Chapter 651: Pass To Him.

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.

Izan turned back to see Kai Havertz already jogging onto the pitch, brushing off his sleeves.

He approached Izan near the centre circle, voice just low enough for only him to hear.

“Arteta says I’m wide right,” Havertz said, eyes flicking quickly across the shape of the field.

“Nwaneri’s central. You keep doing what you’re doing.”

Izan nodded once as the German turned towards Saka’s abode.

The formation shifted around them like gears adjusting mid-motion. Havertz veered right, his strides long and loose, while Nwaneri tucked inside, eager for redemption.

Chelsea’s players watched the reorganisation with quiet curiosity.

As Izan moved back into position, shaking out his limbs, he felt someone approach.

Cucurella.

The Spaniard trotted up alongside him, lowering his voice in a half-laugh.

“Take it easy on us, eh?” he said in Spanish, a smirk pulling at one side of his face.

“Don’t start turning this into your playground again.”

Izan raised a brow, lips twitching slightly.

“Can’t promise that, else I might not get called up again” he replied, also in Spanish.

“Also, you might want to keep Caicedo closer.”

Cucurella snorted, then gave him a gentle slap on the back before peeling away.

“Arsenal forced into an early change here — Havertz on for Saka, and that will alter the dynamic in the final third. But the bigger question now is whether they can respond to going behind. So far, Chelsea have played them with discipline and bite.”

The referee whistled again, a high note that pierced the calm as Caicedo smashed the drop-ball into Arsenal’s half.

Saliba stood beneath the dropping ball like a statue carved from concentration.

Chest out, he absorbed the drop-ball on impact with a soft thump, then cushioned it backwards toward Raya with the kind of trust that only came from dozens of matches in sync.

Raya took one touch, then another, before calmly shifting the ball to his left.

Arsenal began to stretch — players fanning out like the opening lines of a chess game, trying again to reclaim rhythm, to forget the blow of the first half.

But Chelsea were disciplined.

No space came easy.

And even when it did, it vanished just as quickly.

“We are past the half-hour mark, but Arsenal are still behind. Chelsea have done what most teams haven’t managed to do. Still a long way to go, but for now, Chelsea lead here at the bridge.”

……

17 minutes later, the whistle blew with a sharpness that felt both like release and frustration.

Chelsea: 1

Arsenal: 0

Stamford Bridge rattled with cheers as the home players headed off first, high-fiving, half-smirking, knowing they had done more than just contain Arsenal.

“And that’s the first half here at the Bridge, and it’s not the script anyone expected. Chelsea lead by a goal to nil — a Cole Palmer penalty the difference.”

“It’s not just the scoreline, it’s the structure. Enzo Maresca’s game plan has been spot on. Arsenal have seen more of the ball, yes — but it’s largely been in sterile zones. Izan’s been dangerous, but not decisive. Chelsea have managed to isolate him from those final connections.”

“And that’s what the top managers will take note of. Even when he creates something out of nothing, when he’s forced wide, when there’s no vertical lane to feed, the effectiveness drops.”

“Still, all it takes is one moment. And with a player like Izan… that moment could come in the 46th, or the 96th.”

Arsenal’s players jogged toward the tunnel, sweat-soaked, stony-faced, where the jeers were waiting for them like a second wave of press.

“OVERHYPED BABY!”

“SHOULD’VE GONE TO SPAIN!”

“IZAN WHO?”

The chants were louder now, less clever, more vicious.

This was the price of being expected to win and online, fans and others had their piece about tha game.

@CFCJude_04:

We’re cooking. Maresca-ball Palmer clear of every English CAM btw.

@Antares868:

This feels like last season at Anfield. Control, no incision. Need more urgency. Izan’s doing the most but everyone in the attack looks off.

@BlueBloodTalk:

Izan hyped to the moon and back, but look at Enzo and Caicedo — pocketed.

@fanen:

Chelsea pressing smart. They’re not hounding Izan, they’re boxing off his connections. Ball to Nwaneri cut. Ball to Odegaard denied. Traps everywhere. Arteta should start thinking about other things.

@TxSadz:

Maresca proving himself. Izan still the most dangerous player, but he’s running into locked doors right now.

@MidasGG:

Gutted to see Saka go off. Hope it’s nothing serious. Game changed after that.

