God Of football

Chapter 941: Sextuple Club

Izan stood alone at the centre of the pitch for a moment that seemed carved out of the noise.

His chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm, breath still warm in the cool Udine night.

A light sheen of sweat clung to his face, catching the glare of the floodlights.

The match had drained him, but he didn’t look tired.

He looked settled, like he was admiring an artwork he had just finished.

Then the crowd broke again.

A rolling roar swept through the Friuli Stadium, shaking the air and pulling Izan out of his quiet.

From one end to the other, the chant rose in full voice.

”She wore a yellow ribbon-,” they began while Peter Drury’s voice carried over the broadcast just as the camera found Izan again.

”They’ve done it.”

It sounded almost like he had been waiting for the exact second the final whistle faded before speaking.

”Arsenal are the European Super Cup champions, and they have done it in the most dominant fashion you could imagine. We all, especially the Tottenham fans, liked to think they had a chance against such a dominant side before the game started, but reality has knocked them hard.”

The scoreboard flashed in the middle of the screen.

Arsenal 6–1 Tottenham.

Drury continued as the camera widened its frame to show the players scattered across the pitch, some kneeling with hands on their heads, others sprinting toward the fans, and a few raising their arms to salute the sea of red behind the goal.

”It has been a statement tonight,” he said.

”A showcase of quality, intensity, and confidence. Six goals, each carved with intention, each delivered with a level of conviction that Tottenham simply could not match.”

The lens found Izan again, still near the centre circle, watching the scenes unfold.

A shadow entered from the side of the frame as Gyokeres, wrapped in a thick black puffer jacket, strolled toward him.

His hair was still slicked back, even though he had gotten somewhat of a roughening up from the Tottenham defenders.

Despite being subbed off earlier, he looked delighted, his grin wide and genuine.

He reached Izan and offered a hand.

Izan turned fully toward him, clasped it, and pulled him in for a brief, firm shake.

”Wow. Just came, and I already got one trophy to talk about. I really made the right choice, didn’t I?”

Izan gave a tired smile while nodding.

”I guess you did.”

Before either of them could say more, Saka came jogging into view.

His face was glowing from the celebrations, with a scarf wrapped around his neck.

He slowed as he reached them, still catching his breath.

”There you are,” Saka said, tapping Izan’s arm. ”I’ve been looking for you.”

”And where exactly did you look, Bukayo?” Izan retorted, to which Saka shrugged.

”I thought I might find you with the reporters, but turns out you haven’t left your position after the game ended.”

After a while, he lifted his chin toward the Arsenal end, where thousands were bouncing in unison, scarves whipping through the air like ribbons.

Gyokeres glanced over his shoulder.

”They’re not stopping anytime soon.”

Saka laughed under his breath.

”Can you blame them? They’ve had to endure years of watching others claim trophies. Now it’s their turn. Plus, look at the score. I would celebrate even if I wasn’t an Arsenal fan.”

Before the trio could talk further, Odegaard appeared from behind them, the captain’s armband still tight around his bicep, and he motioned quickly for the three of them to move.

”Come on. They want us at the base,” he said, already steering them toward the podium that had been set near the main stand.

The stage lights had been switched on, washing the entire setup in a soft gold that made the silver and blue UEFA banners glow.

The platform was already surrounded by stewards guiding players into line, and a long ribbon of photographers waited at the foot of the steps.

The Arsenal group approached from one side, but the Spurs players were already there, led by Thomas Frank.

Their walk was slow and subdued.

Some stared at the ground, some at the crowd that continued to bounce in red, and others looked straight ahead with empty eyes.

None of them spoke.

Not even Richarlison, who usually had something to say no matter the scoreline.

They climbed the steps one by one, where their silver medals were placed around their necks by UEFA officials.

The metal glinted under the lights, but the players wearing them looked like they could barely feel the weight.

Thomas Frank, who had gone ahead and was now on the grass, clapped each of them on the shoulder after they stepped off the podium, though even he seemed to be speaking without much conviction.

