God Of football-Chapter 626: Game On, Newcastle

The camera pulled back as the staff left behind began reconditioning the pitch for use in the second half.

The panel was already in place, the artificial turf beneath their feet shifting slightly with the wind.

"Arsenal still lead on aggregate," the host began, brushing a note card against his palm.

"5–2. But tonight, Newcastle have asked real questions."

"Two unanswered goals before that Saka penalty," said the former midfielder next to him.

"And honestly, Arsenal looked shaken. Credit to Newcastle for turning this from a procession into a proper semi-final."

"They’ve done their part," added the journalist at the end.

"But let’s not ignore the bigger picture—Liverpool are already waiting. Whoever survives this second leg, that’s the bar they’ll have to meet at Wembley."

The host nodded, glancing toward the dugouts in the distance.

"And that man on the bench... Izan. Still hasn’t moved. Not a warmup. Not a whisper."

The former midfielder scoffed lightly.

"He’s played almost every game this season. Maybe Arteta’s just managing the load. But it’s strange. They’ve missed his sharpness, especially from those half spaces"

Then the camera panned to Eddie Howe, still making his way toward the tunnel—expression unreadable, words low as he spoke briefly to his staff.

"Halftime team talk will be interesting," the host added, as the feed cut to the tunnel’s interior.

In the home dressing room, the Newcastle players sat still, recovering as some were massaged, with others having their wrists among other areas bieng taped.

Eddie Howe stood near the whiteboard, hands resting on his hips, his tone calm but firm as the room quieted.

"We pulled two back. That’s the first job. And we’ve reminded them this isn’t a walkover."

A pause. No one said anything.

"But now it’s about belief," he continued, glancing across his squad.

"You don’t come to a point like this just to make it respectable. You come to drag it back."

Trippier nodded once while Burn, beside, leaned forward, elbows on knees.

"We’ve got them where we want them," Howe said.

"They thought this was over. They thought they’d walk it. But we’ve tightened the lines, pressed the gaps, and their attack looks confused. Izan hasn’t moved from that bench, and suddenly they’ve lost their cutting edge."

He turned toward the defenders.

"They’re still looking for that magic moment. But they don’t have it tonight. Not yet. So don’t let them off the hook. Keep shape. Keep the pressure. And when they overcommit, punish them."

He let the words hang for a second longer, then stepped forward and crouched next to Joelinton and Longstaff.

"We’re not asking you to be perfect. Just present. First to second balls. Close the channels. Every minute, they get more desperate."

Joelinton nodded.

Then, a mutter from one side of the room—Livramento, under his breath.

"You think they’ll keep Izan out the whole game?"

Howe paused for a beat.

Then:

"I’m not Arteta and I don’t think they will, but if they do, we’ve got a real chance. But if Arteta throws him in, that tells you something’s not right. Either way, it means they’re vulnerable. Let’s keep it that way."

He stood and turned back to the full group.

"They can’t handle this much pressure without him. So don’t give them space. Don’t give them time. And for the love of everything, don’t let that crowd drag them back into this."

The team stood now, forming a circle.

"This club hasn’t lifted a trophy in 56 years," Howe said, quieter now, but with weight.

"That’s not good history for a club like ours. We need to make our mark with this because we all know that this might be our chance to win something. Now let’s go and play our hearts out."

The players nodded with conviction, forming a huddle before walking off towards the tunnel with a roar.

[In the Tunnel]

Burn cracked his knuckles.

Isak bounced on the balls of his feet.

The whole team stood just short of the tunnel mouth, half-stretching, waiting for the ref to lead them out.

Then footsteps echoed from the corridor behind them.

They turned. Some out of curiosity.

Some instinctively.

Izan walked through.

Shirt on and socks pulled down.

He looked ready.

Game-ready.

His eyes didn’t scan the tunnel.

He wasn’t looking at them.

He just adjusted his wristband, then glanced briefly down the corridor as if waiting for someone else.

The air tensed slightly—not panic, but alertness.

You could feel it in the way Isak slowed his little warm-up.

In the way Trippier’s eyes tracked him a second too long.

But then—Arsenal’s assistant appeared, breathless, dark coat in hand.

"Here," he muttered. "It’s cold. Why did you go off without the others finishing? Go and wait on the bench,"

Izan, turned a gave him a small nod, then took the coat without a word, and walked off toward the bench again.

Behind him, a few Newcastle players exchanged looks.

Burn exhaled like he hadn’t realised he was holding it.

"That lad’s barely touched grass this match," Trippier said, "and still changed the mood in here."

