God Of football

The first forty-five minutes ended not with a climax but with a sense of unfinished business, and the reactions from around Villa Park showed just how split the feelings were.

As the whistle blew prematurely, Arsenal's coaching staff erupted from the bench, arms flung in the air.

Players looked around in confusion. Some paused mid-run. Others threw their arms out.

On the pitch, Martin Ødegaard pointed to the scoreboard, then toward the halfway line, visibly arguing the point.

Havertz muttered under his breath, shaking his head as he slowly walked off.

Even Ben white offered a rare protest, stopping to speak to the referee before getting waved away.

But none of that mattered. The referee had already turned his back, disappearing down the tunnel like a man eager to escape a storm.

The reaction from the away section of Arsenal fans was immediate.

Boos cascaded down from the corner of the Doug Ellis Stand where they were concentrated.

Chants of "You don't know what you're doing!" rang out, fingers pointing toward the official as he vanished.

Social media was already lighting up with clips of the late tackles on Izan and the early whistle, outrage spreading with every retweet.

"How is that not a red?" one fan shouted near the halfway line. "He's been kicked all game!"

"You can't just end it while we're in on goal!" another yelled, shaking his head, scarf flapping against his neck. "It's not Sunday League!"

In contrast, Villa fans stood and clapped. Some cheered the whistle like a goal had been scored.

They knew the timing had spared them a dangerous counter—an unofficial assist from the man in black.

"Brilliant ref!" one Villa supporter bellowed sarcastically at the Arsenal bench. "Blow it again, why don't ya!"

"Bout time someone took that kid down a peg!" another jeered, referencing Izan.

"He's diving all over!"

From their perspective, the tackles weren't fouls—they were "good, hard football".

And in their eyes, the referee was finally showing the kind of steel that favored their home advantage.

The divide wasn't just in the stands. Pundits in the press area had started murmuring among themselves.

One looked down at his monitor, then at the stat sheet.

"Seventeen first-half fouls. Only three yellows and the funny thing is, two were against Arsenal who were on the receiving end of it," he muttered, pen tapping against the edge of his notebook.

Another, watching the replays, leaned in. "That late one on Izan by Luiz—he's lucky it wasn't orange. The ref's lost the grip."

Back near the dugout, Mikel Arteta had stopped pacing, standing still with clenched fists, expression unreadable.

Carlos Cuesta stayed close, always watching. He leaned in again, voice low.

"We go in ahead. That's the positive. We regroup and regain control."

Arteta didn't speak. He just nodded.

On the pitch, Izan jogged off last, hand resting on his side where he'd taken a couple of hits.

His shirt was tugged and creased, grass smeared down his left hip, yet he barely looked fazed.

His eyes stayed ahead, not giving the Villa crowd the satisfaction of a glance.

But even as he walked off, fans jeered again. "Too soft for the Prem!" one called out.

If anything, that just hardened Izan's expression. He didn't reply, didn't raise a hand.

He kept walking, flanked by Jesus and Saliba, who muttered something quietly in French—likely about the officiating.

Whatever it was, Izan responded with only a short nod, jaw set.

And above it all, the commentator summed it up from his booth.

"Well, we've had a goal, bruises, and just enough controversy to keep Twitter alive until Monday.

Arsenal go in 1–0 ahead thanks to a fantastic corner routine from the 16-year-old Izan and a clinical header from Saliba.

But it's the man with the whistle who'll be getting the most attention in the next fifteen minutes."

His co-commentator chimed in. "If this is the standard of officiating we're starting the season with, buckle up. That second half could be chaos."

With that, the cameras panned to the tunnel entrance as both teams disappeared into the bowels of Villa Park.

One side was stewing in frustration, the other buoyed by a referee who, intentionally or not, had just shifted the balance of the match.

...….

The locker room was heavy with frustration. The first half had ended 1–0 in Arsenal's favor, but the way it had played out—physically, and mentally—left the team rattled more than relieved.