”Tottenham take their silver medals. Runners-up tonight in Udine. They met an Arsenal side in full flight and could not contain the surge. There will be disappointment, of course, but also recognition of how far they have come to stand on this stage.”

The Spurs contingent descended the stairs and moved aside as the Arsenal players were waved forward.

Immediately, the atmosphere shifted instantly.

The roar picked up again, louder than before, and a soft tremor ran through the boards of the podium as the Arsenal squad climbed.

They touched the trophy table as they passed by, some of them slower than others, running their fingers along the polished metal as if confirming it was real.

Saliba pressed a palm against the base while Rice gave it a light tap.

Even Kepa, standing at the back in his substitute keeper’s kit, reached forward to trace a thumb across the ribbon before moving on.

Before long, the announcer raised his microphone as his voice rang through the stadium.

”And your Player of the Match... Izan Hernandez.”

The Arsenal fans erupted again, an instant, rolling cheer that washed across the pitch.

”There he is,” Drury said as Izan paused before stepping up, glancing around the stadium while applauding the crowd with his gaze.

”From a prospect, to inarguably, the best things that have ever happened to Arsenal since the inception of the club. The fans will be hoping he can stay here for more and many more years to come.”

Izan finally walked to Ceferin, who waited at the centre of the podium.

They shook hands.

Then Ceferin gave a single approving nod as the medal was placed around Izan’s neck.

A camera flashed directly in front of him while another followed him as he moved across the stage to rejoin his teammates.

”Well deserved,” Saka murmured, bumping Izan’s shoulder as he returned.

”Thanks,” Izan said, barely audible over the noise.

Eventually, the ceremony shifted to its final act as Odegaard stepped forward, being the last player to be handed the gold medal of the European Super Cup set.

The trophy stood before him on a raised plinth, glimmering under the lights.

He waited for the cue from the official beside him, then wrapped both hands firmly around the handles as Drury’s voice returned, rising with the swell of the moment.

”And now the captain of Arsenal. Martin Odegaard. A leader for a new era. Tonight, he lifts another European title for this club. Officially, it is six out of a possible six for Arsenal. They are the new dominators of football.”

Odegaard raised the trophy high as the Arsenal end exploded with sound.

Red and white fireworks tore into the sky from both sides of the stage, crackling above the players as the trophy shimmered under their reflections, while Confetti cannons erupted along the front row, showering the pitch with a river of colour.

The entire squad surged toward their captain, arms thrown up, shouts echoing through the night, before the podium quivered again as they bounced together.

Drury’s final words came through the noise.

”Arsenal, champions of Europe. In Udine tonight, they were irresistible, and they have claimed their first Super Cup title, in what has been a perfect season.”

The stadium roared long after his voice faded.

By the next morning, football sites, newspapers, radio shows and every corner of social media were already churning nonstop.

The Super Cup win had landed like an earthquake.

Every outlet tried to catch the same wave, though each put its own shade of drama on the moment.

On the front page of The Guardian Sport, the headline ran bold across the top:

ARSENAL COMPLETE THE SEXTUPLE. HISTORY REWRITTEN IN UDINE.

Further down the page, a subheadline stretched under a photo of Izan being lifted by his teammates:

Hernandez Shines(as always) as Arteta’s Side Join Barcelona and Bayern in Exclusive Club.

Marca had gone with something louder.

EL SEXTO. EL ARSENAL MÁS GRANDE. [The Sixth and Arsenal’s Biggest]

Even L’Équipe, usually restrained when talking about English sides, ran a clean but heavy line:

Arsenal, Immenses.

Television didn’t waste a second either.

Broadcasts looped highlights of every trophy lift, from August to May, then the Udine finale on repeat.

On one channel, a retired midfielder shook his head while the replay of Izan’s goal against Tottenham rolled behind him.

”I don’t think anyone expected them to hit this level. Not this fast. They look like a group that doesn’t just win but suffocates teams.”

His co-host added, ”The scary part is how comfortable they make it look. There was no tension in that final. It was one-way traffic from start to finish.”