CHAPTER 665: HOUDINI

The former Arsenal man and NO. 10 lunged, stretching for a deflection as his left leg tried clawing the ball away from Izan, but the new 10 pivoted — body low, eyes calm — and executed a Berbatov spin that left both the ball and Smith Rowe behind him.

But the touch had pushed the ball a little far, and Willian saw it.

He stepped up and closed the already small space between them, trying to snap it back — but Izan wasn’t finished.

With his left, he flicked it across his body, changing quickly to the other foot where he met the ball again with a tiny touch that was just enough.

And then the roll followed.

The crowd felt it before they saw it — the weight shift, the sudden slowness as Izan rolled the ball gently through Willian’s legs.

Nutmeg.

The groan and cheer were instant as the Brazilian realised what had happened.

"Goodness me!" the commentator blurted. "Izan — looking more Brazilian than the Brazilian there!"

Willian spun, half-turning in disbelief, but Izan was already gone — bursting past into open grass, one hand lifting for balance, legs opening into a sprint.

There was space now.

Too much space.

And Izan was about to turn on the jets.

His body coiled like a spring.

Then — snap.

He was off.

His right leg lashed out, whipping the ball in front of him like a flame skipping over dry earth, and the Emirates gasped as one.

It wasn’t just speed — it was something more elegant, more terrifying.

Acceleration that didn’t seem to come from running, but from pure intent.

The commentator’s voice surged into life.

"And now he’s flying— look at him go!"

One Fulham midfielder lunged, but he was skipped like a rock by Izan.

The next player stepped up— only to be ghosted past, a flick of Izan’s boot taking the ball just out of reach.

"That’s one, that’s two— he’s weaving through bodies like he’s untouchable!"

The grass opened up ahead, a narrow strip of daylight framed by chaos as Izan appeared, looking like a Greek cheetah on the run.

Only four remained.

Cuenca, Bassey, and two others forming a desperate wall.

And behind them, Leno — off his line, waiting.

"Four defenders back. Four. But it’s four against one— and the one is Izan."

The crowd didn’t breathe; they couldn’t with all that was going on.

Izan, seeing the Craven Cottage’s attempt at a defence to stop him, didn’t slow.

He dipped low, shoulders slanting, weight rolling onto his left foot — and then in a sliver of a second, he sliced through Cuenca with a diagonal push.

The ball barely kissed the turf before his stride caught up to it again.

Bassey stepped in—only to find himself already out of time.

Because even as Izan moved, he saw it.

The keeper, creeping forward.

Leno was a few steps off his line, and for a player of Izan’s pedigree, that was telling him to try.

And Izan, in a moment too fast for thought but too smooth to be instinct, Izan drew the ball back in a row like a basketball player looking for a step back shot, only this was football.

He flicked his right foot beneath the ball—

—and scooped it.

"OHHHHHHHHH, what is this?"

The words burst out of the commentator’s mouth like a hymn as the ball climbed high, impossibly high.

The defenders reached, four of them, arms stretched.

Like worshippers trying to pull down a star from the sky, but they couldn’t touch it.

Leno jumped, backpedalling in the process before lunging a bit more, but his fingertips only brushed it and just barely.

"Leno’s up— fingertips— it’s not enough!"

The ball dipped like it remembered gravity just in time.

It came down sharply — kissed the ground once — and rolled into the net with a reverent hush.

For a second, there was silence because it was all too fast to comprehend.

And then the Emirates exploded.

Izan emerged from the four-man pile that had tried to suffocate him mid-shot.

He burst out like something reborn, face calm, arms spread wide as he turned to the North Bank.

And he ran.

"Ohhhh, Izan. You divine little devil— what even was that?"

He leapt into the crowd — swallowed in red and white and flailing limbs, the Arsenal faithful collapsing around him like worshippers.

"You try to write poetry about this boy, and by the time you finish your sentence, he’s scored again. That’s not just talent— that’s heresy against footballing logic."

Another voice cut in — the co-commentator, breathless, reverent.

"There are players who play football. And then there are players like Izan... who make it look like a memory before it’s even finished."