Joelinton shook his head, jaw clenched slightly.

"Just three games," he murmured. "That’s all it took for us to feel it."

They turned back to the pitch as they waited for the rest of the Arsenal players to return and it didn’t take long befor ethey were back on the pitch, each in their half and positions.

The referee glanced at his watch for the 3rd time since the start of the match, let the moment settle, and then sounded his whistle.

.....

The second half began not with a roar, but with restraint.

Arsenal, aware of their cushion, played tidily and measured.

The ball zipped across the slick surface, side to side, back to front.

It looked like control.

It smelled like dominance.

But it wasn’t.

Not quite.

Every pass forward came back.

Every overlap fizzled out.

It was possession without poison—an effort to kill momentum without delivering the final blow, just like what had happened in the first half.

Meanwhile, the crowd at St. James’ Park never settled.

Even at 5–2 down on aggregate, they didn’t sit.

They didn’t soften.

The volume kept climbing, each whistle and clearance met with a rising note of belief.

"You can feel it," said the co-commentator, low and wary. "They haven’t given up. And Arsenal haven’t finished the job."

And then, it cracked.

It wasn’t stunning or something different, but it was effective.

Livramento, on the overlap, took Lewis-Skelly out of the equation before driving towards the byline where he zipped one in.

The ball bounced once in the scramble of bodies.

Joelinton, poised to shoot, took a swipe at the ball but he hadn’t time it well making the ball easy for Raya to push out.

But when it squirted free near the six-yard box, Sean Longstaff was already on it.

He drove the ball low and hard through the mess, past Raya’s dive, sending the magpies into a frenzy.

St. James’ ignited.

"LONGSTAFF!" the commentator shouted over the rising tide of noise.

"And just like that—it’s game on Newcastle!"

Back on the touchline, Eddie Howe, flew into the air after longstaff’s goal before composing himself and gesturing towards his players to quickly get back.

Heeding his words, Isak grabbed the ball out of the hand of Raya, who was stalling, before jogging towards the centre circle.

And Arsenal?

They felt it too.

Suddenly, nothing was clean.

After the restart, touches skidded, options narrowed, and the pressing from Newcastle intensified.

It became relentless and hungry, and it took barely five minutes for the second hammer blow to fall.

Raya tried to reset quickly, but his pass to Saliba was soft, telegraphed.

Too casual for the moment.

And Isak?

He was already sprinting.

He stepped into the path of the ball like he owned it, clipped it with his left foot, and then, without breaking stride, lashed a vicious strike toward the near post.

Raya dove, quickly positioning himself after the mistake, dove, but it did little to stop Isak from running towards the corner flag.

"ISAK AGAIN!" screamed the commentator as Isak screamed into the night air.

Eddie Howe clenched both fists and punched the air twice before calling his staff back to the bench.

"He’s cut the lead to one! Newcastle are alive! And Arsenal are on the ropes!"

Arteta, turned towards his bench, a few hopeful expressions staring at him but he shook his head as Cuesta stepped forward, asking if he should prepare a change, but Arteta raised a hand—still watching.

He needed to see what happened next.

And what happened next was almost worse.

Just moments after the restart, Arsenal lost possession again—Ben White, dizzy on the ball, was dispossessed this time by Guimarães near the halfway line.

The ball rolled to Anthony Gordon, who darted forward before sliding a pass wide to Trippier in full flight down the right.

Trippier’s cross was electric.

Whipped low and wicked into the six-yard box.

Raya managed to get a palm to it, but barely, as the ball bounced free at the back post.

Isak again arrived like he’d been summoned, adjusted his feet, and struck a fierce volley into the roof of the net.

The net bulged and the crowd erupted once more, but their joy was soon cut short.

"Offside," called the referee, but it was barely.

Gasps turned to groans from the home fans.

The home bench froze while Howe looked toward the fourth official, his expression unreadable.

"Relief for Arsenal," the co-commentator said with breath caught.

"That... was almost a brace for Isak. Inches away from 5–5."

Arteta finally turned to his bench and called towards Cuesta, and the next moment, all eyes turned towards the pitch.

"There he is," the commentator called as Izan rose.

"Finally, he is called upon"

A/N: Last of yesterday. Have fun reading and Goodnight.

Might release late tomorrow so sorry for that but I’ll will fix it in if I get the chance.

Also, I’m changing the requirements for an extra Chapter to 60 Golden tickets.

I feel bad not being able to release the bonus ones on time so this might give us time to work out way around things.

Sorry for the sudden changes. And Jota, man, what a player. Sad to see him go. May he R.I.P.

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