God Of football

Chapter 843: Here We Go Again.

”All right, guys, well done, but now sit for a second.”

Xabi Alonso’s voice cut through the low chatter as he leaned against the tactics board, one hand in his pocket, the other gesturing toward the front of the room.

The players quieted naturally, some downing whole water bottles as they sat down, with Xabi’s assistant turning up the AC in the dressing room, after more and more players took their shirts off.

Real Madrid led by a single goal, but they knew it could’ve been more.

He looked around the room first, scanning the faces, reading the mood, before locking eyes with Vinícius and Mbappé, who sat a couple of seats apart.

”You two,” he began, tone even, calm but sharp enough to slice through the air.

”We’re wasting too many of the balls the midfield is working for. Luka, Jude, Valverde, they’re running themselves into the ground to get it to you, and we’re not finishing the job.”

Vinícius nodded, wiping sweat from his chin while Mbappé leaned forward slightly, elbows on knees, with a neutral expression.

”I get it,” Xabi continued, walking a few steps closer.

”Both of you love that left-hand space. It’s where you’re most dangerous. But we’re doubling up too often, and it’s killing our rhythm. Kylian, you need to make those inside runs earlier. And Viní, you—” he pointed with a small smile.

”You’re a creator more than a finisher. That’s your gift. You pull defenders apart like nobody else. But when you get through that line, don’t force the shot if it’s tight. Find him. Let him finish it. That’s how we hurt them.”

Vinícius frowned lightly, not defensive but in curiosity.

”So you want me staying wide?”

”Not stuck,” Xabi replied.

”Float. Be unpredictable. But when you beat your man, lift your head. Kylian’s movement opens lanes; use them. You’ve got the dribble; he’s got the knife. Combine.”

Mbappé smirked faintly and tapped Viní’s shoulder.

”So you’re my supplier now, eh?”

Viní shot him a grin.

”Only if you actually finish.”

A few chuckles rippled across the room, easing the tension.

Xabi clapped his hands once, sharply.

”Good. Keep it that way, talk, move, trust each other. You’re not two players out there. You’re one problem their defence can’t solve if you think as one.”

He turned toward the rest of the group.

”And the rest of you, keep doing what you’re doing. The press is solid, our shape’s right, but don’t drift off. Trent, ” he pointed across the room, ”keep those deliveries coming. You’re finding the gaps perfectly. Just make sure you recover fast; they’re trying to overload your flank when we lose it.”

Trent nodded, adjusting his shin guards. ”Got it, boss.”

”And Gonzalo,” Xabi said, shifting his gaze toward the young forward seated quietly at the end of the seats.

”You’ve been good, really good. But don’t get drawn into wrestling matches with their centre-backs. Rub them off, make them chase shadows, then get into those blind spots when the cross is coming in. You’ve got the instinct, so trust it and you’ll get your chance to put the ball into the back of the net.”

The 21-year-old straightened a bit, trying to hide the small smile tugging at his mouth.

”Sí, míster.”

Xabi nodded approvingly.

Then, stepping back toward the whiteboard, he sighed softly, letting his tone ease.

”Alright. Seven minutes. Do what you need, stretch, hydrate, think. Think about what we can do better. We’re playing well, but not well enough. You know the level this shirt demands.”

He placed the marker down, his voice quieter now.

”So let’s finish this properly.”

For a moment, the room was silent again, then the sound of bottles cracking open and studs shifting returned.

A few players murmured to each other in low tones as Xabi stood in a corner with his assistant.

”So you think he is going to bring him on?” Xabi posed to his assistant, but the latter shook his head, showing his tablet to the Spanish manager.

”Eventually, he will let Izan come on to have a taste of the game, but I don’t think he will and not until at least the 65th minute. He tends not to want to over-rely on the kid. Maybe a complex or something, but it helps us.”

Xabi nodded at his assistant’s words, looking back at his men before staring forward again.