@LdnBlue27:

Caicedo and Palmer clear. That “Golden Boy” has been invisible lmaoo

@Judas_Sikazwe:

No lies — we’re struggling to break lines. But people saying Izan is invisible? He’s doing everything. Created 2 half chances out of nothing. He needs help. Period.

@ChelseaXtra:

Palmer Sancho Gordon Foden Izan

@Nameyelus:

At HT, Izan: 97% pass accuracy, 7 take-ons(7 successful), 3 chances created, 1 key ball to Saka pre-injury. But no goals. And that’s the difference.

The fans had said their piece, but whatever their words or complaints were, it was all up to what the players would do on the pitch.

…….

Inside the Arsenal dressing room, the air hung heavy.

“Come on, boys, loosen up,” Cuesta said as he entered.

“Not what we expected from Arsenal tonight, the halftime commentary had said.

“They’ve had flashes — especially Izan — but it’s been too flat, too wasteful. Maresca’s Chelsea have had a plan, and so far… It’s working.”

Arteta stepped in, calm but with an unmistakable edge in his voice.

“Talk to me,” he said, eyes scanning the room.

“What’s happening? What’s missing?”

It wasn’t a demand — more like a challenge. An invitation.

“We need better movement,” he said, wiping his face with a towel.

“Options die too quickly. We’re not patient enough, and when we do get a gap, it’s panicked.”

Nwaneri nodded from his spot, legs stretched in front of him.

“They’re banking on us rushing it,” he said.

“We’re playing their tempo, not ours.”

“Exactly,” Arteta said, pacing now, one hand on his hip.

“We’re playing like we’re chasing a ghost. You know what I want?”

He stopped in the centre of the room.

“I want us to enjoy the ball again. Not run away from it. Slow it down when you need to. Speed it up when the moment’s right. But play. Not for the crowd. Not for the pressure. Play for control.”

He looked at each of them, eyes settling on Izan for a beat longer.

“Izan?” he said with a questioning tone as the rest of the players turned to face Izan.

“Anything to add?” Arteta asked.

Izan glanced up a bit like he was thinking before, “Pass to me.”

Silence consumed the already down dressing room for a bit before the players broke out into laughter bit by bit.

“Yeah, what he said”, Arteta chuckled.

He clapped his hands once, sharply.

“Let’s go change the scoreline because I don’t really like what I’m seeing.”

The players nodded before they began stepping out of the dressing rooms.

……..

“Well, Arsenal are headed back out now and the second half is incoming.

There’s been some noise online during the break — fans frustrated with how little end product there’s been. But there’s also belief. They’ve seen this team bounce back before.”

“If anything, Chelsea should know better than to think this is over.”

The tunnel lights flickered back on as both players walked outside disorderly this time.

And Arsenal were walking out again with a point to prove.

The whistle pierced the night air again as Nwaneri tapped the ball backwards with a quick touch — and Chelsea pounced.

Nkunku darted forward immediately, pressing high.

Palmer and Sancho closed in from the sides like jaws snapping shut.

But Izan didn’t flinch.

He met the oncoming chaos like someone swatting away flies at a garden table.

A short step, a slight lean, and then — in front of a roaring Stamford Bridge — he nutmegged Neto clean.

Cheers rippled through the away crowd like dropped water in a still pond.

Neto turned too late to find the ball already gone behind him, and Izan gliding forward like it had been planned three minutes ago.

“Woah! Would you look at that!” the commentator exclaimed, half laughing, half amazed.

“That’s… well, that’s like telling your opponent to calm down in the middle of a bar fight.”

“A bit of cheek. A lot of class. And maybe — just maybe, a message to Chelsea that Arsenal are done playing nervous.”

The press staggered for half a second, just long enough.

Arsenal players re-formed behind the moment with their players settling into their positions well.

Even Chelsea seemed to slow — not by choice, but by design.

Izan had grabbed the tempo like a DJ sliding the fader down.

One movement and now the game breathed again.

“Look at how that one play’s reset everything,” the second commentator chimed in.

Back on the pitch, Izan released the ball out wide, a smooth pass to Jurrien Timbe overlapping near the touchline.

And the second half had well and truly begun.

A/N: First of the day. Might have to release the chapter for the other novel when I wake up in the morning. Have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit.