Chapter 650: Short Night.

On the touchline, Arteta turned to his bench, jaw tight, while Enzo Maresca was already shouting instructions on the opposite end.

Cole Palmer, not deemed fit for the match but playing anyway, turned and tried tossing the ball to Sancho as he had won the penalty, but the latter declined the offer.

Cole Palmer stepped up to the spot without passing up the chance to improve his goal tally.

Cole Palmer placed the ball down gently on the spot with no fuss.

It was just calm hands and a slow inhale as he stepped back, eyes never leaving the keeper.

Raya bounced on his line, stretching side to side, trying to unsettle him.

“Cole Palmer has been Chelsea’s quiet killer this season,” came the commentary, tone laced with tension.

“Coming off a spectacular season, he’s already adapted to regular team football as he doesn’t look rattled, not even a little. Just twenty-two years old but already Chelsea’s penalty specialist. Arsenal fans will be hoping today’s the day he slips.”

The whistle blew and Palmer took one step, then another — slow, composed — before striking the ball clean and firm with his left.

Raya guessed right, diving towards the ball, but it wasn’t enough to stop the ball from settling into the net.

Bottom corner. Perfectly placed.

1-0, and just like that, Chelsea led.

Stamford Bridge erupted like a powder keg, the roars echoing like thunder around the old stadium.

“Cool as you like! Cole Palmer! Ice in his veins, heat in the veins of every Chelsea supporter!” the commentators croaked.

“That’s now seven penalties scored this season by the youngster — and what a moment to add another.”

Palmer turned away from goal, arms outstretched, letting the roar wash over him like a wave, before wrapping his palms around his shoulders while shivering.

Neto was the first to reach him, leaping onto his back, followed by Enzo, Caicedo and Cucurella.

“COLE PALMER IS BETTER!”

“COLE PALMER IS BETTER!”

The chants rained down, first from the Matthew Harding stand, then spreading across the Bridge like wildfire.

Playful, biting.

Meant for Izan — and everyone knew it.

On the sidelines, Arteta clapped twice, firm and commanding, trying to wake his team out of the haze that had followed the decision.

Raya gathered the ball out of the net and smashed it towards the centre of the pitch where Odegaard was barking at his teammates.

.

The Chelsea players, high off the goal, finally began jogging back to their half.

Palmer glanced toward Izan as he passed him near the centre line.

Izan, feeling the gaze turned towards Palmer, who nodded at the former, his competitive edge showing.

“Arsenal trail here at the Bridge. Not the first time this has happened between the two teams, but the first time in a while.”

“The Premier League leaders have been rattled. And Chelsea… they’ll smell blood now.”

The ball was placed at the centre spot.

And the game, once more, was ready to begin.

“The ball is on the spot and now we await the restart.”

The whistle went again — a short, sharp chirp — and Nwaneri nudged the ball gently back to Izan as Stamford Bridge’s noise simmered into a low, expectant hum.

Izan took it in stride, eyes scanning the pitch like a chessboard, his body a pivot, absorbing the press before rotating away with a sharp touch that sent Enzo Fernández momentarily the wrong way.

Caicedo closed in fast, but not recklessly — this time, he hovered like a shark just beyond reach.

“Chelsea pressing in spurts now — but Arsenal are trying to play around it. Izan, the fulcrum again,” the commentator noted.

“Shadowed tightly, but it’s the kind of pressure he’s used to. You can’t man-mark a ghost.”

Timber joined the sequence, playing a one-two with Martinelli on the left touchline before swinging it back inside to Izan.

Again, with a sharp flick, Izan sent it back to Odegaard, who returned it only for Izan, once again, to send it back.

Chelsea’s midfield line surged forward, drawn into the carousel of passes Arsenal spun across the width of the field.

The crowd shifted restlessly — they knew what this looked like.

Izan drifted right, dragging Enzo with him.

Then pivoted left, where Caicedo now was, second-guessing, waiting, measuring.

The momentary hesitation was all he needed as he sent a disguised pass neatly down the channel to Saka, who picked it up in stride with a slight jink of the shoulder that unbalanced Cucurella.

