God Of football

Chapter 669: It Begins

Voices echoed low and clipped in the tunnel, mostly bits of instruction, radio static and footsteps quick over concrete.

A steward hurried past with a clipboard in hand, muttering into a headset as one of the broadcast technicians crouched by the wall, adjusting something beneath a monitor.

His colleague waved a hand urgently at someone in production, calling for help as they adjusted the equipment on the Officials.

The tunnel wasn’t chaos, not quite — but it was charged, like a machine waiting to hum to life.

”Alright, clear the middle,” someone called out from the far end.

”We’re two minutes off.”

Boots shuffled.

Then came the rhythm of something heavier — the stomp of studs.

Arsenal and Liverpool players filed in, calm but focused, lining up shoulder to shoulder on either side of the tunnel.

The moment had crystallised; no more warmups, no more noise except what filtered in from above.

A wall of sound was waiting.

Each player had a child beside them, and while most stood upright and professional, eyes ahead or fingers tightening around sleeves, the kids... they couldn’t hide it.

They kept stealing glances at Izan.

Some were subtle, eyes flicking up quickly then darting away.

Others just stared — mouths parted slightly, breath quiet.

Izan didn’t ignore them.

He smiled, genuinely, fist-bumping a kid who had held his fists out, causing a chain of the same action to happen as all the kids came around wanting to fist-bump Izan.

Van Dijk, standing a few places down, caught one of the boys at his side glancing again — not at the cameras, not at the moment, but at Izan.

He let out a breath of a chuckle and muttered under it, ”Last season, they were all starry-eyed standing next to me.” He shook his head.

”Now look at ’em. They all want to be next to him.”

An official in a black Carabao jacket passed through the tunnel, then, doing his final sweep.

His eyes moved down the rows, scanning every kit, every armband, every clasp and strap.

He slowed near the front and nodded.

”All clear,” he said. ”Let’s go.”

The child at the front of the queue stepped up, reaching forward to take the white and red match ball off the pedestal.

His small fingers clutched it tight.

And then — the moment.

The tunnel lights spilt out onto the pitch as they stepped forward.

First the mascots, then the players behind them, boots thudding in unison as a collective inhale came before the roar hit.

Wembley erupted.

The noise was immense — a living wall of red and white crashing against a tidal wave of Liverpool’s travelling end.

Flags whipped behind the barriers.

Flares cracked and smoked behind the away end.

You could barely hear yourself think.

Up in the gantry, Alan Smith’s voice found its way across the stadium, crisp and certain.

”A brilliant setting, a brilliant crowd, and a brilliant clash lined up for us today. Arsenal versus Liverpool in the Carabao Cup Final — not much more needs to be said.”

Beside him, Jim Beglin added, ”Two clubs that know what it means to lift silverware. One’s looking to start a new Chapter... the other, to keep its legacy rolling.”

On the pitch, the two squads formed two lines in front of the crowd.

They’d passed the trophy on the way in — placed on a white stand beneath a spotlight just outside the tunnel.

It had been carried in with gloved hands and camera flashes, a glittering object that pulled every gaze like a magnet.

Now it sat at the centre of the presentation area, polished within an inch of its life, silver handles curving like a challenge between the two giants that now stood face to face.

The national anthem didn’t play — it wasn’t that kind of final — but the ceremonial pageantry of Wembley had begun.

And then, as if on cue, chants began to rise.

From Arsenal’s end:

”Red and white, we fight tonight!”

”This is Wembley, we’re taking it home!”

And from the travelling Liverpool army:

”We are Liverpool, tra-la-la-la-la!”

”We’ve conquered all of Europe, now London’s next!”

It was war in song — sharp, rhythmic, defiant.

Not a man on either side blinked.

The cameras flashed once more.

The referees gathered at the centre circle.

Wembley was ready. Arsenal and Liverpool were ready.

And Izan — his hands loose at his sides, bun tied back, breath slow —

He was ready too.

....

The referee stood between them, a steady figure in black with the match coin already balanced between his fingers.

”I want a clean match,” he said firmly, his eyes flicking between the two captains.

