God Of football

Chapter 873: Press, Le Parisiens.

The air inside MetLife felt charged long before a ball had been kicked.

The crowd rippled in colour and motion, flags whipping, scarves raised high, the noise swelling with each second as the tunnel doors stirred.

Then the first boots touched the turf.

The stadium roared as Arsenal’s line emerged, a tide of energy washing over the players.

Izan was near the front, his gaze lifting toward the endless tiers of faces surrounding the stadium.

Up in the stands, phones flashed, almost like every fan was trying to keep a piece of him on their devices.

Beside him, Martinelli grinned and muttered something about the noise, while from behind, Declan clapped his hands twice, his voice lost in the echoing boom of the stands.

The Paris section answered in kind, their navy flares painting one side of the stadium in smoke and light as Marquinhos led his team out.

For a brief moment, the noise merged into one long pulse, a sound that could be felt through the chest.

Then, the commentators spoke over it; their words carried across the world.

”Here they come. Arsenal, champions of Europe. PSG, the kings of France. This might not be the final everyone hoped for, but it is what we got, and it looks written in the stars.”

The other voice chimed in, almost reverent.

”It’s been a long road to get here. Izan’s Arsenal, looking for that fifth piece of silverware to crown a perfect season. PSG, desperate to finally plant their flag on world football’s biggest stage after failing to get that mark in Europe last season when they met Arsenal, who knocked them out of the Champions League when they were so near to the final.”

”I mean,” the second commentator continued with a chuckle, ”Why not skip Europe altogether and then go for the world?”

As the players formed two lines at the halfway mark, the cameras lingered.

The trophy, golden, gleaming and like something out of the annals of art, stood on a black podium a few yards away, spotlights kissing its edges.

Every player’s eyes flicked toward it at least once as they went past it, like it had its own gravity that could attract them.

On the broadcast, the live feed cut to the image that had circled social media all week: Izan and Dembélé sitting on the Rockefeller Centre rooftop, the Club World Cup trophy glinting between them against the Manhattan skyline.

The commentator smiled through his words.

”They both said it was a dream shot. Maybe tonight, one of them gets to recreate it, this time holding the real thing, not just posing with it.”

On the pitch, Odegaard, with his quiet composure, adjusted his armband and said something under his breath to Izan, who simply nodded before a child mascot tugged lightly at Izan’s hand and pointed toward the PSG side.

He bent down, smiling, a small moment of calm in the roar of chaos as the teams began the walk down the line, shaking hands and exchanging brief nods with each other, while Arteta and Enrique shared a quick greeting at the edge of the touchline.

When the anthem faded, the rest of the players, save for the two captains, spread out, boots pressing against the soft turf as the formers went about the pre-game pleasantries.

Eventually, everything settled as the whistle of the referee cut through the noise in the stadium, while PSG got the ball to the kickoff spot.

Dembele, on the spot, rolled the ball back and forth a few times, staring at the referee who seemed to be in a tug of war with his watch.

When he finally got that done with, he blew his whistle, right before Dembele kicked the ball back to Vitinha.

But when the ball came to the latter, he didn’t wait.

His boot met the ball with a clean, thumping strike that sent it arcing high into Arsenal’s half.

It wasn’t a gentle start, not a moment to breathe or pass it around.

They were coming for Arsenal right off the bat.

Saliba tracked its flight, eyes narrowing under the bright glare of the sun, and leaned forward to meet it, chesting the ball down with that usual composure.

But before he could steady it, a flash of blue darted in, Dembele, sharp as a blade.

The Frenchman nicked it off him, the ball bouncing awkwardly into the open space near the left edge of the box.

And to that, Kvaratskhelia didn’t need a second invitation.

He was already moving, hair swept back, eyes locked on the goal.

The Georgian drifted into stride, with Timber chasing him, even throwing a sliding challenge to the ground, but the man, formerly of Naples, escaped it and struck the ball from just outside the area, his boot cutting through cleanly, the sound of the hit echoing across the pitch like a gunshot.

Gabriel threw himself in the way, but the ball just whipped past his leg before smashing into the crossbar with a hollow, thunderous crack.

For a heartbeat, the entire stadium froze.

Then the Paris fans erupted in a wave of noise, a storm of ”ooohs” breaking out from their section, followed by applause and cheers that rolled around the stands like surf.

Even the Arsenal supporters, hearts in their throats, couldn’t help the collective exhale that followed.

Raya jogged back to his goal line, jaw tight but face calm.

One of the ball boys handed him a fresh ball, and he nodded his thanks, turning it in his hands before tucking it under his arm.

The replay flashed across the big screen: the strike, the spin, the kiss off the bar.

You could almost hear the commentators’ disbelief as they came back on the broadcast.

”Luis Enrique’s men didn’t come to play around,” one of them said, half laughing, half breathless.

”They’ve come flying out of the blocks. That press was relentless, and Kvaratskhelia was inches away from making it one-nil before a half minute could even pass.”

The other voice joined, a little more grounded.

”That’s the danger Arsenal knew they’d face. PSG pressing like this, right from the start, but I’m sure even they didn’t expect it would be this intense. If this goes on for the full 90, which I doubt could, then Arsenal might have one of the toughest games to face.”

On the pitch, Arsenal’s back line was already readjusting.

Saliba gave a small nod to Gabriel, a quiet acknowledgement that he’d gotten caught off guard, while Declan dropped back to offer an option, to Raya calling for calm with a simple wave of his hand, but it looked as if the keeper had something of his own.

Raya took a few steps forward, his eyes scanning the movement ahead and then inhaled once, slow and steady.

Then he looped the ball out with a long, arcing pass that found Jurrien Timber on the right, who brought the ball under control near the touchline with the faint drizzle that had started clinging to his hair as he lifted his head, scanning the field.

PSG’s front line had dropped just enough for him to breathe, and with a smooth swing of his right foot, he sent a curling pass up the flank.

It skipped neatly through the slick grass, spinning toward Saka, who was already peeling away from Nuno Mendes.

The crowd perked up as Saka reached it, cushioning it with his left foot before flicking it inside to Izan, who had drifted free between the lines.

Izan took one touch, turning his body with that usual ease, and looked up as if weighing his options.

But before he could release it, a blur of navy came crashing in.

Fabian Ruiz.

The Spaniard barreled into him shoulder-first, the impact sharp enough to send Izan stumbling, his boot scraping the turf.

But Izan somehow held on, releasing the ball while the whistle stayed silent, the referee waving his arms forward for advantage.

The ball in question had already rolled back toward Calafiori, who quickly switched it across to Rice in the middle.

And as Declan trapped it with his instep and tried to pivot out of pressure, PSG’s midfield closed in like a net.

Ruiz was right behind him now, and Vitinha and Joao Neves pushed forward, cutting off every lane that might have opened.

The midfielder stayed calm, shielding the ball with his frame, trying to wriggle through the press.

But every passing option vanished almost as soon as it appeared.

You could hear the faint panic rise from the crowd, the small, collective inhale of supporters who knew what this kind of pressure could lead to.

”PSG suffocating Arsenal here,” one of the commentators said over the noise.

”That’s what Luis Enrique’s been preaching all week, and it seems to be working, at least for now.”

Rice shifted again, trying to buy half a second to send it back toward Raya.

But just as his foot drew back, Désiré Doué came tearing in from his blind side, nicking the ball cleanly from under him with a perfectly timed tackle.

The young Frenchman didn’t hesitate as he spun on the spot, the ball glued to his feet, and surged forward through the small gap that had opened.