God Of football

Chapter 817: Dream Gone.

The medics were soon crouched beside Ødegaard, their hands moving quickly, voices low and tight with urgency.

One of them pressed along the side of the injured toe, while another gently rotated his ankle, as if it would help with the reopened wound.

Head on the ground, Ødegaard winced hard, breath hitching as his knuckles dug into the grass.

His face said everything the words couldn’t.

”Just let me play,” he muttered through gritted teeth, staring up at the medics with that stubborn fire only captains had.

”Please. We worked too hard to get here. I can play through it.”

One of the staff looked toward the touchline, catching Arteta’s eye, before a shake of the head followed, small, final, and heavy as Peter Drury’s voice dipped, soft but threaded with sadness.

”It’s the look every player fears, the one from the medical team that says, you’re done.”

Arteta’s jaw tightened as he turned away, running a hand over his face before barking toward the bench.

”Ethan, get ready, now!”

His voice cut through the stadium noise.

”And Martinelli, warm up! You’re in next!”

Ethan Nwaneri, still wrapped in a training top, froze for a second, then scrambled to his feet, already tugging off the bib while Martinelli began to jog toward the technical line, stretching his arms as he went.

Out on the pitch, Ødegaard had fallen quiet.

The medics were still at work, strapping, supporting, stabilising.

His eyes were closed, face turned toward the floodlights as the world around him blurred into noise, the chants, the whistles, the sighs.

Then, a shadow fell over him.

He blinked, slowly opening his eyes to see Izan crouched beside him, strands of dark hair brushing forward with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

”Are you planning to cry yourself to death here and make us forfeit the game?” Izan asked, tone teasing but soft with a flicker of warmth in the chaos.

Ødegaard managed a weak chuckle, shaking his head.

”You’re an idiot,” he said under his breath.

”Maybe,” Izan shrugged, extending a hand, ”but you’re done. Leave it to me.”

The Norwegian looked at him for a long second, something unspoken in that gaze.

A mixture of trust, surrender, and pride.

Then, without a word, Ødegaard slipped the captain’s armband off, holding it out.

Izan frowned, momentarily taken aback.

”I said I was helping you up, not taking the job.”

Ødegaard’s smile widened faintly, pain etching the edges of it.

”Same thing tonight.”

He pressed the band into Izan’s hand before letting himself be pulled to his feet.

The Allianz Arena rose in applause, as the medics two of the medics allowed an arm of Odegaard to go around their necks as they made their way off the pitch.

”And the Arsenal captain... can’t continue,” Martin Tyler narrated quietly.

”A cruel blow for the Gunners. Their leader, walking off the pitch that meant so much.”

Ødegaard limped off, turned once to glance back at the pitch where Izan stood near the halfway line, band still dangling in his hand, watching him go.

Then Saka approached.

”Here,” Izan said, gesturing toward the vice-captain, but Saka just shook his head.

”I can’t lead like you can,” Saka said, firm but calm.

”But I can follow.”

The latter took the armband from Izan’s hand before looping it around the Spaniard’s arm himself.

”Just like Anfield,” he added with a faint grin before jogging back to his position.

For a moment, Izan just stared after him, silent, brow furrowed.

Then he looked down at the band now hugging his bicep, its neon green colour, popping out against the red and white of his sleeve.

”They’re really not making this easy for me,” he muttered under his breath, the faintest trace of a wry smile breaking through.

But before he could lift his head again, something shimmered faintly in his vision, a system prompt only he could see.

[Quest Received: ”The Captain’s Plea.”]

Description: LEAD.

Rewards: Unknown?

His expression shifted as a quiet exhale came, followed by a flicker of something primal gleaming in his eyes.

Something past determination as Drury’s voice rose again, riding the wave of tension.

”And so the armband passes to Izan Miura Hernández, the young man who, in many ways, has been Arsenal’s light tonight. They are two goals down, twenty minutes left to play, and now he leads them... into the fire.”

As Ødegaard disappeared down the tunnel, Izan straightened his shoulders, turned toward the centre circle, and whispered something to himself that no one else could hear.

”All right then,” he said softly, ”let’s lead,” he said, turning to face the Emirates end of the Allianz Arena, and in the noise that wasn’t there, you could almost hear the air being sucked out of Arsenal’s chest.

Ethan Nwaneri jogged onto the pitch, head down, trying to hide the tremor of nerves that came with entering a collapsing dream.

As he neared Izan, he passed a small folded note into the younger boy’s hand, just as Arteta’s voice echoed faintly in the distance, ”Stay brave, boys! Stay brave!”

Izan unfolded the note, and in Nwaneri’s hurried scrawl, two words stared back at him:

”You are free.”

It was enough.

Something feral flickered behind his eyes, something that hadn’t been there all game.

The weight he’d been carrying, the structure, the careful shape, the restraint, all of it cracked like glass under the pulse of a single heartbeat.

But before he could get into it, what would look and feel like certain death came.

The referee restarted play with a drop ball, and Koundé, all teeth and muscle, came charging in to smash through it.

His boot connected cleanly, sending the ball high and deep into Arsenal’s half.

It looked like fair play on the surface, but Barcelona’s lines moved like a trap snapping shut.

