God Of football-Chapter 463 - Ghost In Bergamo

463: Ghost In Bergamo

463: Ghost In Bergamo

The captains exchanged nods at the front, the referee giving the standard rundown to both sides.

Neither set of players said much.

Respect hovered in the air, but so did the scent of competition.

A camera swept by.

Izan caught it in his periphery but didn’t flinch.

“You good?” Saka said from behind as Izan slipped on the last of his glove.

Izan nodded once.

“Always.”

The LED boards lining the tunnel flickered with that familiar blue-and-white starlight as the Champions League anthem echoed through the bowels of the Gewiss Stadium.

The players emerged into view, two neat lines flanked by children dressed in official UEFA kits.

Arsenal in their bold red and white.

Atalanta in deep black and electric blue.

The roar of the crowd swallowed the music as the players stepped onto the grass.

Camera flashes dotted the stands like sparks.

High above the pitch in the commentary gantry, Darren Fletcher’s voice came alive over the global broadcast feed.

“Well, here we go again.

Champions League nights—under the lights in Bergamo.

And what a setting we have tonight.”

Beside him, Steve McManaman leaned forward, scanning the atmosphere through his headset.

“The Gewiss is absolutely rocking, Fletch.

You can feel the history starting to write itself.”

Down in the lower tiers, Italian voices thundered, laced with passion.

“Avanti Atalanta!” rang out in rhythm, flags waving, drums thudding like a heartbeat. freeweɓnovel.cøm

But there were pockets of red in the ocean of blue.

Tucked in the corner, hundreds of traveling Arsenal fans stood, scarves raised, singing North London Forever with stubborn, loyal pride.

“Look at the Arsenal fans in that far corner,” Fletcher continued.

“They’ve traveled in numbers, they’ve got their young stars out on the pitch, and one of them in particular—well, there are a lot of eyes on him tonight.

“Izan Hernández,” McManaman chimed in.

“He’s still yet to turn seventeen, but already, he’s pulling strings for Mikel Arteta’s side.

I’ve said it before—he doesn’t play like a kid.

He plays like he belongs.”

Martin Ødegaard starts behind him.

Saka wide right.

Martinelli is wide left.

It’s a front three with pace and precision, and it all funnels through that number 10—Hernández.

Arsenal are trusting him with the keys tonight in the False 9 role.”

“And for Atalanta,” Fletcher said, switching gears smoothly.

“They’re fielding a familiar XI.

Koopmeiners in midfield, Zappacosta bombing forward.

Look out for Lookman—he’ll fancy himself against Ben White.”

In the stands, a father leaned over to his son in an Arsenal kit.

“That’s him, look—number 10,” he whispered, pointing toward Izan as the teenager jogged out and exchanged glances with Saka.

“The Spanish boy I was telling you about.

He’s special.”

“Is he better than Saka?” the boy asked, eyes wide.

The father chuckled.

“Different.

But yeah.

Maybe one day, we will even be able to say, he is the greatest of all time from how he’s started.”

Cameras panned along the players as they lined up for the anthem.

Izan stood still, head slightly bowed, lips pressed tight.

The sound hit him—thousands singing, chanting, daring their teams to rise.

It vibrated in his ribs, his self, down to his core.

Beside him, Ødegaard gave a light nudge.

“Soak it in,” the captain said.

Izan nodded slightly, his face unreadable.

“This is why you play football,” Fletcher said, his voice dropping into something more reverent.

“This is the kind of night where stars introduce themselves to continents and a wider range of audience.”

“And Hernández,” McManaman added, “has the perfect stage.”

The anthem swelled, and the camera caught a tight frame of Izan’s face as the final notes echoed around the stadium.

And the crowd—both blue and red—knew it.

This was about to be a game.

The Champions League anthem faded into the air, giving way to a rising crescendo of whistles and chants from the crowd.

The players broke out of their formation lines, gloves slapped, backs patted, hands shaken.

Martin Ødegaard stepped forward first, the Arsenal captain approaching Atalanta’s captain, Marten De Roon.

The two exchanged a brief nod of mutual respect, then shook hands firmly under the watchful eye of the referee.

“Let’s keep it clean, eh?” the ref said, flipping the coin as the captains watched.

Djimsiti called tails.

The coin spun midair and landed, and Ødegaard glanced down.

“Heads,” the referee said.

“Your call, Martin.”

Ødegaard turned to his teammates.

“We’ll let them kick off,” he told the official before nodding to Djimsiti.

The two captains exchanged a final, professional handshake before retreating to their squads.

Ødegaard clapped his hands once, loudly.

“Let’s start strong,” he called out.

Izan jogged toward his spot in the center circle, a few meters away from the center spot.

