God Of football

Chapter 825: Trophy Celebrations.

Izan reached out, both hands closing around the handles.

His teammates gathered behind him a half-circle of exhausted, trembling men, their faces a mix of disbelief and pure joy.

The sound inside the Allianz Arena had long ceased to be mere noise; it was an avalanche of emotion, roaring and unending, the kind of sound that came when decades of waiting finally met destiny.

Izan turned, the weight of the trophy solid in his hands.

Its reflection shimmered in his eyes as he walked toward his teammates slowly, head bowed, the glimmer of a smile curving on his face.

Then, he looked up, towards Ødegaard, who stood a few steps behind.

A small nod was all it took.

Izan lifted his chin in Ødegaard’s direction, a wordless invitation as the Norwegian captain blinked once, then twice, before stepping forward.

The Arsenal players parted, letting him through.

When he reached Izan, the two exchanged a brief look that said everything.

Izan turned the trophy slightly, holding one handle out to Ødegaard.

The captain took it, his fingers trembling against the cold metal.

They looked at each other, the boy who had led them through storms, and the man who had held them together through the past couple of years.

And then, together, they lifted.

The Champions League trophy rose into the Munich night, silver fire under the floodlights.

The stadium erupted as red confetti exploded across the sky like fireworks, the main fireworks following later.

Thousands of Arsenal fans, inside the Allianz and far beyond it, screamed, cried, sang.

The air vibrated with that one name, that one moment.

”ARSENAL!”

Peter Drury’s voice soared above the chaos, trembling, reverent, poetic as ever.

”They have scaled the unscalable! They have conquered the continent!”

Martin Tyler followed, his voice steadier, older, carrying the weight of history:

”For the first time ever, Arsenal Football Club are Champions of Europe! The year is 2024–25, and the red half of North London will never, ever forget this night!”

Drury again, as the camera panned across the jubilation, fans crying, men collapsing into hugs, a sea of red and white shaking the stands.

”And the boy, the boy from Alboraya, who dreamt beneath the Valencian sun, has delivered the prophecy. A name that will echo for generations: Izan Miura Hernández.”

The screens of the broadcast faded to scenes of North London, pubs overflowing, red flares rising over the Emirates, horns blaring through the night.

Crowds flooded Holloway Road, singing until their voices broke.

”We broke the curse, we found our star, from Alboraya, he came from afar! The boy who rose, the night we cried, Arsenal forever, side by side!”

Old men stood outside their homes with scarves around their necks, tears streaming down their cheeks, while children danced in their pyjamas on car roofs, parents laughing through disbelief.

From Highbury to Finsbury Park, London pulsed with red, alive with joy.

The broadcast cut back to Munich, confetti still raining, Arsenal’s players standing arm in arm atop the podium.

Ødegaard held the trophy high while Izan, just beside him, pointed skyward, his expression distant, grateful.

”We have seen beauty, and we have seen heartbreak... but tonight, we have seen a miracle.” Peter Drury’s voice softened for the final.

”From heartbreak to heaven. Congratulations, Arsenal Football Club. You are the champions of Europe.”

....

The Arsenal players had finally begun to drift toward the tunnel, still drenched in champagne, still singing, still half in disbelief.

The red lights of the Allianz flickered across their faces, and the cameras followed them every step of the way.

Just beyond the tunnel entrance, four familiar figures, among plenty of others, hurried forward, their VIP passes bouncing around their necks as they ran.

Hori was first.

Her curls bounced wildly as she burst through security, phone already in hand, laughing breathlessly as she yelled, ”Wait! Wait!” before the guard could even react.

Behind her came Komi, elegant even in the chaos; Miranda, calm but glowing; and Olivia, the girl who had become ever constant in Izan’s life, smiling like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

”And they said girls were easy to have,” Komi said, shaking her head as Hori darted straight onto the pitch, phone lifted high.

She found the perfect angle, the Arsenal players still celebrating, confetti raining around them, and snapped a selfie, her grin wide, the Champions League medal glinting in the background.

She typed fast, thumbs flying.

”My brother just won the Champions League #Proud #Arsenal”

She added a few heart emojis before hitting post.

