God Of football
Chapter 649: Hanged At The Bridge.

Chapter 649: Hanged At The Bridge.

[Matchday.]

The Arsenal team bus glided through the winding streets of West London, cutting a sleek silhouette against the misty Sunday sky.

Stamford Bridge loomed ahead, brick and blue banners already wrapped in noise, like a beast stirring in its lair.

Inside the bus, there was no chatter — just silence, sharp and deliberate.

Players sat spaced out, lost in their rituals.

Ødegaard sat upright with a soft gaze, headphones on, eyes locked forward.

Nwaneri leaned his head against the window, watching the people blur by — police, security, fans waving flags or giving jeers.

Izan sat in his usual seat near the back, one leg propped up, his gaze low but alive.

His hoodie was up, his headphones humming a quiet beat beneath them.

Olivia’s voice note from earlier played faintly in his mind — a soft wish for good luck.

Not that he ever needed it, but coming from her, it just worked.

As the bus slowed and came to a final halt, the hum of the engine gave way to movement.

Zips were pulled into place as the players readied themselves.

A staff member stepped off first, confirming clearance with the stewards.

Then one by one, the players filed out into the brisk air, faces immediately met with flashbulbs and roaring cameras.

Stamford Bridge didn’t hide its hostility, not even for a second.

They walked the narrow side path toward the tunnel, flanked by a mix of steel barriers and wide-eyed spectators.

Security guided them past a few mouthy locals — nothing new — until they disappeared into the heart of the stadium.

Through the corridor and toward the dressing rooms.

The clack of trainers on concrete echoed.

Inside the away locker room, the atmosphere remained focused.

Jerseys were already set.

Tape and wraps were handed out.

Gloves were adjusted while shin pads were tapped into place.

A few words passed between Ødegaard and Arteta about shape, a reminder from Mertesacker and Cuesta about transition, then silence again.

No warm-up scenes were needed.

Only one moment mattered now.

......

For the fans in the stands waiting outside, both sides were impressed when the broadcast cut to the tunnel.

There they stood, shoulder to shoulder.

The lights above buzzed softly.

Rain threatened to fall outside, and the smell of wet grass and sweat lingered even there, but it was still being held up by something other than the tension in the stadium.

The Arsenal players lined up, red and white kits pressed crisp under the weight of expectation.

Across from them, Chelsea’s blue stood like a wall — Enzo, Nkunku, Sancho, and the rest — every face tight with intensity.

Izan stood just behind Ødegaard, adjusting his gloves.

The fabric stretched tightly across his wrists, already warm from the prep, as his eyes drifted slightly toward the far end of the tunnel, where the pitch, roaring and bright, awaited.

Beside him, Nwaneri bounced on his heels while Rice rolled his neck.

Saliba gave Lewis Skelly a firm slap on the back just as the cue.

The stadium’s internal sound system faded down as the officials stepped forward.

The referee gave the final nod as the teams began to move.

And then —

"And here they come — both teams, side by side, out into the electric atmosphere of Stamford Bridge. It’s Arsenal. It’s Chelsea. It’s always a fixture that delivers, and tonight feels heavier than usual. There’s weight in the air."

"You can feel it, can’t you? The tension. Arsenal, still unbeaten domestically and fresh from obliterating PSV in Europe. Chelsea, searching for a statement of their own. Something to disrupt the rhythm."

"And look at that boy — Izan. Only seventeen. What a story he’s been this season. Already breaking records, already the best player for many. But this... this is a different battleground. He didn’t participate in the 1-all draw, so he will be hoping to make an impact today."

The stadium lights burned bright as the players marched forward, boots hitting the turf with precision and tempo.

Flags waved as the rain began to fall in a thin sheet across the pitch.

And then came the noise.

The Chelsea end roared to life.

Their anthem — loud, familiar — rolled like thunder through the arena.

Blue flags flailed in rhythm while supporters punched the air, mouths stretched in song.

But when the anthem ended, so did the civility.

Boos. Jeers. Shouts.

And then it turned personal.

First came the usual digs at Arsenal — something about bottlers, about luck — but the venom quickly narrowed in, razor-focused on one target.

Izan.

"Overhyped!"

"He’s just a baby!"

"Media puppet!"

