God Of football

Chapter 810: Barcelona’s Answer.

And there, sprinting in, was Pedri.

He came like a shadow breaking into light, running with perfect timing, the ball dropping into his path as if delivered by fate itself.

”Pedri’s there! PEDEERIIIIII!” Drury’s voice cracked with urgency, climbing above the wall of noise as the ball bounced once on the grass, rising like an offering, inviting destiny.

And then, he struck it as it fell, body perfectly balanced, boot slicing through the air, unflinching, the sound sharp enough to cut through sixty thousand voices as the ball tore forward.

It screamed across the air like a comet under floodlight glare, every rotation caught by the cameras, every spin magnified in slow motion in the minds of those watching.

Raya threw himself sideways, fingers stretched to their very edge, but it was already gone, already beyond him as time seemed to fracture.

The stadium hung in suspension, two halves of Europe breathing as one.

Arsenal hearts thudded in terror, Barcelona souls burned with expectation.

And then, impact.

The net rippled with a violent snap as the ball buried itself into the top corner, a strike so sweet, so venomous, it seemed to rattle the very frame of the goal.

GOAL.

The Allianz Arena erupted into chaos as the Barcelona end detonated in a storm of sound, a roaring blue-and-claret inferno.

Flags whipped furiously, scarves swung above heads, strangers collapsed into each other’s arms.

”These are the kind of nights we live for as football fans. He doesn’t score often,” Peter Drury’s voice rang out, trembling with that lyrical awe of his, ”but when he does... You know it’s a belter! Pedri González, with a thunderclap to start the Champions League final!”

The words melted into the din as Pedri was already gone, already sprinting away from the box, arms wide, face tilted to the sky, he charged toward the corner flag with the weight of a generation at his back.

Behind him, a swarm of striped shirts gave chase.

Frenkie de Jong was first, sprinting with a grin as wide as his stride.

Lewandowski, chest heaving, pointed after him with delight while Raphinha slid across the turf, mouth open in joy.

They all converged on him at once, a flood of bodies crashing together, burying the 22-year-old in a sea of limbs and joy.

On the far side of the stadium, the Arsenal fans were frozen, arms half-raised, faces etched in disbelief.

Silence stretched from their section, broken only by the groans of frustration.

Raya sat upright, fists clenched on the turf, shaking his head as Gabriel and Saliba tried to regroup, pointing and waving at them to get in the game.

But none of that mattered now.

Because the scoreboard glowed.

Barcelona 1 – 0 Arsenal.

And in that moment, Munich belonged to Pedri, though maybe not for long.

...

The match at the Allianz had started to stretch after the goal.

Arsenal, still probing with measured patience, were beginning to test the edges of Barcelona’s defensive line.

It wasn’t a storm yet, more like the faint rumble before thunder.

And at the centre of it, always demanding the ball, always dictating, was Izan.

He dropped deeper into midfield, receiving from Rice before immediately pivoting, rolling his right foot over the ball as Pedri came snapping at his heels.

He moved his body one way, the ball going the other as Pedri stumbled half a step, caught on the wrong side, and Izan pushed forward with space in front of him.

”Lovely turn there, Pedri sold a ticket, and Izan’s off,” Peter Drury’s voice carried into the night, calm but simmering with anticipation.

The crowd stirred as De Jong slid across to meet him immediately, blocking Izan’s path, but he didn’t slow.

Instead, he shaped his body one way, then, with the faintest touch, slipped the ball through De Jong’s legs as gasps rippled around the stands.

”Well, that was fun!” Martin Tyer laughed. ”Nutmegged Frenkie de Jong like he wasn’t there!”

Izan barely looked back, already accelerating toward the right flank, the rhythm of his strides pushing against the tempo of Barcelona’s line.

Trossard read it, drifting narrower into the half-space.

In an instant, they exchanged glances as Izan nudged the ball wide with the outside of his boot and curved his run off the ball, swinging around Koundé’s blindside.

Trossard delayed just long enough but not too much, and then, with another touch, he sent the perfectly weighted slip down the line where Izan was.

He had bent his body like a sprinter off the blocks, his shoulder brushing past Koundé as though the Frenchman were a traffic cone left behind.

”He’s away again! This boy... he makes the bend this time,” Drury cried while the Arsenal fans roared, behind him, their voices cutting through the Munich air.

