goal might yet stand.

The referee’s gaze tracked up toward the big screen above the Clock End, where the slow-motion freeze-frames from VAR flickered.

Players from both sides stood rooted in place, some stretching their legs idly, others simply watching the official as if waiting for a sentence to be handed down.

Steve McManaman, who had been silent with few words since the start of the game, chimed in.

Then the arm went up.

Flat. No hesitation.

A roar of boos tore through the Emirates, some fans throwing their arms toward the pitch in frustration.

The referee spun on his heel, pointed firmly toward the Real Madrid box — restart.

Fletcher said over the rising boos.

Courtois wasted no time.

He placed the ball, stepped back, and launched a driven, high pass over the halfway line, turning the Arsenal players into blind chasers as the ball descended.

It dropped toward Vinícius Júnior on the left, just inside Arsenal’s half, where Timber sprinted to meet him, body low, preparing to step across.

Vinícius waited until the ball bounced just in front of Timber’s extended leg — then flicked it up and over him with a flicker of movement so sharp it was almost cruel.

Fletcher’s voice spiked.

Gasps, but mostly cheers, rippled from the away stands as Timber spun, but Vinícius was already gone, tearing down the flank.

The Brazilian cushioned the ball with the outside of his boot, then cut inside, Gabriel sliding across to cover.

Vinícius barely slowed, eyes on his men in the box.

But he wasn’t seeing too many.

he thought as he cut back inside Gabriel’s left, and then, he saw a window.

Without much thought, he slipped a perfectly timed diagonal ball, skidding past the centre-backs into the space on the far right of the box.

"It’s opened up for Madrid now," Darren Fletcher urged.

Rodrygo arrived at full tilt, his first touch guiding the ball into stride,

Raya was still shifting across his goal, hoping to get to the ball somehow, but Rodrygo wasn’t missing the goal from such close proximity.

GOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAALLL

Fletcher’s voice rose,

The away end detonated in white-shirted ecstasy, their chants slicing through the stunned silence of the home support as Rodrygo slid on his knees toward them, stopping at the advertising boards, waving both hands in front of his face in the John Cena ’you can’t see me’ motion.

Fletcher laughed over the noise.

Madrid shirts flooded around him — Vinícius laughing, and Mbappe clapping him on the back with Bellingham also shouting into his ear with a grin.

All while Izan stood at the halfway line, brows drawn tight, watching it all.

McManaman muttered in the background.

The boos from moments earlier were gone, and now, the Emirates was stuck in a stunned, bitter quiet broken only by Madrid’s celebrations.

Hori groaned loudly up in the stands, slumping back in her seat.

"Ugh... that’s so unfair..." she muttered, burying her face in her hands.

Beside her, Miranda exhaled through her nose, Olivia doing the same, their eyes still fixed on the pitch.

Just two seats along, Florentino Pérez’s assistant began to clap politely, the crisp sound carrying faintly even over the distant noise of the Madrid fans.

Pérez himself didn’t bother joining in — instead, the old man smirked, leaning back in his seat before slowly turning his head toward Miranda.

"You know," he began in that soft, almost conspiratorial tone, "Modrić is leaving at the end of the season... and the number ten is still free."

Miranda didn’t even blink.

"I came here to watch my client," she said flatly, her voice firm without being raised.

"If you’ve got something to say about him, you can contact Arsenal. Not me."

Pérez’s smirk widened by a fraction, but he didn’t reply.

Miranda turned back toward the pitch, eyes narrowing. "And it won’t stay that way for long."

Darren Fletcher’s voice threaded back into the moment,

The ball travelled across the pitch in neat, short triangles as Arsenal tried to shake off the goal.

There was a pause in the voice, just long enough to notice the subtle rise in crowd noise — the restless shuffle of thousands waiting for a spark.

The commentary began to thin out, words blurring into the low static of the Emirates atmosphere.

........

"Good work, guys, but at the same time, it’s poor" Arteta’s voice was steady but edged with expectation as the players dropped into their seats.

"We’ve bossed possession. You’ve made them work. But we haven’t found the goal — not once after Trossard’s disallowed goal and Izan’s long-range shots. That has to change."

Izan took a slow sip from his water bottle, eyes flicking up to the clock on the wall.

Madrid still had the lead.

His legs didn’t feel heavy, but... something wasn’t clicking.

His mind was half a beat behind the game, like he was watching himself through glass.

Arteta’s gaze landed on him.

"Izan — you tired? Even off the ball, you’ve been... not sluggish, but different. And that’s not you."

He shook his head. "I’m fine."

But he wasn’t convincing anyone — least of all himself.

He stood, bottle in hand. "Gonna hit the bathroom," and made his way towards the bathroom in the locker room.

The moment the door shut behind him, the change happened without him having to say a word.

A faint overlay flickered into place in his vision.

"Max," he muttered under his breath, "diagnosis." and then the faint HUD blinked into view in his mind’s eye.

⌈ Mental fatigue detected. ⌉

⌊⌋

"In plain terms?" Izan asked.

[You’re mentally drained.]

"Hmm," Izan groaned as he washed his face with water.

[Suggestion:]

After seeing the system’s suggestion, Izan opened his inventory.

Soon, a short, faintly glowing glass, tinted with a bluish light, materialised in his palm like it had always been there.

The liquid inside shimmered faintly, almost too clean to be real.

He tipped it into his water bottle as the faint swirl disappeared into the rest of the water without a trace, and the glass dissolved into dustless nothing, vanishing as if it had never existed.

He raised the bottle, drank half in one steady pull, feeling a cool clarity begin to spread behind his eyes.

[Good. Finish the rest of the second half if needed. Don’t overdo it.]

Izan stood for a while after the system’s words, and then the latch on the bathroom door clicked behind him as he stepped out, with Arteta’s voice cutting across the corridor.

"Izan — got a second? Need to run through a few things."

Without thinking, Izan set the bottle down on a nearby table and walked toward him.

Across the room, Rice lifted a hand. "Water? Anyone?"

The kitman started towards the cooler, but Rice’s eyes caught on the unattended bottle.

"Hold up, that’ll do."

Before anyone could say otherwise, he picked it up and drank — not a sip, but long gulps until the bottle was empty.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, setting it down with a satisfied exhale, and that was when Izan stepped up behind him.

Rice turned, pausing mid-movement.

"This yours?" he asked, almost sheepish. "Sorry, mate. Didn’t realise."

Without waiting for a reply, he gave a nod and walked off.

Izan stood there for a beat. "...Ah?"

A/N: Okay, this is the first of the day. Guess what you think will happen in the comments and see you in a bit with the last of the day. Have fun reading and bye.