Then she tucked the phone into her pocket, smirking.

”It’s about to blow up,” she muttered to herself, already picturing the notifications storm.

Not far off, Izan noticed her, slipping quietly away from the crowd of teammates and cameras.

His shirt was still damp, his medal hanging loosely around his neck.

He made his way toward them, a little slower now, exhaustion and peace sharing the same space in his expression.

Hori spotted him first.

”There he is!” she shouted, pointing dramatically at the medal around his neck.

”You already know what’s up!”

Izan smiled, wordless, before unclasping it and placing it gently around her neck.

”It’s yours,” he said simply.

Hori gasped.

”Oh, don’t say that twice! I have to get at least this much for crying when you were losing,” she grinned, instantly striking a pose with the medal, camera flashing again as she continued her photography spree.

Komi stepped forward next, eyes shimmering.

She raised both hands to cup Izan’s cheeks, her voice trembling as she said, ”My baby... is the European champion.”

Izan’s throat tightened.

”Yes, Mama,” he said softly, pulling her into a hug.

She held him tight, refusing to let go, the years of sacrifice, of long nights, of silent prayers now glowing back at her in the form of silver and confetti.

Behind them, Olivia chuckled gently, watching the scene unfold.

Then she cleared her throat.

”Cameras,” she warned with a smile.

Komi froze instantly, straightening her posture like a student caught off guard, fixing her hair as if the world were still watching, which, of course, it was.

”Right, right,” she murmured, stepping back quickly. ”No internet fame for me today.”

Izan laughed, turning to Olivia and pulling her close.

”I couldn’t have done it without you,” he said quietly. ”Any of you. You gave me peace off the pitch.”

Miranda stepped in then, a rare softness in her tone. ”Congratulations, champion.”

”Thank you,” Izan said, meaning it.

Then, from behind, Hori’s voice rang out again, loud enough for everyone to hear.

”Peace off the pitch? I am the peace!”

Izan shook his head, laughing. ”Except for her.”

At that exact moment, Saka appeared, grinning from ear to ear, trophy in hand.

”Aye, Mommy Miura deserves this too,” he said, nodding toward Komi.

He handed the trophy over to Izan, who turned and offered it to his mother.

Komi’s eyes widened as she took it, holding it as though it might shatter under her touch.

”Careful, it’s heavy,” Izan teased.

Saka, now holding Miranda’s phone, called out, ”Alright, picture time!”

They all gathered, Komi in the middle with the trophy, Olivia by Izan’s side, Miranda just behind them, and just as Saka raised the phone, Hori tried to photobomb from the edge.

”Hey! I’m part of this family too!” she yelled.

”Fine,” Izan laughed, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her in.

The flash went off, capturing it all.

The family.

The smiles.

The joy.

And in that one frame, everything was there: love, relief, pride... and the quiet, timeless truth of what they had all just witnessed.

A boy from Alboraya, now standing as Europe’s greatest, surrounded by the people who had made him human.

.....

[CBS Studios]

Kate’s voice came through the broadcast, a little breathless, like everyone else had been holding theirs for the last few minutes.

”What an enthralling match,” she said, still half-smiling, half-stunned.

Her words hung there for a beat before she turned toward her left.

”Thierry...”

The camera followed her gaze, cutting to Henry.

His tie was loose, his jacket half off his shoulder, the perfect picture of a man who had lived every second of that match himself.

”Your words, Henry,” Kate teased as Henry just sat there in a daze.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

He just stared at the monitor, eyes flicking between the scenes of celebration on the pitch.

Then he exhaled, long, slow, like someone finally letting go of something they’d been holding for years.

He looked at Kate, eyes still bright with disbelief.

”I... I don’t even know what to say,” he murmured, shaking his head.

And somehow, that said everything.

A/N: Okay I had to put this here since most of the readers skip the author’s thought, but I really am grateful for the support with this novel despite it’s obvious flaws. Unfortunately...（⊙ｏ⊙). Oh, you thought, naa, our boy hasn’t won the Ballon D’or yet. Have fun reading and thanks for the support once more. See you in a bit with the first of the day.