God Of football

Chapter 789: Trophy Celebrations.

The Arsenal players strolled back to their half, shoulders loose, expressions glowing but calm, because they knew it was done.

The job had been finished.

The match didn’t need a final flourish, no last desperate sprint.

Their bodies moved with the unhurried certainty of men who had conquered, soaking in every second of the crowd’s deafening roar, and the commentators were right there with them, voices thick with emotion.

”It’s over, isn’t it? It has to be over. Arsenal... Arsenal are about to be crowned champions of England. What a season, what a journey, and what a finish!”

Newcastle placed the ball at the centre circle, but even their motions were half-hearted because the whistle pierced the air before they could do anything else.

The Emirates erupted.

It wasn’t just a sound; it was an earthquake, a tidal wave of red and white euphoria crashing down from every corner of the stands.

Flags whipped in the air, scarves spun like whirlwinds, and tears streamed freely down faces that had waited almost two decades for this.

The bench burst from their seats, staff and substitutes alike sprinting and walking toward the eleven men already out there.

They met at the halfway line, arms colliding, bodies pressed together, forming a massive huddle of triumph as players jumped and screamed, shoulders slapping, fists pumping, their chants swallowed by the stadium’s roar.

And then, louder still, came the voices of the Arsenal faithful: ”We are Arsenal! Champions of England!”

A chorus of songs old and new filled the air, each name of their heroes sung like hymns.

The players broke from their huddle only to mob Mikel Arteta.

They surrounded their manager, hoisting him skyward as if he were lighter than air, tossing him up and down while chanting his name.

Arteta, laughing through the chaos, kept shouting, ”Put me down, put me down, come on!” but his pleas were ignored until Carlos Cuesta stepped in, gently insisting, clapping his hands, herding them back.

With Arteta gone, the players needed to find a new target to hoist soon, and they didn’t have to search for long.

Izan.

The teenager was off near the touchline, speaking quietly with Alexander Isak, who hadn’t played but still lingered with a sportsman’s grace.

Izan didn’t even notice his teammates creeping until they descended on him in a blur of arms and cheers, sweeping him right off his feet.

”Look at that, of course, they’ve gone for him. Izan Miura Hernández. Just seventeen years of age, and listen to this, forty-seven league goals, twenty-four assists. The numbers almost feel unreal, but it’s the truth. Arsenal’s wonderkid, no, Arsenal’s talisman, the best player in the Premier League this season, by some distance.”

They carried him like a prize, ruffling his hair, making him laugh and squirm as his bun came loose again.

Saka, ever the joker, tugged on his shoulder and leaned close with a grin.

”Proper problem you’ve got there, bro. Might link my barber to you,” Saka spat, but Izan snorted, shaking his head.

”I don’t want the guy who did this to you anywhere near me. Plus, my girlfriend would get jealous,” he muttered, voice dry but tinged with amusement as the other players broke out into strings of laughter as Izan’s eyes flicked instinctively toward the tunnel, as if searching for Olivia in the blur of faces.

”And to think,” the commentary came again,” when Arsenal signed him, there were questions. Rival fans were furious they’d missed out, some saying he’d flop, that it was too much pressure, too soon. If this is what flopping looks like, Arsenal supporters will pray he does it again next season, and the season after, and the one after that until his very last day in red and white.”

Meanwhile, the podium was being assembled, officials bustling to set the stand and prepare the medals.

While the Newcastle player trickled off the pitch, the Arsenal players filed into a neat line, chants still ringing from the crowd.

Declan Rice reached up, slipping the captain’s armband from his arm and passing it to Martin Ødegaard with a firm pat.

”Start to finish, brother,” he said softly, the words almost lost in the noise.

Up front, Izan had already stepped aside to collect the Golden Boot, the gleaming prize almost comically shiny in his hands.

He shared a few polite words with the suited officials on the podium, nodding, smiling, before jogging back to his teammates.

Saka was there waiting, grinning ear to ear, reaching up to ruffle his hair again.

The bun came undone instantly.

Saka burst into laughter as Izan rolled his eyes, but before he could say more, the line erupted with cheers.

Ødegaard had stepped forward, hands wrapped around the gleaming silver of the Premier League trophy.

He lifted it high above his head, and in that instant, the Emirates detonated.

”They’ve done it! Arsenal, officially champions of the Premier League! Only the fourth time in their storied history, and they’ve done it unbeaten once again! The Invincibles... reborn!”

”Well, Tim,” the co-commentator came through, chuckling to himself, ”There’s still that one last game against Southampton left, but I don’t think the players want to hear that, at least for now.”

