God Of football

Chapter 826: Not Without The Fans...... Or Readers.

Izan and Olivia walked hand in hand along the touchline, the noise of the crowd still swelling and breaking like waves around them, but a bit reduced now as most of the fans started streaking towards the exit.

A sort of last chant before they got out of the stadium.

The stadium lights caught her hair as she laughed softly, her free hand brushing at the confetti that clung to his sleeve.

They didn’t speak much.

Just two silhouettes moving through the afterglow of something monumental.

But then, predictably, Hori’s voice broke through the calm.

”Alright, alright, lovebirds,” she called, grinning from a few paces behind them.

”You can do all that when we get back to London, yeah?”

Olivia’s cheeks went scarlet while Izan only smirked before leaning down and kissing her forehead, a quiet, easy gesture that still somehow drew a roar from the nearby fans who caught it.

”Go on,” he said gently, nudging her toward the others.

As she walked off with Hori, Saka stood a few steps away, watching the whole scene unfold with folded arms and an exaggerated sigh.

”Man... Izan’s the definition of winning at life,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Before he could add another word, he felt a weight press onto his shoulder, soft, familiar.

He turned, halfway ready to curse, ”Yo, what the—”

But then his words fell apart when he found Tolami grinning up at him.

His expression melted instantly.

”You know I’ve been waiting way too long for that, right?” he said, laughing under his breath as she leaned her head against him.

A few yards away, Nwaneri stood off on his own, staring into the distance or maybe plotting.

It was hard to tell with that mischievous glint in his eyes.

Izan caught him out of the corner of his vision just as he’d finished waving Miranda and the others goodbye.

He shook his head, half-warning, half-amused.

”Don’t even think about it,” he mouthed, while Nwaneri just grinned, his attempt discouraged by Izan’s head shake.

With that, Izan turned back toward the tunnel.

The reporters were closing in now, having just finished their chat with Arteta, cameras already swinging in his direction.

He quickened his pace, slipping through the tunnel entrance just before the first microphone could reach him, the noise of the stadium fading behind him, replaced by the quiet hum of concrete and fluorescent light.

.....

[Dressing Room]

The door swung open, and the room, already alive with laughter and music, turned slightly as Mikel Arteta stepped inside.

His suit jacket was gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, with confetti glistening from all sides like he was made of it.

He looked every bit like a man who had just lived through ninety of the longest minutes of his life.

For a moment, he simply stood there, watching his players, his team, drenched in sweat and champagne, boots strewn across the floor, confetti sticking to their hair.

A small smile tugged at his face before he finally spoke.

”Alright,” he began, his voice carrying over the music. ”Soak it in.”

The chatter dimmed just a little as everyone turned toward him.

”This,” he gestured around the room, toward the medal glinting around Saka’s neck, the trophy still sitting on the bench beside Raya, ”this is yours. Every bit of it. You’ve done something that will be remembered forever. You’ve made me...”

He paused, shaking his head as if still processing it. ”...a Champions League–winning coach.”

The room erupted again, players pounding on lockers and clapping, a chorus of ”míster!” and whistles bouncing off the walls.

Arteta grinned, raising his voice over the noise.

”And you know what that means, yeah?” He pointed around the room dramatically.

”Time to dry the pockets of the Arsenal board for our bonuses!”

That line sent everyone over the edge.

The whole place went wild, Declan Rice whooping, Saliba grabbing Trossard in a bear hug, and Nwaneri pretending to call Edu asking for a raise.

Even Arteta laughed, shaking his head.

”I won’t tell you when to sleep,” he said once the noise died down enough for him to be heard again.

”But please, at least make it back to the hotel, alright?”

A ripple of laughter followed, and the mood began to shift from wild celebration to that comfortable, warm chaos that comes right after it.

After half an hour later, the Arsenal team bus rolled slowly out from the underground parking of the Allianz Arena, its headlights cutting through the soft haze of night.

Inside, the air was still heavy with the scent of champagne and grass, a cocktail of victory that hadn’t yet faded.

Conversations hummed, quiet laughter rippled through the aisles, and exhausted joy that comes only after a night that changes everything.

