God Of football

Chapter 790: A Week Later.

Miranda, watching Izan hand the trophy 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...”

....

[A week later.]

[Wembley]

Arsenal songs crashed against the concrete stands, voices tumbling into one another, a hymn of triumph rolling into the London sky.

Red and white scarves waved like banners in a storm, firework bursts going off outside the arch of Wembley.

The FA Cup final was over.

And it had not gone the way the world expected.

Arsenal Five, Manchester City nil.

For months, pundits had circled this fixture as the inevitable clash, Guardiola’s tactical machines against the Premier League’s contenders turned winners following the past week’s title celebration.

Building up to the game, there was talk or more like a memory being relived, as Arsenal fans pulled up the second meeting between the two in the Premier League.

The one where Arsenal demolished Pep’s City 7-2.

It was a hard week for the Manchester City fans who had to defend their club, throwing pride away to say the FA cup final wasn’t going to be the same as the last match.

It was supposed to prove an exciting or, at the very least, decent watch for every fan in the stadium.

Yet ninety minutes had left on the scoreboard with no debate, only a statement.

Arsenal were the owners of Manchester City and the City of Manchester as a whole.

It was a clean, merciless win, the kind that rewrites the balance of power.

Inside the bowels of the stadium, the air was thick with champagne mist and the bite of liniment.

Players moved through the tunnel half-drenched, still in their kits, their medals clinking faintly when they bumped against chests.

Laughter came in bursts, not wild but proud, the sort that carried the weight of history.

Arteta stood in the dressing room doorway, shirt sleeves rolled, voice ragged.

He wasn’t being tossed into the air this time.

Instead, he clasped hands firmly with his assistants, each exchange brief, each one laden with unspoken gratitude.

”That’s three,” he said, a hoarse smile cracking through exhaustion.

Then quieter, almost to himself, ”But not the one.”

Around him, the squad settled into their own rhythms.

Declan Rice sprawled across a bench, head tipped back, his medal crooked around his neck.

He muttered to no one in particular, ”Hardest season of my life... but it’s all been worth it.”

Across from him, Saka and Nwaneri leaned shoulder to shoulder, whispering with grins, one of them saying it felt like the closing scene of a film, the credits about to roll, ”except there’s still one more frame left.”

In the corridors beyond, television screens flickered with the live feed as the broadcast voice carried through the mixed zone, weaving itself into the fabric of the night.

”Three trophies in a single campaign,” one of the commentators declared, his words rising above the background.

”Not just any three, either. Arsenal began with the Carabao Cup, they swept through the league unbeaten, and now, tonight, they’ve dismantled Manchester City in the FA Cup final. It’s a domestic treble, and it will echo for decades.”

The voice grew sharper, certain.

”And at the heart of it all was the boy who had turned his promise at the start of the season into dominance. Forty-seven league goals. Twenty-four assists. And tonight, three more assists against Guardiola’s City. Izan Miura Hernández hasn’t just conquered England; he’s redrawn it in his own image. Arsenal dreamed of immortality. Tonight, they’ve stepped into it.”

Outside the stadium, the chants carried long into the dark.

Supporters lingered at Wembley Way, red smoke drifting over their heads, songs twisting into anthems of eternity: London is red forever... rewrite the history books... Arsenal’s dynasty begins.

Homemade signs bobbed in the throng, some painted in hurried brushstrokes, others stitched with pride.

One read simply: Unbeaten. Treble. Dynasty.

Back inside, the dressing room slowly shifted from chaos to a heavy calm.

Conversations dropped into low tones, boots being swapped for trainers or slides as the players popped in and out of the showers, the adrenaline beginning to sink.

Outside and away from all this, the reporters waited like vultures at the tunnel mouth, their voices spilling forward with questions that blended into noise.

But one line cut sharper, hurled above the others, as the players stepped out, making their way towards the Arsenal Team Coach that awaited outside.

