God Of football-Chapter 417: One More

As Izan slowly walked off the pitch, his shoulders slumped in disbelief, the Arsenal fans in the away end had turned the volume up, though their shouts were now filled with confusion and frustration.

"Unbelievable!" one fan shouted, his voice filled with anger. "What's next? Are we going to get a red card for smiling too?"

Rice clapped Izan on the back as he walked past him.

Izan still couldn't believe what had just happened, shaking his head in disbelief as he disappeared down the tunnel.

Arteta, pacing furiously on the touchline, looked as if he might explode at any moment.

"This is a disgrace," he muttered, glancing at his coaching staff. "This is beyond a joke. We can't afford to lose players over something as ridiculous as this."

Carlos Cuesta, ever the calm presence, stepped forward and put a hand on Arteta's arm.

"Mikel, we need to keep calm. We can't afford to get into trouble here."

But Arteta was shaking his head. "We've been punished for celebrating a goal! What is this? It's not right!"

The Villa fans, sensing the tide turning, were not silent in their corner of the stadium.

They jeered at Izan's exit, their displeasure written all over their faces.

"I can't believe what I'm seeing," the commentator said, voice tinged with incredulity. "Izan sent off for a goal celebration. It's just—unreal."

With a final whistle from the referee, the game resumed, but the momentum had shifted.

Arsenal, now down to 10 men for the rest of the match, had lost their starlet just as quickly as they had found him.

..........

A staff member in a black Arsenal tracksuit kept pace beside Izan as he trudged down the tunnel.

No words were exchanged—none were needed.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, echoing faintly in the silence of Izan's slow, composed walk.

His head was slightly bowed, jaw set, hands clenched just enough to show tension but not enough to betray emotion.

The moment the dressing room door clicked shut behind them, the staff member moved to the far wall and flicked on the TV.

The screen crackled to life, showing the touchline where Arteta stood, animated and shouting, already plotting adjustments.

Izan sat down on the bench, elbows resting on his knees, eyes glued to the screen.

He didn't reach for his boots. He didn't say a word. His breathing slowed gradually, but the disbelief hadn't yet faded from his eyes.

Back on the pitch, the shift was immediate.

Arteta was on the edge of his technical area, gesturing with one hand and pointing with the other.

Tomiyasu was coming on. Partey too.

The setup would have to bend without breaking.

"Ten men, twenty-five minutes to go," the commentator noted.

"Mikel Arteta knows they'll have to manage this stretch carefully. Villa smell blood now."

And they did.

From the restart, Villa zipped the ball with pace and urgency.

Watkins dropped deeper, dragging Gabriel with him and opening space for Leon Bailey, who cut inside with menace.

He beat Zinchenko with a sharp feint and let one fly from outside the box—left-footed, curling, dipping.

"Bailey! Oh! That's a beauty… almost."

Raya soared to his right, fingertips brushing the ball just enough to change its trajectory.

It clipped the bar and spun behind for a goal kick.

Gasps echoed around Villa Park.

The home fans sensed it—Arsenal were hanging on.

Moments later, a deep cross from Leon Bailey found Watkins rising above the newly introduced Thomas Partey.

The header was thunderous, low, and to the corner.

"Watkins again!"

But Raya was there—solid hands, perfect positioning, catching it clean and immediately urging his teammates up the pitch.

Aston Villa kept coming and coming. A well-worked move saw Bailey escape from Tomiyasu before slipping the ball to Youri Tielemans.

Tielemans halted the ball before he tried his luck from a distance after the cutback from Bailey, but Declan Rice got his body in the way.

The rebound fell to a certain overlapping Matty Cash, who rifled it with venom.

But Raya came through again. This time, down and low with a smart save.

It was a storm.

And then—clarity showed.

A clearance from Saliba met Rice's chest. The latter quickly scanned his surroundings before spotting a free Martin Odegaard.

With a sharp movement, he sent it towards Odegaard.

The Norwegian was calm under pressure, taking one look up and releasing a sweeping diagonal toward Saka, who had ghosted behind Digne on the right.

"Counterattack here—Saka's in behind!"

Saka's first touch was golden.

The second, even better—nudging the ball inside the recovering Digne before surging into space, his pace electric.

With Villa's backline caught flat and only one center-back covering, space had opened like a wound.

Martinelli, now playing centrally after the changes, darted into the box to drag Konsa with him, forcing space to open up.