Shirts clung to backs soaked in sweat, tape was being torn off around ankles, and still, no one was quite speaking freely.

Most players had given up looking toward the match official for protection by the end of the half.

Izan sat in the corner, silent, back resting against the cool brick wall.

His face was flushed, strands of damp hair clinging to his forehead.

The cold compress had slid slightly down his side, just over a spot that had taken the worst of the impact from a cynical barge near the corner flag.

He winced as he adjusted it, his arm moving stiffly. Saliba sat next to him, gently tapping his shoulder once in solidarity, then returning to unwrapping the tape around his knee.

Arteta strode in, late, eyes scanning every one of his players as the door thudded shut behind him.

He held no notes, no tablet. His expression alone was enough to hush the locker room.

"I thought it'd be better this season," he said, not raising his voice. His tone, calm but sharp, somehow struck harder than if he'd screamed.

"With all the new metrics. All the training. The meetings we had with them. I thought it would be different." He let the silence hang, making his point as his eyes moved from face to face.

"But it's not," he added. "It's still the same mess."

No one interrupted. The players sat still, listening.

"Nothing's changed," Arteta muttered, almost to himself, before pointing at Izan, who looked up slowly.

"They're coming for you," he said. "You've shown them too much already. Now they'll try to chop you down. They won't outplay you—they'll try to stop you by any means. And I don't think we can trust the officials to protect you."

At that, he turned to the medical staff, gesturing toward Izan. "Check him properly."

The lead physio, Marcus, walked over with a younger assistant in tow.

Izan shifted on the bench as Marcus crouched next to him, his tone gentle but professional.

"Alright, mate. Just going to have a look, yeah?"

Izan nodded wordlessly and raised his arm slightly so Marcus could examine the bruising along his ribs and lower back.

The skin was red, and slightly swollen in areas, but there were no signs of deep tissue damage or anything serious.

"No swelling in the joint. Just surface bruising. He's good to go," Marcus reported to Arteta after a few minutes, who gave a curt nod in response. He didn't look reassured.

Izan pulled his shirt back down and let out a quiet breath as the cold compress was replaced.

Saliba looked over at him. "You okay?"

"Fine," Izan replied quietly, then offered a faint smile. "Didn't expect to get kicked this much."

Saliba chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Get used to it. They do this to anyone dangerous."

Arteta stepped forward again, his voice now louder, more commanding.

"Listen," he said, addressing the entire squad.

"We manage this now. They're the ones desperate. We play smart. We frustrate them with the ball. Let them chase. Let them foul. But we don't respond."

His gaze passed over Jorginho, then Ødegaard. "You two, keep us ticking. Martin, keep the tempo. If we start getting dragged into their chaos, we lose control."

Then, again, his eyes returned to Izan. "And you—don't stop. Don't back off. If they keep fouling you, good. It means they're scared. Just don't let them take you out. Be smart."

"I will, míster," Izan said, louder this time.

Carlos Cuesta stepped forward beside Arteta and said quietly, "You handled that well."

Arteta gave a faint nod, still watching Izan as he leaned back against the wall.

"If we lose him now, Carlos, that's our edge gone. He's got something none of the others do."

The assistant coach nodded. "He knows. Let's get him through it."

There was a knock on the door. One of the staff stuck his head in. "Three minutes, coach."

Arteta turned back to the group. "Alright. Deep breaths. Water. Reset your heads. We're ahead, we deserve it. Now let's finish this with control."

The room slowly began to move again. Players downed electrolytes, laced up boots, and adjusted tape.

The weight of the first half still lingered, but there was steel under it now.

As the players stood and prepared to head back out, Arteta gave Izan a small pat on the shoulder.

"Play your game. Let them foul you if they want. You'll still be the one they can't stop."

And with that, Arsenal prepared to walk back onto the pitch.

….

A/n: Okay. Have fun reading. For those who don't understand the title, 12th Man in football means the fans and since it looks like the referee is on villa's side, he's like their 13th Man.