But as the bus curved toward the exit gates, a collective murmur rose among the players.

Outside, the floodlights still illuminated a sea of red, thousands of fans still gathered, long after the final whistle, long after the ceremony.

They weren’t just lingering; they were waiting.

These were the ones who hadn’t made it back into the stands after leaving early, those who had been locked out when the gates closed during the madness of full-time.

Many had watched the celebrations through live streams on their phones, their chants echoing faintly against the walls of the arena even as Arsenal lifted the trophy inside.

And yet, they were still there, standing shoulder to shoulder beneath the moonlit Munich sky, waving flags, singing songs, holding banners high.

When the players saw them, several leaned closer to the windows.

”Mate,” Rice murmured, tugging the curtain aside. ”They’re still out here.”

Saka, sitting a few seats down, did the same, the flash from a camera outside catching his grin.

Soon, others followed: Nwaneri, Martinelli, and Kiwior all pressing against the glass, waving, smiling.

Izan, sitting near the back of the bus, gently drew back his own curtain.

The sight stopped him for a second, hundreds of fans chanting his name, some standing on barriers, some just crying and clapping.

His smile came slowly but was genuine as he lifted his hand in a small wave.

The crowd roared in response, his tiny gesture showing how much influence he had come to carry before even turning 18.

The bus turned onto the main road, its reflection stretching across the wet asphalt of Munich’s quiet streets.

The chorus of ”Arsenal! Arsenal!” faded gradually, replaced by the hum of the engine and the rhythm of the city at midnight.

A few players still watched through the windows as the red blur of fans disappeared behind them, voices soft with disbelief.

”Feels unreal,” Nwaneri whispered.

Across the aisle, Odegaard smiled faintly. ”It is unreal.”

”But we are unreal too. Just as Izan,” he added, causing a bit of the players to break out into strings of laughter.

Outside, the city lights of Munich streaked by, gold and white and red, as the team bus, champions of Europe, made its slow, triumphant way toward the hotel.

[The Next Morning]

Saka laughed softly as he hoisted his bag into the overhead compartment, the plane humming faintly as the rest of the squad settled in around him.

”That was nice of them, though,” he said, glancing at Izan with a grin.

”All those fans waiting outside just to see us off again. You’d think they’d be asleep by now after all that went on last night.”

Izan, leaning back in his seat, nodded quietly.

His mind drifted back to that moment outside the airport, the little boy who had been pressed against the barriers, shivering slightly in the cold, his Arsenal flag wrapped tight around his shoulders.

Izan had pulled off his warm-up jacket and handed it to him without a word.

But the boy’s face had lit up like floodlights on a winter night.

”Yeah,” Izan murmured, a small smile tugging at his lips.

”We wouldn’t be anywhere without them.”

He paused, eyes glinting just slightly as he added, ”Or without the readers either.”

Saka blinked. ”The who?”

Izan chuckled, shaking his head. ”Never mind.”

The sound of chatter filled the cabin, Rice teasing Raya about his post-match post on IG, Zinchenko already snoring against the window, and Martinelli trying to FaceTime his family.

Amid the noise, Nwaneri rubbed his palms together with the kind of grin that made the others wary.

”I can’t wait for the parade through London,” he said, eyes gleaming as though he could already see the confetti, the open-top bus, the crowd of thousands.

”It’s gonna be mad. I’m talking roads closed, fireworks, everything.”

At the front of the cabin, Arteta turned slightly in his seat, one eyebrow raised.

”Sure,” he said flatly.

The single word carried just enough weight to make Nwaneri’s grin falter.

He frowned, leaning toward Lewis-Skelly beside him. ”What does sure mean like that?”

Skelly shrugged, suppressing a laugh. ”Means he’s already planning training, bro.”

Nwaneri groaned, sinking back into his seat.

”Man, can’t we at least land before the lectures start?”

Izan laughed under his breath, glancing out the window as the engines began to hum louder.

The runway lights blinked in rhythm outside, and for a fleeting moment, everything felt still, the world below quiet, the sky waiting.

Champions of Europe, on their way home.