"Loved by the English FA!"

The last one landed sharply, as echoed by a chorus of agreement that rippled through the lower rows.

A few chants spun into something nastier, but Izan didn’t flinch.

He never even blinked.

He walked forward, eyes on the centre circle, the hate sliding right off him like water on glass.

There was no smile on his face.

And as he stood with his teammates, hand-in-hand with a young mascot, the only thing on his mind was the whistle.

........

The game had barely settled before it became clear — Chelsea had done their homework.

From the first whistle, Enzo Fernández and Moisés Caicedo stuck to Izan like second shadows.

Every turn, every touch, was met with a shoulder, a tug, or a perfectly timed tackle.

Izan didn’t falter — he shifted, adapted, pinged the ball short when he couldn’t go long, dragged defenders out of shape with small turns, always aware of the collapsing space around him.

But Arsenal couldn’t capitalise.

"Arsenal have looked the more fluid side in possession, but they’ve lacked edge in the final third. It’s not just about creating — it’s about execution,"the commentary rang.

Twice in quick succession, Izan threaded elegant through balls — one to Nwaneri, the other to Martinelli.

Both wasted. One scuffed wide. The other overhit.

The frustration was evident — not in Izan’s body language, which remained eerily calm — but in the murmurs from the Arsenal bench.

"He’s giving them the keys, but no one’s opening the door," another pundit added.

"Chelsea needs to be careful, though. You don’t get many invitations to dominate against Arsenal. When you do... You have to take them."

As if summoned by that remark, the pendulum suddenly swung.

After yet another misfired transition — Izan to Martinelli again, the Brazilian overrunning the ball near the corner flag where Sancho came alive.

The Chelsea winger, quicksilver in movement and untouched in confidence, snapped onto the loose ball deep in his own half.

His first touch was backwards — then came the flare.

He turned past Skelly with a deft drag-back and burst forward with menacing speed, shaking off Rice’s closing body before swerving into the Arsenal third like a bullet through cloth.

"That’s sensational from Sancho!" the commentator snapped."He’s gliding through bodies — this is Jadon at his best!"

Cutting wide left, Sancho spotted Nkunku making a darting run but chose otherwise, instead lofting a curling cross into the box.

Chaos followed.

Saliba rose high to meet it, but his clearance wasn’t clean.

The ball fell awkwardly, bouncing toward Gabriel, who lunged — and in that frantic second, it struck him.

Not his chest. Not his thigh.

His arm.

Hands shot up instantly — Sancho screamed first, then Neto, then the Chelsea bench leapt to their feet.

The referee waved it on.

"Big shouts for handball!"

"He’s waving play on... but wait... he’s got the finger to the ear now."

The commotion slowed.

The game drifted forward half-heartedly, but eyes stayed glued to the official as he jogged back toward the edge of the penalty area.

Izan and Ødegaard moved quickly to explain, gesturing toward Gabriel’s sliding momentum — natural position, nothing deliberate — but the ref kept walking.

He stopped for a bit before signalling towards the VAR machine.

"Oh, Arsenal don’t want that", the commentary rang once more as the referee reached the machine.

The official stood there for a bit, consulting with his assistants if what they had gotten was enough to punish for a penalty.

Then turned after a moment and pointed to the spot.

Stamford Bridge erupted.

"The referee’s given it!"

"Penalty to Chelsea!"

"Well, the Bridge is bouncing now — and listen to that crowd!"

The chants came swiftly and savagely:

"HANGED AT THE BRIDGE!"

"HANGED AT THE BRIDGE!"

"HANGED AT THE BRIDGE!"

Chelsea supporters, seeing blood, didn’t wait.

They barked the chant with glee, waving scarves and slapping plastic clappers, knowing they had pulled Arsenal into dangerous waters.

On the touchline, Arteta turned to his bench, jaw tight while Enzo Maresca, on the opposite end was already shouting instructions.

Cole Palmer, not deemed fit for the match but playing anyway, turned and tried tossing the ball to Sancho as he had won the penalty, but the latter declined the offer.

Not passing up the chance to improve his goal tally, Cole Palmer stepped up to the spot.

A/N: First of the day. Have fun readinga and I’ll see you in the evening with the last of the day.