”You’re experienced. I expect you to lead with that in mind. Talk to your teammates, keep things calm if they get heated. Set the standard.”

Ødegaard nodded first, his expression composed, then Van Dijk followed, just a slight clench of the jaw behind the nod.

They stepped in beside the officials after that for the pre-match photo.

Flashes blinked.

Then they turned to each other, clapped hands once—hard—and hugged quickly, shoulder to shoulder like soldiers who respected each other’s command.

Each captain jogged back toward their respective huddle.

The players were already forming up, drawing tighter.

Arsenal’s starters circled Ødegaard in front of their bench.

Behind them, the fans’ chants surged again—Come on you Gunners—but it faded into the background as their captain’s voice took over.

”Look around you,” Ødegaard said, turning slowly.

”Every single one of you has earned the right to be on this pitch. Don’t forget that.”

His voice wasn’t raised.

But every syllable was deliberate, and somehow, that quiet command cut sharper than any roar.

”They’re going to push. You know they will. But we stay together. We don’t fold. Izan—” he turned his eyes toward the young forward, ”—you do your thing. We’ll cover the rest. We go out there and bring this back home. No fear. Not today.”

They all leaned in as his final words dropped.

”Together.”

The hands flew in, overlapping like blades being stacked.

Then the scene tilted—almost like the air shifted—and now it was Liverpool’s circle, red kits clashing against the green below.

Van Dijk stood firm in the middle.

Taller than the rest, his voice was steady, darker, older. Like granite under pressure.

”Look where we are,” he said.

”Not every team gets here. Not every team survives the grind to play in this stadium for a trophy.”

”They’ve got stars, but so do we. Don’t let the noise get to you. Don’t let him”—his eyes flicked in Izan’s direction—”get in your head. We handle our business. We play our football. Let them talk about us after we’ve done the job.”

A few claps, fists bumping arms.

Then Van Dijk closed it out with a simple nod.

”Let’s go win it.”

The huddle broke after that.

Players stretched, rolled their shoulders, one or two bouncing on the spot.

The nerves were buried beneath habit now.

Then the whistle of them official sliced through it all.

It was time.

”Kick-off.”

Alan Smith’s voice slipped into the broadcast, his tone light but lined with the weight of the occasion.

”And we are underway in this Carabao Cup Final between Arsenal and Liverpool — two sides with plenty of recent history and no shortage of firepower.”

The ball rolled back from Liverpool’s centre, flicked toward Alexis Mac Allister in midfield as red shirts spread wide across Wembley’s lush surface.

Arsenal pressed forward immediately, not recklessly, but with intention.

Declan Rice took three hard steps toward the ball before checking back, shadowing the Argentine’s movement like a silent predator.

”Straight into it, no feeling-out phase,” Alan continued. ”That’s what you’d expect with the way Arsenal have been starting games this season — they want momentum, they want energy, and they want to unsettle you early.”

Van Dijk opened his stance and received the ball under light pressure from Gabriel Jesus, who was already pushing high.

The Brazilian, who hand’t started in a long time, glanced over his shoulder, then darted toward the right-sided centre-back, forcing a long ball down the line.

Timber read it as he was up in the air before the pass had fully left the boot — timing it just right to intercept with a firm header.

Liverpool regained possession quickly, but it felt jittery.

Every pass under scrutiny. Every touch on trial.

Alan’s voice lowered slightly.

”What you’ll notice early is how Arsenal are putting a real premium on pressure without overcommitting. Timber’s playing like a hybrid between a full-back and a third centre-back. That gives Saliba the freedom to step if needed.”

In midfield, Ødegaard was already making himself felt.

Twice in the opening minute, he floated into the passing lane between Mac Allister and Jones, cutting out space without making a tackle.

His arms pointed, shifted, recalibrated Arsenal’s shape like a conductor adjusting a live orchestra.

And when the ball finally came to Izan — for just a heartbeat — the crowd surged.

A/N: Sorry guys for the late release. This counts as the first Chapter of the previous day so don’t worry. I will make sure to release all the Chapters that haven’t been released. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.