God Of football

Chapter 686: Countdown To Glory.

The two made their way to the front table, Izan sitting to Arteta’s right as a few more quiet flashes sparked from the corners.

Izan, seeing the composed atmosphere, suppressed a chuckle just as the moderator stepped up to the front.

”Good evening, everyone,” he began, tapping a finger gently against the mic.

”Thank you all for coming. We’ll be starting shortly.”

The room buzzed for a while as the staff set up a few devices.

Izan sat slightly forward, arms resting on the table before him.

The cameras had finally settled.

A few reporters glanced down at their recorders, and others sat poised, pens hovering.

The moderator stepped forward again after a while, smiling as he leaned into the mic.

”Good evening, everyone,” he said. ”We’ll be starting now. Please keep your questions brief and relevant.”

A small set of nods followed.

”You may begin.”

The first journalist — a man in his late forties, navy blazer, neutral voice — leaned forward in his chair from the middle row.

”Izan,” he began, ”congratulations on the Carabao Cup. Your first trophy with Arsenal. Can you talk us through how that feels personally?”

Izan adjusted the mic without rush.

Then he met the room’s gaze.

”Thank you,” he said, coughing a bit before continuing. ”It feels... good. Great actually.”

”I think, for every footballer, no matter how many individual accolades you get, there’s just something special about winning silverware with your team.

It doesn’t matter what the competition is. A trophy’s a trophy. It’s proof that your effort — that everything you trained for, every moment you pushed past tired legs — it amounted to something.”

There was a pause, brief and warm, as his voice steadied.

”And for me personally... It’s the first one with Arsenal. That makes it unforgettable.”

A few camera shutters clicked gently with the accompanying sounds of pens scratching surfaces.

The next question came quickly.

A woman with sharp glasses and a notepad balanced on her thigh raised her voice from the left row.

”On that note, Izan,” she said, ”there’s been a lot of talk on social media and among some pundits as well — about how Arsenal celebrated after the final. Some say you lot were acting like you’d just won the World Cup. How do you respond to that?”

Izan leaned back, exchanging a look with Arteta, who offered a small, amused breath through his nose but didn’t interrupt.

Izan looked back out over the sea of recorders and waiting hands.

”Well,” he said, slowly, ”anyone who was in that stadium — anyone who actually felt the atmosphere — they’ll tell you it didn’t feel like just a Carabao Cup final.”

He leaned in again, arms folding gently over the table as he spoke with a tone that was calm, but utterly unwavering.

”I mean, even the fans... those who weren’t on the pitch — even they were living and dying with every moment. You could hear it in their voices, feel it in the way they sang and screamed and shook the whole place. Now imagine what it felt like for us, the players. Every tackle, every sprint, every whistle... it mattered.”

Another pause. Another breath.

”I get it — maybe from the outside, people think it’s ’just’ the Carabao Cup. But for us, that match wasn’t just a final. It was also a message. A momentum shift. We’ve got Liverpool again in a few weeks. That game wasn’t just about lifting a cup — it was about reminding ourselves and everyone else: we’re not slowing down.”

There was a noticeable hush in the room, the weight of his words landing.

And then came the part that sharpened the air like a knife.

”As for those pundits saying it’s ’just some trophy’ or that Arsenal are bound to bottle something... I don’t know how things used to be done here. Maybe in the past, Arsenal would stumble when it mattered most. I don’t know. But what I do know is that with this manager,” — he gestured slightly to Arteta — ”with these teammates, with the work we’re putting in, with the way we’re wired now...”

He stopped for half a second.

”There’s no bottling anything.”

A quiet murmur rippled across the room.

Pens moved faster and laptops tapped at double the speed.

Someone in the back gave a low whistle before quickly catching themselves.

Arteta didn’t say anything, but his expression said enough — the faintest of smiles, tight and proud at the edge of his mouth.

Izan hadn’t raised his voice. He hadn’t needed to. But the message rang louder than any cheer.