The replay rolled across the screen, and each frame looked like a painting.

The whip-turn of the run.

The scoop.

The stretch of Newcastle bodies looking like hellish souls looking to climb on an angel out of hell.

Leno’s flight and the ball falling.

And Izan, all the while, with that same impossible calm in his eyes — as though he knew.

Knew that the moment had to end like this.

Knew that the crowd needed something to bask in again.

Knew that the game — even in its cruelty — still belonged to joy.

The camera zoomed in on his face as he dropped back onto the pitch from the fans’ embrace.

Eyes shining.

Breathing hard.

But smiling.

As the replays finally faded from the big screen and the crowd’s roar softened into something more like worship, a figure in red approached from midfield.

Odegaard.

He jogged toward Izan, face caught between laughter and disbelief, and threw an arm around his shoulders, their chests rising with the same ragged breath of men who had seen and done something bigger than sport.

"Time’s up, Houdini," he muttered under his breath, grinning before pointing with his eyes in a direction.

Izan’s eyes flicked toward the touchline.

Nwaneri stood there — bouncing on his toes, lean and ready, eagerness practically leaking from every joint.

And just like that, Izan smiled again.

"There it is," the commentator breathed. "The board’s up. Number 10... off. Number 53... on. And listen to the crowd. A 17-year-old for another 17-year-old. Arsenal really look set for the future. "

The fourth official raised the board, and the Emirates rose with it.

Izan turned to the crowd — the North Bank already singing, clapping, stretching their arms out as if trying to grab onto the moment just a little longer.

He began his walk off the pitch like a man stepping down from a stage.

"They came to see football," the co-commentator said softly, "but they might’ve just witnessed something closer to magic. And now, the magician walks off."

He reached the sideline and touched palms with Nwaneri in passing — a subtle, silent handover between two youngsters.

Izan stepped into Arteta’s space, and the manager clapped his shoulder once — firm, eyes glinting — before reaching into the staff box and handing him a thick, padded jacket.

Izan shrugged into it, his cheeks still pink with adrenaline, then turned and began walking toward the bench.

"Even now, look at the way he carries himself. That’s why they love him."

He slapped palms with Gabriel Jesus, touched fists with Jorginho and let Saliba squeeze his shoulder.

Then he finally sat — jacket zipped halfway, hands resting on his thighs — right next to Riccardo Calafiori, who was already standing up as one of the assistant coaches gestured toward him to warm up.

"Your turn soon," Izan said, half-turning.

Calafiori gave a smirk, already stretching one thigh.

And above them, the Emirates was still singing.

"He came. He saw. He danced. Izan, ladies and gentlemen. What a player. What a presence."

Down on the pitch, Nwaneri took his place with fire in his eyes.

And the rest of the second act began.

........

[An hour later]

The cameras were out on Holloway Road now.

No pundits. No panels. Just fans.

Floodlights from the stadium shimmered off phone screens and fresh wet concrete paths outside the stadium.

There, the pavements were hot with voices — some loud, some shaking.

One lad with a wireless mic and a phone gimbal was already rolling while his mate held the boom mic sideways like a bazooka.

"Bro, tell me right now. You’re Willian. You’ve just been sent."

The fan they pointed at was still wide-eyed, face shiny with sweat and cold air, breath steaming.

"What do I do? I RETIRE, fam! I hand in my fob! I don’t even shower — I just walk."

Laughter ripped through the crowd.

"Bro man just rolled it through Willian’s legs like he wasn’t there. Nutmeg was so disrespectful, I had to call my dad and apologise for it!"

Another fan jumped in, but he was an older guy.

"Nah, but let’s be serious. That’s a grown man. Father of three, yeah? Mortgage, car insurance, BT broadband. You go home after that? You can’t discipline your kids anymore. You say, ’Go to bed,’ and they say, ’But Izan?’ Conversation done."

A/N: OKay, I just came from the lab. This is the first of the day but I think I can oly add the second and not the first of tuesday. Anyways, I will do well to upload that after I wake up. Have fun reading and I will see you in a bit.