His studs bit into the grass as he adjusted his position, glancing once at Saka to his right and Martinelli to his left.

They were all in sync—no words needed.

Behind him, Rice gave a quick thumbs-up from midfield.

Gabriel and Saliba settled into their stance at the back, Raya bouncing lightly on his toes between the posts.

The referee’s whistle pierced the charged air.

Kickoff.

Atalanta shifted first, aggressive and fast, sending their wingback into Arsenal’s half with a probing ball.

Gabriel Magalhães calmly cut it out, nudging the ball to Zinchenko, who was already scanning.

Arsenal didn’t panic.

They settled early.

And there, in the half-space between midfield and attack, was Izan.

Gliding into the game like he was always there.

He pointed once and called for the ball, and Ødegaard obliged.

He took a delicate touch, made a half-turn, and Izan was already slicing past his marker, forcing Atalanta’s right-sided midfielder to track back.

A ripple surged through the away end as he floated past another.

“Lovely balance from Hernández,” said Fletcher as Izan continued to drive at the Atalanta midfielders.

“He’s just breezed by two.”

In the stands, one Atalanta supporter muttered to his friend, eyebrows raised: “Chi è questo ragazzo?

È come un fantasma.” (Who is this kid?

He’s like a ghost.)

Izan shifted the ball wide to Martinelli, who darted down the channel.

One-two.

Martinelli slid it back toward the edge, and Izan ghosted in, barely marked.

He poised himself to strike it first time but the opening Saka gave was too tempting to waste so he dragged it back and slid into the path of Saka but the latter’s shot whistled just wide.

“Oof, that’s a warning shot,” said Fletcher.

“And it came from the teenager again.

You can feel the electricity when he touches the ball.”

Arsenal began to squeeze.

The press was a bit chaotic, but it was coordinated.

Izan led it, eyes constantly flicking, arms signaling teammates.

He closed passing lanes before they opened, chasing without rashness, containing like he’d choreographed the play.

A misplaced pass from the fumbling Atalanta midfield, and Rice intercepted before quickly laying it off to the captain.

Ødegaard switched it quickly to Saka, and Atalanta were caught flat-footed.

Saka took off, slicing inside, then teed it back to Izan at the top of the box.

He didn’t shoot.

He chopped left, then right.

One Atalanta defender went sliding, committing to a direction Izan had already abandoned.

He curled one toward the far post but the ball took a deflection off of Kolisinac, reducing the power of the shot.

More than enough for Carnesecchi to punch it out of harm’s way.

Gasps in the crowd.

Arsenal fans leaped to their feet.

On the touchline, Arteta’s arms were crossed, expression unreadable—but Cuesta, beside him, gave a quiet nod.

“That boy is something else,” Thierry Henry said from the CBS studio, the live feed cutting briefly to their reactions.

“He’s not trying to do too much.

That’s what’s impressive.

He’s picking his moments, playing within the rhythm of the team.

This isn’t street football.

This is intelligence.”

Back on the pitch, Atalanta tried to regain a foothold.

Koopmeiners surged forward, threading a ball toward De Roon, but Saliba met him shoulder to shoulder—fair, but firm.

Arsenal regained control.

Fifteen minutes gone.

Still 0–0, but the intent was clear.

Arsenal weren’t here to contain.

Another chance came when Declan Rice intercepted a high ball and released Izan quickly.

Izan carried it forward, diagonally across the pitch, pulling three defenders toward him like magnets.

With a slick flick, he laid it off to Ødegaard, whose curled attempt was blocked—but Arsenal recycled, maintaining the pressure.

“Everything is funneling through the young Spaniard,” said McManamann.

“There’s a composure to his play that’s far beyond his years, and it seems like he’s enjoying himself on the European stage.”

Back to the pitch, Saka, now operating slightly deeper, received a pass and drew defenders with a feint.

Izan adjusted instantly, occupying the pocket vacated.

The next pass came quickly.

He touched it once, then twice—pulling it under his studs before launching a disguised through ball into the path of Martinelli.

But the linesman’s flag went up.

Offside.

By the twentieth minute, Arsenal had rattled the post, drawn two saves, and forced the home crowd to quiet down—just a little.

The away fans were louder now.

“Arsenal!

Arsenal!”

Someone held up a homemade banner from the red-and-white section behind the dugout: IZAN’S ERA STARTS TONIGHT.

And on the pitch, Izan Hernández—calm, calculating—jogged back into position, sweat on his brow, scanning again.

Not overwhelmed.

This was about influence.

And through the first twenty minutes, he had his fingerprints all over the match.

A/n: I don’t know what to call this.

Let’s just keep writing, okay.

CREATORS’ THOUGHTS

Art233

Your gift is the motivation for my creation.

Give me more motivation!

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