God Of football

Chapter 709: If, Anyone?

Florentino Pérez sat in his seat high in the director’s box, arms folded tightly across his chest, his jaw locked in a way that betrayed more than his expression did.

He had watched many nights in the Bernabéu where opponents broke against Real Madrid’s will, nights when the Champions League seemed to bend toward the white shirts almost by divine right.

But now—now it was his own side under the weight of inevitability.

On the pitch, Izan stood like he had grown ten feet taller, chest heaving, eyes blazing as he pointed deliberately to the back of his shirt, fingers pressing against the letters of his name.

Izan Hernández.

There used to be a name that tormented them but even that wasn’t on any level of what this kid was doing to them in because if tonight went as it was currently was, they still would have not won a game, ever, against the kid and no one in that stadium would forget it now, not tonight, not ever.

And now, as Izan stood alone in front of the Ultras who had jeered him, pelted him with insults, mocked his age as if it diminished his greatness, he silenced them with a finger to his lips.

Their roars turned to venom, then to silence.

Only the away end thundered on, red flares crackling into the night, smoke rising into the cold Madrid air as Arsenal’s travelling supporters shook the stadium.

The cameras cut back to Florentino.

His lips pressed into the faintest of wry smiles, though it was anything but amusement—it was the smirk of a man who recognised something dangerous when he saw it.

He turned his gaze toward the dugout where Ancelotti stood, arms folded, face unreadable, his iconic calm tested under the burning lights.

For a moment, Florentino sighed, leaning back against his seat.

”Come on, Madrid,” he muttered to himself.

He didn’t need to say more; everyone around him understood.

Madrid had let something slip through their fingers.

Back in London, the reaction was far less restrained.

The living room shook as Hori screamed loud enough to wake even the neighbours if not for the soundproofing in their home.

Komi, her mother, clapped her hands over her ears with a laugh, then jumped up herself, waving her arms like she had scored the goal.

Olivia stood frozen for half a second, her hand over her mouth in disbelief, before she erupted into a grin so wide it hurt, hugging Hori and Komi in a tangle of limbs.

”Come on, bro,” Hori yelled as she turned her attention back to the screen.

”Would you believe this?!” Ian Darke cried, his voice cracking with disbelief. ”A few minutes ago, it was looking certain for Real Madrid, but now, they are on the verge of exiting early in this campaign.”

Darke carried the weight of history into his words, but then, ”However, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Five minutes of normal time remain here at the Santiago Bernabéu, and you know what that means. If there’s any side in world football capable of clawing this back when everything seems lost, it’s Real Madrid. This club lives for these dying minutes. They live for miracles.”

Savage interjected with urgency. ”That’s exactly it, Ian. Arsenal can’t breathe for a second. Because if there’s one thing you don’t do in this competition, it’s count Madrid out. Not with Mbappé on the pitch, not with Vinícius, not with Bellingham lurking.”

The cameras panned across the faces of Madrid’s faithful.

Some had their hands buried in their hair, staring blankly at the scoreboard.

Others shouted, waving scarves, still refusing to give in.

A wall of sound rose again, not quite as assured as before, but defiant.

On the pitch, Mbappé placed the ball at the centre circle, his eyes narrowing, lips pursed.

His chest rose and fell sharply; the frustration in his veins matched only by a deadly focus.

He had come to Madrid to win the Champions League, but now it was looking awry, and he couldn’t leave it as it was.

Around him, Vinícius jogged into position, clapping his hands furiously, shouting at his teammates while Bellingham rolled his shoulders, eyes scanning the Arsenal backline like a predator finding weak spots.

The referee raised his whistle to his lips.

”Five minutes to save themselves,” Ian Darke said, his voice dropping into that deep, measured tone he reserved for moments heavy with history. ”Five minutes... to avoid the unthinkable.”

The shrill blast came, and Mbappé tapped the ball forward.

The Bernabéu rose to its feet once more. The fight wasn’t over. Not yet.