Saka took it. One look up, one cut inside, and then the finish, a low, curling ball around Martínez, precise and deadly.

"BUKAYO SAKA! THAT'S THREE! It's game, set, and match—Arsenal down to ten, but they've just killed it!"

The away section erupted. A wave of red-clad limbs and thunderous noise as Saka run towards them, finger pointing towards the gunner's crest, shirts in the air, fists punching the sky.

On the sideline, Arteta didn't celebrate long—just clenched both fists and turned back to his bench, yelling directions even in the wake of the goal.

After a while, the final whistle echoed across Villa Park, sharp and unapologetic.

Arsenal's bench erupted—not with wild celebrations, but with clenched fists, pointed gestures, and a rush of staff toward the touchline. It wasn't just relief.

It was defiance.

The scoreboard above read 3-0.

Down to ten men for nearly half an hour, Arsenal had held their line, ridden out the pressure, and then struck the final blow.

"Full time here at Villa Park," the commentator began, voice steady but tinged with disbelief.

"Arsenal walk away with three goals, a clean sheet, and three points—but that is not the full story."

He let the words hang for a moment as cameras panned across the players slowly gathering near the center of the pitch.

"It'll be a field day for the media after this," he continued.

"A second yellow card for a goal celebration. A sending-off that changed the shape of the game. These are the moments critics and fans alike will debate for days. For Premier League officials, this isn't going away quietly."

None of the Arsenal players made a move toward the referee. Not one extended a hand.

Ødegaard, usually composed to a fault, offered nothing but a curt glance as he turned away.

Declan Rice tapped his chest and pointed toward the away end while Tomiyasu, arms folded, shook his head slowly as he followed his teammates.

Only Saka spared a look at the official—disbelief still clouding his eyes from his own booking—but he too turned away without a word.

"They're making a statement with this," said the commentator.

"Not a single player offering the referee a handshake. You don't see that often. But tonight? You understand it. There's no way around it—this one will sting."

The away end—those loyal fans who had made the journey and sung through ninety minutes—refused to be quiet.

Chants rang out, bouncing off the concrete terraces and cutting through the murmur of the home crowd filing out.

Many Villa fans remained seated, stunned into silence, unsure how their team had come away with nothing despite throwing everything at Arsenal.

One Arsenal fan near the front held his scarf high above his head, both arms trembling slightly as he shouted, "That's how you fight for the badge!"

As the players made their way toward the away section, clapping above their heads, you could see the fatigue in their bodies—but also the pride.

There was no over-the-top celebration. Just acknowledgment. Gratitude.

Ødegaard was the first to reach the supporters, raising both hands in appreciation.

Saka followed, his shirt soaked, every step looking heavier than the last, but his focus never leaving the fans.

Behind them came Gabriel, Zinchenko, Saliba, and Rice—each one nodding, clapping, some exchanging brief glances that said everything they needed to.

"Mikel Arteta's side came here needing a performance," the commentator went on.

"They leave with more than that. They leave with unity. With resolve. With a message. Ten men. A controversial red. Their youngest, sent off for celebrating a goal. And yet, they stood tall."

The camera found Arteta now, walking slowly toward the tunnel entrance.

He hadn't even looked toward the referee. His expression had cooled, but his eyes still burned with that deep intensity.

Carlos Cuesta followed closely behind him, murmuring something, perhaps already thinking ahead to the press conference.

"They'll say Arsenal overreacted," the commentator added.

"They'll say the rules were followed. But one thing is clear—this match, and that sending off, will be talked about far beyond the final score." he let his words set before continuing.

"For fans of the game, for the ones who love the sport for its emotion and spontaneity, that red card will feel like a line crossed. My name is Ian Darke, and Goodnight folks."

As the final few players jogged off, the tunnel swallowed them one by one.

The away end kept chanting.

In the dressing room, the door cracked open as Tomiyasu entered, nodding toward Izan, who was still seated, boots off now but in full kit, watching the post-match footage roll across the screen.

No one spoke for a moment.

And then, Ødegaard stepped in. Walked across the room. Reached a hand out and pulled Izan up to his feet.

"You did your part," the captain said quietly, voice steady. "We handled the rest."

The team began filtering in behind him, the room slowly filling with the clatter of studs and low murmurs.

Izan gave a nod in return—just once—and finally exhaled.

They had won.

And they had done it together.

a/n: Okay. First of the day. Keep the tickets coming, and I'll treat you to your favourite bonus chapters when I'm done with my biology paper tomorrow

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