Izan paused the ball with the outside of his boot, cutting back outside, steadied, drew back his right foot, and whipped a teasing cross toward the far post.

For a fleeting heartbeat, it looked perfect as Havertz launched himself, timing his leap with precision, forehead connecting with a satisfying thud.

The ball flashed past Szczęsny and was buried in the bottom corner of the net as Balde tried to clip it out.

The Arsenal bench and fans leapt to their feet, arms raised, ready to celebrate, only to pause as one.

The flag was already up.

Inigo Martínez and Cubarsí had stepped up in unison, a trap sprung in the blink of an eye, and Havertz, half a body ahead, was caught dangling in no man’s land.

The linesman’s arm was stiff, flag fluttering under the stadium lights as the groans of the Barca fans turned into cheers.

”Ahh... a goal, but it won’t count!” Peter Drury chuckled, almost sympathetic.

”Barcelona with the high line again, such a gamble, but they’re playing it to perfection. Havertz was a step too eager.”

The Arsenal players groaned collectively as Havertz dragged a hand down his face, shaking his head, while Izan clapped his hands and urged calm, gesturing for everyone to reset.

Barcelona’s defenders smirked, exchanging a word as Szczęsny scooped the ball casually out of the net.

He rolled it across the six-yard box, waiting, letting the noise linger before nudging it short to Martínez.

”Barcelona are having their fun here at the Allianz,” Drury mused, tone balanced between admiration and warning.

”That line has its risks, but oh, when it works, it feels like a trick of theatre. They invite you to believe, only to snatch the curtain back.”

The Gunners jogged back into position, their supporters clapping in encouragement rather than frustration.

Barcelona, calm as ever, pushed forward as if nothing had happened.

Arsenal had their warning; Barcelona had their answer.

Martínez didn’t hesitate, lifting his head and sending a raking long ball high into the air.

It carved across the Munich sky, searching for Lamine Yamal, who had already peeled off into space down the right.

But before it could fall into Yamal’s stride, a red shirt, in

Ødegaard drifted across.

The captain had abandoned his station, ghosting back into the half-space, and with one deft chest control, the long ball never reached Yamal.

”Oh, clever from Ødegaard! Read it beautifully, and Arsenal can settle again,” Drury called, the commentary riding the Norwegian’s control.

Ødegaard turned on the ball, sliding his body between it and Dani Olmo, who had rushed back to press.

In the movement, sharp, instinctive, Olmo’s left heel came down awkwardly.

Not on the grass.

But on Odegaard’s toes.

A sharp cry sounded as Ødegaard crumpled, and the referee blew almost immediately, hand raised.

”Ah, he’s gone down a little softly there, hasn’t he?” Martin Tyler muttered with a note of doubt as the official approached the scene.

”Didn’t look like much in it...”

But then the camera caught Ødegaard’s face.

The wince wasn’t theatre.

He sat upright, jaw tight, tugging at his laces with hurried fingers as the boot slipped off, and the collective gasp inside the stadium was louder than the whistle.

Blood.

Not much, but enough.

Enough to stain the sock and glisten under the lights.

The crowd’s murmur rose, confusion turning to concern.

”Oh my word...” Drury’s voice softened. ”That’s no soft landing. You can see the red seeping through. Was Olmo’s challenge that serious?”

The referee, now alert, turned sharply towards Olmo.

He gestured with his hand.

”Studs. Show me your studs,” he demanded as Olmo, wide-eyed and bewildered, obeyed.

He lifted his boot, pointing the sole towards the official.

The white blades gleamed under the inspection, but there was no metal or irregular spike.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

”It was purely accidental then,” Martin Tyler said, almost defensive.

”Olmo just clipped, and Ødegaard landed on him. It happens. But look at the state of that toe, Arsenal won’t want to lose their captain over something so... mundane.”

Physios were already at the touchline, but Ødegaard waved them back after a moment.

He pressed his thumb to the sock, checked the flow, then nodded.

Slowly, he rose, standing gingerly at first, before taking a few tentative steps as the applause rolled down from the Arsenal end.

”He seems as though he’ll be walking it off,” Drury said.

”He’ll carry on, because that’s what captains do. Pain stitched to pride, wrapped inside the armband,” Drury added as the referee blew for the foul.