Modrić took the ball, light on his feet, even at his age, the veteran’s first stride snapping Real Madrid into another gear.

The tempo lifted immediately as he drifted into Arsenal’s half, body turning ever so slightly as if to thread a pass behind the back line.

Arsenal’s defenders edged out, just a fraction, wary of the needle pass.

And that was all Modrić needed. With the precision of a surgeon, he clipped it into Brahim Díaz, the ball cutting through the gap like a knife.

”And here comes Real again... moving with purpose now,” the commentary rose, voices chasing the tempo.

Brahim killed the ball with one touch, let his shoulders dip, then cut inside, dragging opponent players with him.

But before Arsenal could set, he chopped out again, buying a sliver of daylight.

This momentary halt caused Arsenal to regroup, but their defence, still in shambles, allowed Dia to pass the ball through in a blink, and Mbappé darted behind, clean, fast, and deadly.

Hands shot up in red, arms waving for offside, but ”The flag stays down!” Ian Darke barked, volume breaking.

And there was Mbappé — that terrifying image no defender wants to see — bearing down on Raya, his left foot cocked back like a hammer about to strike.

”Kyliaaan MBAPPÉ!!!”

He struck.

And the ball tore through the air, venom in its veins.

Raya flung himself across his line, fingertips grazing leather at the very last fraction of a second.

It was the faintest of touches, but it was enough to alter destiny, at least for the next few minutes.

”Saved— NO! POST!!!” Ian Darke’s voice cracked in disbelief.

The ball cannoned off the inside of the woodwork, spinning wildly across the face of the goal.

Time itself seemed to stop — the Ultras behind the net half-exploding already, others clutching their heads as if the goal had gone in — but it hadn’t.

It rolled, tantalisingly, just a single blade of grass away from the line where Vinícius was already charging, his eyes burning with the Bernabéu erupting in anticipation—

”It’s still alive for Madrid!!”

But out of nowhere, Calafiori stormed in like a soldier in the trenches, lungs burning, boots pounding.

He hurled his body at the line, swinging his leg clean through the ball, thumping it away before Vinícius could pounce.

”Calafiori! With the clearance of his life!!” Robbie Savage bellowed, his words drenched in adrenaline as the ball spun out of play for a throw and the Madrid attack, halted by the smallest, finest margins.

The Ultras leapt to their feet, fists raised, voices echoing across the stadium like thunder.

They could feel it now — their team was circling, pressing, suffocating.

It felt like the next kick, the next bounce, the next slip could break it all.

Jude picked up the ball with a glare of determination, barking a sharp gesture at his teammates to fan out.

”Go! Spread!” he roared, commanding order from the chaos.

Madrid’s white shirts shifted, flooding the Arsenal box with menace, each movement pulling defenders tighter and tighter into the penalty area.

He backed up, three, four, five heavy steps, before charging at the line and launching a throw like a missile toward the far end of the box.

”Here it comes!”Robbie Savage shouted, rising with the throw.

The ball arced, hung, then dropped into the furnace of bodies where Mbappé was—already twisting, already plotting something out of nothing.

He angled his body sideways, a predator’s poise in motion, then hopped off one foot, chest opening to the ball before his left leg whipped through like lightning, smashing across it.

”MBAPPÉEE!!!” Ian Darke called for the umpteenth time in the game.

The strike roared toward goal, venom in its spin, slicing through the air as Raya flung himself, fingertips stretching, and he got there!

A palm shoved the ball against the post with a metallic crack that thundered around the stadium.

”Ohhh Raya! Off the post again!” Ian Darke bellowed as the rebound looped dangerously back into the air.

Gabriel reacted first, throwing himself at it, heading clear with every sinew straining.

The ball skidded away from the crowded box—straight to Izan.

The 17-year-old’s boots kissed the ball in stride and his head snapped up once.

Space. There was space.

The pitch stretched before him like an open highway, and like an F1 car, suddenly taken from a school zone into the Interlagos, Izan shot forward.