Saka, seeing the opening, nudged it central to Nwaneri, who tried to let the ball roll across his body — but Colwill had read it like a schoolbook.

The ball hit the Chelsea defender’s chest and dropped to the grass, and Nwaneri — perhaps too eager to make up for the earlier miss — stumbled forward and collapsed to the turf.

“He’s gone down — but the referee waves it away! Nothing doing says the man in black!”

Boos rippled from the travelling Arsenal fans behind the opposite goal.

Nwaneri slapped the grass with his palm, looking up in disbelief — but play hadn’t stopped.

Colwill, tempted by the space infront of him, rushed with the ball through the midfield, going past Saka and then Odegaard but just behind Odegaard was Izan.

He darted in with a burst of acceleration and slid between Colwill’s legs, toe-poking the ball out just as the Chelsea defender tried to shift it wide.

Cheers rose from the away end as Colwill went to the ground.

In a flash, Izan was up on one knee, scooping the ball forward again — this time right back to Saka, who hugged the touchline tightly, never letting the ball drift an inch over.

“Wonderful recovery by Izan! He’s kept the attack alive!”

Saka danced on an arc-shaped run.

One that started near the chalky white of the sideline and curved dangerously inward, each step powered by precision and muscle memory.

The ball glued to his boots as Martinelli’s dummy pull dragged Reece James wider, clearing the lane just enough for something to happen.

But it didn’t.

Bang was the sound that echoed.

Caicedo, hard and ruthless, shoulder into rib, boot into turf. A blur of limbs and momentum.

Saka crumpled mid-run — a twisted shape — and the ball skidded over the line for a throw.

Gasps turned to shouts as the crowd rose.

A few Chelsea fans clapped the contact while the Arsenal fans shouted for a card but the referee more was interested in Saka who hadn’t gotten up.

Not right away.

He rolled onto his back, a hand clutched around his ankle, face twisted in pain.

“Oh, that looks nasty… and this is the last thing Arsenal wanted to see.”

“Saka’s down — he hasn’t moved much, and the referee has finally stopped play. That one was late. And heavy.”

The referee backtracked now, brow furrowed.

His whistle came again — louder, sharper.

His hand went up, waving urgently to the sidelines.

“And here come the medics.”

The camera cut briefly to Arteta on the sideline, a hand on his mouth and the other clenched behind his back.

Inside the stadium, the roars had softened — replaced by murmurs.

The medics jogged across the pitch, gear in hand, blue gloves snapped on.

One of them was already signalling toward the bench — just in case.

Saka lay still while Izan stood near, hands on hips, his breath misting slightly in the cool afternoon air.

“Saka’s been a constant for Arsenal since the first minute. You take him out of this game, and the dynamic changes. And you can see Izan… he knows it too.”

All around them, the noise of football paused — as if everyone collectively held their breath.

The medics crouched beside Saka, one by his ankle, the other leaning in to speak to him quietly.

From a distance, the forward’s face looked calm, but his wince gave him away every time the physio applied the slightest pressure to the joint.

“Bukayo Saka… still down. He’s talking, and that’s a good sign — but he hasn’t made any effort to stand yet.”

The referee lingered near the medics, head bowed slightly as if hoping the delay wouldn’t mean what it seemed.

Eventually, slowly, Saka sat up.

Applause broke out — first from the travelling Arsenal fans, then, surprisingly, from the Chelsea stands as well.

The rivalry didn’t silence basic humanity.

Saka rose gingerly to his feet, leaning into the support offered by both medics, and began the slow walk toward the touchline, his limp still noticeable.

And then came the signal.

The fourth official raised the board, numbers blazing against the air:

7 IN RED.

29 IN GREEN.

“And that’s the end of the evening for Bukayo Saka. It doesn’t look overly serious, but Arsenal clearly not willing to risk it. Kai Havertz is coming on.”

As Saka passed midfield, Izan met him there, extending his palm as the English forward went off the pitch.

Saka offered the smallest nod before continuing, escorted now by the medics toward the bench.

A/N: Last of the previous day. Will see you in a bit or in the morning with the first chapter of the day.

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