God Of football

Chapter 815: Massive Part Of The Story.

A quiet murmur of assent filled the space, just like a shared breath and the sound of belief stitching itself back together.

Arteta looked around once more, his expression softening at last, before continuing.

”You’ve already shown what you can do,” he said. ”Now show them who you are.”

He turned toward the door, clapped once, and the tension in the air snapped, replaced by the shuffle of players standing, the hum of voices rising again.

Somewhere behind them, the muffled roar of the crowd began to swell again as the tunnel lights flickered to life.

Arteta didn’t say anything more.

He just stood by the doorway as they filed past, tapping each shoulder once, a silent reminder.

When Ødegaard passed, Arteta’s eyes dropped for a fraction of a second to the injured foot.

The captain caught the look and smiled faintly.

”I told you,” he said under his breath. ”I’ll live.”

Arteta didn’t reply, but this time, he allowed the smallest smile to flicker at the corner of his mouth as his men stepped into the path leading to the tunnel, where both Arsenal’s red and white shirts mixed with Barcelona’s blues and garnets, the sort of disordered calm before the second storm.

Steam rose faintly from sweat-damp hair as snippets of conversation floated around, half in English, half in Spanish, all of it underlined by tension.

Pedri was speaking quietly to Lamine Yamal near the corner, gesturing with his hands about something, while a few feet away, Ødegaard gave a nod to Rice, who was still rolling his shoulders loose.

Izan, on the other hand, stood a little apart from the whole crowd as the faint rumble of the crowd seeped through the tunnel as one long, living roar waiting to burst open again.

Down the line, Lewandowski turned briefly, sharing a word with Raphinha and Olmo.

Whatever Hansi Flick had told them in that dressing room, it had sharpened their focus.

After a while, the officiating body stepped right into the path of the players before getting to the edge of the tunnel.

”All right, gentlemen,” the referee called out, voice steady but firm. ”Let’s go.”

The restless murmurs fell away as the players turned towards the light coming from the pitch in ripples of motion.

And then they began to walk.

Out from the shadows and back into the floodlight blaze.

The tunnel gave way to the full expanse of Allianz Arena again as the crowd erupted instantly, a two-colour storm breaking loose across tiers of seats.

The Champions League anthem wasn’t playing anymore, but the atmosphere felt like a continuation of it, sacred, deafening, impossibly alive.

”Here they come again... two giants walking out to finish what they started. Arsenal and Barcelona, separated by a single goal, but joined by the weight of everything this night means,” Peter Drury’s voice slipped into the broadcast, calm yet alive with wonder as the camera panned across the players.

”The final forty-five minutes of a season’s dream. Every touch now, every decision, it all counts double.”

The players reached the pitch, cleats sinking into the wet green that gleamed under the floodlights.

They broke apart into their halves after the switch, Barcelona to the left, Arsenal to the right, as Szczęsny jogged toward his post, thumping his gloves together once, while Raya adjusted his socks, eyes scanning ahead.

The Arsenal end roared, desperate and full of hope, while the Barcelona section answered with a wall of whistles and chants, a song that drowned out thought.

Lewandowski stood over the ball at the centre circle, Raphinha beside him.

He leaned forward slightly, glancing at the referee, who looked down at his watch.

One quick adjustment.

Then another.

And then lifted his whistle to his lips before one shrill sound erupted.

”Second half underway,” Tyler announced.

”A Champions League final finely balanced, Arsenal one, Barcelona two. And everything still to play for.”

Lewandowski tapped the ball back to Pedri, and instantly the rhythm began again, boots shuffling, voices calling, the pitch alive once more beneath the lights.

Within seconds of kickoff, the ball had zipped from Pedri to De Jong and to Lamine, the passes crisp, deliberate, like a machine testing Arsenal’s nerve.

But Arsenal were not shying away from the press.

They surged forward.

And in their numbers too, as there was only Myles Lewis-Skelly, together with Saliba and Gabriel, forming a back three.

Declan Rice snapped into Olmo’s heels, disregarding any sense of positioning and winning the first tackle with a grunt that echoed over the noise.