”Well, he may not do it that much, but what can happen will happen, so let’s just be on guard, ready to make any changes when he decides to bring on the boy.”

The assistant nodded before moving back out as Xabi turned towards his men.

”Okay, guys, 3 minutes more. Let’s start getting ready,” he said, earning a round of nods from his men, with those who had taken off their boots slipping them back on.

”Luka, can I talk to you for a sec?”

...

Xabi stepped out of the locker room with his assistant beside him, their voices low as the sound of boots and chatter faded behind them.

The end of the tunnel ahead buzzed faintly with the hum of halftime, staff moving equipment, cameras repositioning, the distant echo of the stadium still alive above.

Halfway down, he spotted Izan walking out leisurely, still in his warm-up shirt, with a water bottle in hand.

Xabi slowed, sharing a brief glance with his assistant.

Then he turned toward the group warming up near the tunnel entrance, spotting Modrić among them, rolling the ball under his boot, quietly talking to Valverde.

”Luka,” Xabi called, stepping closer.

The veteran turned, eyes sharp even after all these years.

”Keep it as it is for now,” Xabi said simply. ”Don’t change the rhythm. We are keeping it as is, so let’s just keep the second option in the wraps.”

Modrić nodded, understanding instantly. ”Got it.”

”Good,” Xabi replied, giving his shoulder a light pat. ”You know when to pull the strings.”

He turned then toward the light spilling in from the end of the tunnel.

Without another word, he adjusted his jacket, glanced back once at the team gathering behind him, then walked out into the roar of the second half.

”Both teams stepping back onto the pitch now,” the commentator’s voice came through, smooth and steady over the stadium noise on the live feed.

”And it doesn’t look like there are any visible changes from either side, at least not yet.”

The camera panned across the field as the players emerged from the tunnel.

Real Madrid’s men in their smudged white jogged out first, the sound of their supporters swelling with pride, while Arsenal’s red and white followed soon after, their fans just as loud, defiant even.

”Xabi Alonso sticking with his starting eleven for now,” the co-commentator added.

”And Arteta the same, though you’d imagine both managers have a few cards up their sleeves for later in this half.”

Down on the pitch, the players spread into shape, defenders pointing, midfielders exchanging brief words, strikers bouncing on their toes, waiting for that whistle.

Modrić passed the ball back and forth with Valverde, getting a feel again for the tempo, while Mbappé rolled his shoulders, exchanging a quick nod with Vinícius, and Izan stood just outside the technical area, watching, his warm-up vest still on.

”All set for the restart here in Philadelphia,” the lead commentator said as the referee jogged toward the centre circle, whistle in hand.

And then, as the referee raised his arm, the commentary drew in one last breath before the second half began.

”Forty-five minutes left... Real Madrid one, Arsenal nil. Let’s see what this half brings.”

And then the whistle came.

Gonzalo García took the first touch, a simple roll backwards to Arda Güler, who steadied the ball under his boot for a heartbeat longer than expected.

The young Turk glanced up, surveying the field like a chessboard, his body still, the crowd’s anticipation thick enough to feel.

Then, with a quick pivot of his hips, he spun and zipped a diagonal ball out toward the left flank.

The pass sliced perfectly through the lane, meeting Vinícius Jr. in stride near the touchline.

The Brazilian’s who had already pierced the Arsenal setup took the ball to his thigh, before sticking there, and instantly, the volume inside the stadium began to rise again.

Ben White was already there, closing in with that compact, patient stance of his.

He didn’t dive in and just watched, adjusting the space between them inch by inch, forcing Vinícius to make the first move.

Vini stopped dead.

For a moment, both players were statues, one daring, one calculating.

Then, with a feint, Vinicius shifted the ball half an inch to the left, then half an inch back, as if even the leather couldn’t decide which way to go, but Ben White stood firm.

”Here we go,” the commentator murmured under his breath, voice low but charged as Vinícius stared straight into White’s eyes, a small grin flickering across his face as before he began to turn on the jets.