God Of football-Chapter 632: Curtains Up At The Theatre

The sky was a low, silvery grey by the time Arsenal’s coach turned onto Wharfside Way, escorted by motorbikes, flanked by stadium staff clearing the last of the matchday congestion.

There wasn’t much left to say.

Inside the coach, the energy was focused.

No chatter, no music through speakers—just each man locked into his own rhythm.

In the back row, Izan didn’t even blink as the stadium came into view.

The window’s reflection held his face faintly, like a ghost and beyond it, the shadow of Old Trafford loomed.

Inside, over 70,000 people waited—some hopeful, some afraid, most simply curious.

History might have favoured the red devils, but Arsenal weren’t just visitors anymore.

They were contenders.

The bus pulled in through the players’ entrance—familiar, massive, grimy in a way that made it feel heavier than just bricks and badge.

The engine cut and the doors hissed open.

Cameras snapped instantly.

A handful of broadcasters had been allowed close to the cordon and out came the squad.

One by one.

Gabriel. Martinelli. Saka. Zinchenko. Trossard. Ødegaard.

Then Izan followed, receiving a bit more fanfare than the other players.

He waved slowly before entering the path made by the staff.

Inside, the halls were painted red.

Champions and Europa League banners lined the walls like trophies left out in the cold.

A matchday official nodded them through, his eyes lingering on Izan just a second longer than the rest.

The boys made for the changing rooms—shoes talling, zipped coats coming off in sync like a team that didn’t need direction.

But even with a dozen internationals walking through that tunnel... ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

...it was Izan who turned heads.

He belonged here.

The interior of Old Trafford wasn’t glamorous.

Red brick.

Low ceilings.

Exposed pipes and scuffed concrete floors.

It felt more like a living relic than a modern stadium—less pristine, more memory.

A matchday steward walked ahead, leading Arsenal’s squad through the narrow tunnel.

His radio crackled faintly under the weight of 70,000 voices growing louder above and the deeper they went, the heavier the air felt.

Izan walked in the middle of the group, Saka just beside him, humming low under his breath.

Ahead of them, Ødegaard and Rice led the way—silent, heads forward, boots clacking gently against concrete in a slow, even rhythm.

"I swear these mandems are still living off the glory Sir Fergie and his boys won them."

They turned left, took a short ramp, and then the dressing room opened up before them.

Bright lights. Sleek walls.

The red devil crest stamped proudly in every corner, its contrast against the white indoor surroundings making the space feel claimed.

The kits were already up.

Pressed, ready.

Names gleaming.

Number 10 hung in the middle—green, red and white trim on black sleeves, the fabric still stiff from folding.

Arteta stood near the back wall, arms crossed.

He didn’t speak, just offered a nod as each player entered.

One by one, they filtered into their spaces.

Some sat, others stood walking around to let their legs and muscles loosen.

Martinelli tugged his training top on in one clean motion, arms stretched high as the material hugged tight.

Izan pulled on the black and gold warm-up kit slowly.

It clung tight across the shoulders, the badge and the sponsor logo stamped over his chest.

He dropped to one knee to tie his laces.

Then stood again, rolling his shoulders back until the tension cracked down his spine.

Around him, the energy shifted.

The first-team players were focused, locked in.

A few subs lingered near the edge, stretching or adjusting their socks, not yet called into rhythm.

Then—outside.

A distant roar.

Low at first, then swelling, thickening through the walls like smoke through floorboards.

The United fans had seen the Arsenal players arrive on the large screens and knew they could hear them.

Their chants grew louder, meaner, and more relentless.

The noise wasn’t just atmosphere anymore.

It was a wall.

And on the other side of it—war waited.

"...and just under twenty minutes to kickoff," one commentator said over the broadcast feed.

"That familiar tunnel rumble, which means only one thing—the visitors are about to step out for warm-ups."

Another voice—gruffer, older.

"It’ll be a cold welcome. But they know that. Arsenal have won here before. And with this squad? They’re not coming to survive."

A knock came at the door.

"Warm-up window open," called the liaison.

Arteta finally stepped forward.

"Let’s go," he said.

They filed out as one—like teeth clicking into place.

Jersey numbers flashing under the tunnel lights.