He adjusted the mic again, subtly this time, and glanced around as if to invite the next question.

But it didn’t come.

Not because they didn’t have one, but because the room was too busy absorbing.

Writing. Clipping quotes already in their heads.

A few journalists were typing so frantically they barely noticed when Izan and Arteta stood up a few minutes later.

The moderator gave a quiet thank-you, though it felt more like a formality. The juice had already been spilt.

And from the moment Izan said what he said, everyone knew — this was going to be tomorrow’s headline.

...........

”They call it a new dawn... but for Arsenal, it’s more like the storm after the calm.”

”Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome back to Premier League action on this bright, expectant Sunday. Just a few days removed from a Carabao Cup final triumph under the Wembley arch, Mikel Arteta’s side are back at the Emirates... and back in the trenches.”

”The dust has barely settled on that dramatic midweek cup final victory, a 3–2 nail-biter that saw the Gunners edge Liverpool and lift their first piece of silverware this season. The Arsenal faithful—vocal as ever—filled Wembley with sound and emotion, and you could feel what it meant to the red half of North London.”

”But sentiment, as sweet as it may be, is a short-lived currency in this league. And now, with Matchday 32 upon us, the Gunners must turn the page. Because a different beast is waiting in the tunnel this afternoon.”

”It’s Everton. And no, this isn’t a side that rolls over easily. Just last week, they took Liverpool—yes, that Liverpool—all the way to the final whistle. A relentless midfield, tireless pressing, and that familiar physical edge. David Moyes’s men may be fighting their own battle near the bottom, but they’re not in the business of handing out favours.”

”And for Arsenal, who are still within reach despite being 9 points clear of second place in the title race, anything less than three points today could spell disaster. Liverpool, as always, are lurking. Breathing. Waiting for a slip.”

”So now the question is: can Arsenal, fresh off the emotional high of lifting a trophy, return to earth in time to grind out a result?”

The broadcast camera cut sharply to the players emerging from the tunnel, two-by-two under the Emirates floodlights.

The roar of the crowd crescendoed as red and white smoke rose from the North Bank, the atmosphere unmistakably primed for war.

Ødegaard, captain’s armband tight around his sleeve, shared a quiet nod with Zinchenko as they moved towards the front of the matchday platform.

A few claps echoed up and down the line as the players settled in front of the crowd.

Izan, second to last, exchanged only a brief eye contact with the opponent winger, whom he shook hands with before his gaze turned to the crowd.

The Emirates had been many things over the years — majestic, silent, mournful, alive — but today, it was purely defiant.

”COME ON YOU GUNNERS!”

The chants poured out like blood from an open vein, raw and rhythmic.

But Everton weren’t here to play extras in anyone’s script.

A burst of response erupted from the travelling fans section — a dark blue banner hoisted above the heads of die-hards shouting loud enough to rattle seats.

”EVERTON! EVERTON! EVERTON!”

The clash of voices filled the air like smoke and steel.

At the centre circle, Ødegaard and Tarkowski exchanged a second handshake as Michael Oliver blew into his whistle again, sharply this time.

The teams broke into their final shapes, boots sliding lightly into the grass as each man found his mark.

Arsenal settled quickly — a fluid 4-3-3 on paper, but was already rippling with motion.

Everton lined up with that signature low block, dense and physical, their midfield three already starting to clog the central lanes.

The ball was placed at the halfway line, and the Emirates buzzed, anticipation surging like a held breath about to break free.

”All the build-up, all the noise, all the emotion... it all leads to this.”

”Matchday 32. Arsenal versus Everton. One chasing glory, the other clawing for survival. And in between, ninety minutes of war.”

”This is the Premier League.”

Oliver checked both keepers as one final glance was thrown across the pitch, and then, the whistle sliced through the air—

Kickoff.

A/N: First of the day. Sorry for it being so late. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit with the last of the day.