Raya received it under pressure with Lewandowski on his shoulder and Raphinha closing from the flank.

Saliba darted across to help, his voice sharp and desperate as he called,

”Away, away!”

Raya swung through it, hoping to send the ball out of the danger zone, but his clearance caught the curve of Lewandowski’s shoulder and spun wildly out of play.

Both men threw up their hands immediately, Arsenal for a goal kick and Lewandowski for a corner, but as the whistle’s shrill note cut through, the referee pointed towards the flag.

Corner.

Saliba exploded.

His arms flailing as his words spilling faster than he could control, frustration turning to fury.

But before it went too far, Izan was already there, hand on his shoulder, firm.

”Hey, hey,” he said lowly, almost whispering through the noise.

”You’re on a yellow. Don’t give them another reason.”

Saliba stared back at him, chest heaving, then nodded, before moving away from the referee, who almost looked like he was about to approach.

They retreated into the box as eleven red shirts gathered, a storm of tension pressing inward.

Barcelona, on the other hand, set up methodically and coldly.

Raphinha raised his hand before sending the delivery curled viciously inwards, while Arsenal’s line stepped, then froze, because they realised they had been caught in a move they had been using all season.

Lewandowski tangled with Gabriel, dragging him toward Raya’s space as the latter came out, hoping to claim the ball before it got too dangerous.

The Polish forward barely nudged him, but it was enough, because as Raya rose, palms open to catch the ball, he felt the shove at his legs and suddenly faltered as it slipped through his gloves.

The stadium seemed to hang for a second, sound swallowed by the weight of disbelief as the ball dropped, bouncing once, and from behind, Inigo Martínez crashed through the bodies like a hammer, lashing it home into the empty net.

4–1.

The sound returned in an instant, a roar that felt like it came from every direction at once.

GOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAALLLL

Barcelona’s bench erupted, players spilling out, arms raised to the heavens as Inigo sprinted toward the corner flag, slamming his fist into his chest again and again, shouting something wordless, primal.

But, Saliba was the first to raise his hands, shouting something at the referee that got swallowed up by the noise.

Raya was still on the floor, kicking the turf in frustration, pointing furiously at Lewandowski before Gabriel came storming forward next, arms spread wide, yelling that the Pole had gone straight through the keeper’s legs mid-air.

”Arsenal are furious here!” Peter Drury’s voice cut in over the roar. ”It looks like they are disputing the goal, saying Lewandowski made contact, dangerous contact, on Raya before Inigo Martínez smashed it home!”

The referee, already surrounded by red shirts, motioned them back with both palms, trying to create space while Odegaard’s replacement as captain, Izan, stepped forward too, not shouting, but firm, pointing to the replay board and saying something that made the referee tap his earpiece.

”The referee’s being advised to take a look!” Martin Tyler joined in. ”This could be crucial, if it’s ruled as interference or a foul on the goalkeeper, that goal won’t stand.”

Every camera in the stadium found the big screen as the crowd hushed, waiting.

The referee jogged toward the sideline, headset pressed tight, eyes locked on the VAR monitor.

The first replay rolled, Inigo’s strike, the scramble, then the moment before: Lewandowski leaping, Raya’s hands up, and contact, maybe.

Or maybe just an illusion.

”You can see why they’re debating it,” Drury said, his tone caught between intrigue and resignation. ”It’s one of those that depends on the angle you’re shown.”

But every new angle was worse than the last, bodies in the way, limbs crossing, chaos blurring the crucial moment.

Lewandowski’s shoulder seemed to clip Raya, or maybe it didn’t.

”There’s nothing clear here, Martin,” Drury muttered. ”It’s a mess in there.”

After nearly a full minute, the referee straightened, exhaled, and turned back toward the pitch.

He jogged to the center circle, his arm sweeping forward before motioning towards Barca’s half.

Goal stands.

The Allianz erupted, blue and red waving across the terraces as the commentary came through.

”And the goal is given! It’s four-one Barcelona!” Tyler called out. ”And Arsenal will feel deeply, deeply wronged by that!”

Raya slammed his gloves together in disgust while Gabriel covered his face, muttering curses under his breath.

Izan stood near the referee for a second longer, jaw clenched but silent, before turning back toward his half.

The other Arsenal players followed, shaking their heads, fury replaced by disbelief.

”You can feel the frustration,” Drury sighed as the camera panned to Saliba who was still venting.

”Barcelona have made it four on the night. It was supposed to be a pound-for-pound game, but it seems their wonders have finally caught up to them as Arsenal falter.”

”And perhaps... that is how it ends. The fairytale folds, the light flickers out. Arsenal, who dared to dream, undone but at least far away from under the lights of the Emirates.”

The camera cut to Arteta, whose lips pressed thin, eyes glassy with disbelief, the kind of pain that wasn’t just about football.

Behind him, his assistants stood silent.

All across the pitch, red shirts sagged, motionless.

Saka stood still, jaw clenched, his forehead drenched with sweat of his efforts, but maybe, just maybe, they hadn’t done enough.

For Izan, the note in his sock burned like fire.

He was free now, but the dream was already gone, or.....