The rebound went to Timber, who didn’t even look before flicking it to Ødegaard.

The Norwegian’s took a singular touch, immediately getting swarmed by Barcelona players with a press of their own, before he spun and sent it wide right to Saka.

”Arsenal mean business here! Straight from the restart!” Peter Drury roared as Saka took off down the wing, chased by Balde, the two trading shoves and bursts of speed with the line creeping closer, closer, and then Saka stopped.

The sudden halt sent Balde sliding half a step too far, and with one shimmy and one drag back, the winger had carved half a yard of space.

He cut it low across the box, a low-driven and teasing pass towards Havertz in the box, but Cubarsi came across and intercepted at the last heartbeat, slashing it clear before it could turn dangerous.

Barcelona tried to breathe again, but couldn’t.

The clearance barely reached midfield before Odegaard met it mid-air with his chest, cushioning it like he’d planned the ricochet.

He played it short to Rice, and again, Arsenal pressed, this time with the ball.

Arteta was yelling from the touchline, gesturing, not words but pulses, ”go, now, go again.”

And go, they did.

Trossard drifted inside this time, drawing Araujo with him, and Ødegaard saw it, a sliver of daylight where there hadn’t been any seconds ago.

A pass, impossibly weighted, skimmed through that crack like a thought, and suddenly Izan was there again, meeting it for the first time, snapping it around the corner toward Saka, but the ball clipped Cubarsi again, sending the ball out for a corner.

”Nearly! Nearly again!” Drury’s voice rose. ”And the young man at the heart of it, every time, he’s the catalyst!”

The commentary had barely settled when Peter Drury’s voice returned, calm but sharpened by the tension.

”It’s not all bad, you know,” he said, as Izan jogged across to the corner flag.

”If there’s one thing Arsenal have done better than anyone in Europe this season, it’s their set pieces. Twenty-two goals from dead-ball situations. It has become a massive part of their story.”

Izan placed the ball down, his left boot scuffing a patch of turf to steady the surface.

The crowd behind him began to rise, Arsenal section a sea of waving red and white flags, a thrum of belief pulsing through them as Izan stepped back.

Gabriel and Saliba were already moving into the box, shoulders lowered, bodies braced for chaos.

They weren’t sneaking in quietly either; both crashed into their markers with intent, the first shove already drawing the referee’s whistle.

The official jogged over, gesturing sharply for calm.

”Hey! No wrestling, no holding!” he barked, pointing at Gabriel, then at Koundé.

Gabriel raised his hands in mock innocence while Saliba just smiled, the kind of unbothered grin that said Try and stop us again.

Izan took a few steps back, his gaze sweeping the penalty area, his right hand rising slowly with intent.

[Pinpoint Accuracy LV3 ], his system came alive again since his first half missle to score Arsenal’s goal.

Then he moved, his stride building into that easy rhythm that had become so recognisable.

The delivery was perfect, whipped, dipping, and mean.

Bodies flew.

Shirts were tugged.

And somehow, it was Koundé who met it first, his header half-clearing the ball out to the edge of the box where Ødegaard waited.

The Norwegian cushioned it with one touch and fed it straight back wide to Izan, who was already calling for it.

”Arsenal keep it alive, Ødegaard to Izan again!” Drury’s voice climbed.

Balde was on him in an instant, low stance, eyes fixed.

He lunged as Izan wound up for the cross, but Izan’s foot froze mid-swing.

The faintest of fakes and Balde bit.

In a blink, Izan was gone, skipping to the right with the rush of wind from Balde’s mistimed challenge, grazing past him.

He adjusted, angled his body, and then, with the outside of his boot, caught it just sweet enough.

[Gravity Arc LV 4]

The ball bent outward first, deceiving even the goalkeeper for a heartbeat, before spinning back toward the far corner like a whip crack.

”Ohhh, Izan!” Drury shouted, his voice leaping over the noise.

”He’s shaped it, oh, Szczęsny fingertips it onto the post!”

A metallic clang rang through the stadium as the ball ricocheted off the upright, spinning loose into the six-yard box and for a heartbeat, the entire arena held its breath as red and blue shirts charged toward the rebound.