”Izan! Allianz Arena next week! Are you ready for Barcelona?”

It broke through the murmur, and though Izan didn’t turn, several heads did.

The atmosphere seemed to pause, if only for a second.

The treble was real, tangible, shining around their necks and drying sticky on their shirts, but now another horizon loomed.

The one Arteta had whispered of in the doorway.

The one that could crown everything.

The FA Cup had been theirs.

The treble was secured.

But as the stadium’s chants drifted deeper into the night, all thoughts, all breaths, all hearts were already tilting toward Munich.

...

[Skysports Live]

”So it is done. Arsenal Five, Manchester City nil,” the host began with a kind of awe that words alone couldn’t carry, as if repeating the scoreline might help him and everyone watching make sense of it.

”That’s not very nice for the Citizens, it is,” he continued as one of the analysts beside him let out a long breath, the sound almost like laughter.

His head shook slowly, a gesture of disbelief rather than dismissal.

”We kind of knew it would be hard for City to win,” he said, ”but this? This is something else. Manchester City have ruled Wembley for years, made it theirs. Tonight, they looked human. And Arsenal... Arsenal looked untouchable. City couldn’t live with them. Not the intensity, not the organisation, not the sheer quality. It wasn’t even close.”

The words seemed to ripple out of the studio, spilling back into the air of living rooms and pubs, where Arsenal fans clutched pints or scarves or one another.

Another voice, smoother, rose from the far end of the desk, the admiration in it unmistakable.

”Think of the scale of it,” the second analyst said. ”Unbeaten in the league. Two cup finals handled with complete composure. Every challenge, every obstacle, answered without hesitation. And when you look at the centre of it all, well, it’s Izan, isn’t it?”

”Clubs had their chance. They looked, some of them even circled, but none looked as determined as Arsenal. Real Madrid thought they were doing Izan a favour. Paris offered just money and security. Liverpool were serious but not as Arsenal, who went all in, and the decision has become the most devastating signing in football.”

”And that’s what must sting most for rival fans tonight. You can’t buy hindsight. They’ll be watching this now, wishing their boards had pushed harder, wishing they’d moved faster. But Arsenal were the ones who committed. Arsenal were the ones who backed their belief. And now look at it. Records shattered, trophies lifted, nights like this.” He paused, eyes flicking again to the shot of Wembley still glowing behind him.

”You just wonder... how many years are we going to be talking about Izan at the very top of this sport?”

For a moment, the screen cut back to the stadium itself, where fans still lingered in their seats, as though afraid to leave, afraid that stepping away might wake them from a dream.

When the cameras returned to the studio, the host shuffled the papers at last, though it was a gesture more than an action.

His eyes flicked toward a smaller screen to his side.

”But of course, the story doesn’t end here. In a week’s time, Arsenal fly to Munich. The Allianz Arena. Barcelona. The Champions League final. Our team down there tried to get a few words from the man of the moment, but it seems all the talking will be done in Munich.”

The other nodded, his tone firm with admiration.

”And that’s the frightening part, isn’t it? Arsenal have just secured a domestic treble, a feat that puts them in history’s highest shelves. And yet you can see it, they’re not satisfied. The whole squad, their manager, their talisman, they’re already looking at Barcelona. Already aiming for Europe.”

The host leaned back, his expression carrying the kind of wonder that mirrored the fans at home. He gestured toward the camera, as if trying to include every watching eye in his closing words.

”So there it is. Arsenal, treble winners. Carabao Cup, Premier League, and FA Cup. History-makers. But this Chapter isn’t finished. In a week, at the Allianz Arena in Munich, they face Barcelona for the Champions League. The chance to lift the biggest trophy of them all.”

His voice dropped, almost reverent. ”Can they do it? We’ll find out in Germany.”

And with that, the studio lights seemed to dim against the magnitude of the moment, leaving the question to hang, alive, across every corner of the footballing world.