As they climbed the short stairs to the pitch, the boos arrived.

Loud. Immediate. Ferocious.

"Izan’s name rings loudest," came the commentary.

"Always does," the other replied. "And not in praise."

The fans let it fly—chants, jeers, even a few paper signs held over the railings.

But Izan?

He jogged out onto the pitch with no change in stride.

Just raised a hand towards the away fans.

Nodded once.

Then looked around Old Trafford like he was memorising it.

The hate didn’t shake him.

If anything...

...it felt like fuel.

The warm-up neared its end, and the Arsenal squad peeled off into light jogs, passing lines, then light stretches near the dugout.

Izan remained a moment longer.

He stood just outside the box, back to the United crowd, ball at his feet.

A few Arsenal fans in the far corner waved.

He saw them—barely—and without warning, turned, stepped back once, then sent the ball into the sky.

It curved, kissed the floodlight glare mid-air, and dropped like it had suddenly remembered gravity affected it.

It bounced once, twice, then rolled into one of the bags on the touchline which held the balls.

Difficult, unnecessary.

But it landed.

The Arsenal fans roared for it—more than they should’ve while the United fans bared their voices against Izan.

........

Inside the dressing room, the mood was hushed.

Arteta didn’t speak until every player had taken their position on the benches.

"This is what we asked for," he said simply.

"Nothing to fear. Only what you came to claim. I believe we’ve already done away with this match so it’s up to you now to believe"

Nobody clapped, just silent nods.

There wasn’t time for speeches or speeches pretending to be tactical adjustments.

Everything had been said on the pitch—in the training days, in the system reps.

The match wasn’t a mystery now.

"Two minutes," Carlos Cuesta called as he entered the room.

The players rose.

The room shifted from quiet to ritual.

Then they filed back out.

United were already there—Amorim by the wall talking to an official while his players lined like soldiers beneath the archway.

For the fourth time since the past July, the two squads stood side by side.

Arsenal in black.

United in red.

The corridor pulsed with energy that could barely be contained.

The official stepped in.

Raised a hand.

And then—

The call.

The tunnel erupted as boots hit concrete and cameras clicked into place.

The players walked.

First into the light.

Then into the roar.

Because this time, the sound was different.

This time, the theatre of dreams wasn’t singing in arrogance.

It was screaming in hope.

Not for their triumph.

But for their survival.

As the players emerged, the camera cut wide—Old Trafford in full view, a cathedral of red and noise.

Seventy-six thousand strong, voices merging into a single, unrelenting wall of sound.

The commentary kicked back in.

"And here they come," said the lead voice, tone measured, clipped.

"Two of the Premier League’s biggest names... two very different trajectories this season."

"They know each other well," the co-commentator added.

"Played once in pre-season, once in the league and the other in the FA Cup. All resulting in wins for Arsenal and now... something else entirely but somehow, still the same."

The players walked in rows.

Bruno, Casemiro, Onana.

Then Odegaard, Gabriel, Izan.

The camera locked onto him.

Number 10.

Head high.

Gloved hands loose at his sides.

"They won’t admit it," the lead voice said, "but United fans are watching him. Not because they want to. Because they have to. When Izan Hernandez is on the pitch... the narrative shifts."

"That’s the kind of player this kid has grown into. From carrying Valencia at 15 and 16 to becoming arguably the best player in Europe right now, all at 17. That’s the kind of genius you are looking at"

The players stepped onto the turf and soon formalities began.

Handshakes.

Captains met the officials mid-circle.

"You know," the co-commentator continued, voice low now, "you usually feel power in the stadium, even when the home side is on a run of losses. But tonight—this feels different. Like all this noise is being used to hold something back."

"And if you’re United," came the reply, "you’re hoping Izan doesn’t decide tonight’s the night he puts in his all. Because if he does... it won’t matter what Manchester United does."

The camera panned once more across the pitch.

"They say form wins you games," the co-commentator murmured. "But presence... presence wins you fear."

"Everything is ready now," the lead said as the camera pulled wide once more.

"This is Arsenal. This is United. This is Old Trafford."

"And the theatre’s full. Curtains drawn. All we need now... is action."

And with a nod from the centre official—

It was time.

The whistle blew.

And the game began.

A/n: Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.