The sound was indescribable, an anthem of joy, disbelief and vindication.

They were no longer the bottlers.

They were also Premier League champions.

Eventually, girlfriends and families of the players began streaming out, pulled onto the pitch by the moment.

From Izan’s cohort, Hori was the first to burst forward, her eyes wide and glinting with mischief.

She rubbed her hands together dramatically, earning a few odd looks from nearby staff, before blurting out,

”Where’s the trophy? I need to touch it. I deserve to touch it.”

Her voice carried just enough to make a couple of people laugh.

But before she could dart ahead, Komi caught her daughter firmly by the wrist, tugging her back with that mix of maternal calm and exasperation she had perfected over the years.

”Hori,” she said in her low, deliberate tone, ”there are cameras everywhere. Don’t make today a long day for yourself. Please.”

Hori groaned loudly but didn’t resist, theatrically throwing her head back. ”Mooom, I’m not even doing anything! Just one touch—”

Komi shot her a look, one eyebrow lifted, and that was enough.

Hori folded her arms, smirking instead, though the spark of rebellion still twitched in her eyes.

Just behind them, Olivia and Miranda arrived together, laughing openly at the scene.

It was at that moment that Izan made his way over, sweat still glistening on his forehead despite barely being on the pitch for long.

His bun was a mess, his shirt sticking to his chest as he reached Komi first, wrapping her into a tight hug.

She wrinkled her nose instantly.

”Ay, you’re too sweaty,” she scolded gently, pushing at his shoulders, though her arms stayed around him.

”Even when you don’t play the whole match, you manage to come back dripping.”

Izan just grinned. ”That’s football, mamá.”

While the family stood there, from the stands, a sudden wave of chanting began to roll down.

A section of Arsenal supporters had spotted them, Komi, Hori, Miranda, Olivia, and the fans wasted no time improvising a song.

”♪ Thank you, Mommy Hernandez, for giving us Izan! ♪”

The chant caught on, hundreds joining in until it rumbled through the Emirates like a carnival.

Komi’s face turned crimson, her hand instinctively going to cover her mouth as she laughed and shook her head.

But the fans weren’t done.

They twisted the lyrics in the next round, pointing toward Miranda.

”♪ Thank you, Agent, for bringing him to Arsenal! ♪”

Miranda froze, eyes widening, before bursting into laughter, pressing a hand to her chest.

”Oh my God,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else.

Then came the next target.

”♪ Sister Hernandez, take care of our star! ♪”

Hori’s smirk spread wide across her face, crossing her arms and nodding smugly, before she tilted her head as if she’d been waiting for this all along.

”Finally,” she muttered under her breath. ”Some appreciation.”

And finally, the chant switched one more time.

”♪ Mrs Hernandez, take care of our boy! ♪”

Olivia’s eyes went wide, and she covered her face with both hands, cheeks burning.

She laughed, hiding behind her fingers, while Hori nudged her elbow.

”See? You’re in the club now.”

Izan was doubled over, laughing at the absurdity, when Bukayo Saka strolled over, clapping his hands at the fans with a grin.

He gestured at himself theatrically.

”What about me, eh? Don’t forget me!”

The supporters obliged, turning the rhythm toward their star winger as Saka chuckled, shaking his head, clearly enjoying the playful turn.

Behind him, Ethan Nwaneri appeared, proudly carrying Izan’s Golden Boot like it was an artefact.

He shoved it forward with both hands.

”Here. Bro, Haaland and Salah must be sighing themselves to death right now. No matter what they did, it wasn’t going to be enough.”

”You’re enjoying this too much,” Izan chuckled as he took the award from Nwaneri’s grasp.

And then, like the perfect punctuation mark, Ødegaard appeared from the side, both arms wrapped around the Premier League trophy.

He walked toward Izan with a grin, holding it steady as if offering him the world.

Izan shifted the Golden Boot under one arm, reached out, and took the gleaming cup into his hands.

The weight surprised him, but not as much as the sight of his family and teammates all around.

He pulled Komi, Hori, Olivia, and Miranda close, lifting the trophy slightly for the cameras as the flashbulbs popped.

For that one moment, it wasn’t about chants or records or headlines but laughter and pride from the people behind the scenes.

Then, gently, he handed the trophy back to Ødegaard, who jogged off toward the boys waiting to lift it again together.

Miranda, watching him hand it over, exhaled and glanced sideways at him.

”So...” she said softly, voice almost lost in the stadium noise. ”What now?”

Izan turned his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

”Well now...”