God Of football

Chapter 677: 24 Yards.

At the heart of the pitch, Gakpo stood over the ball at the centre circle, boots tapping in a quick rhythm like a man waiting for a starting pistol.

The official had only just stepped onto the pitch after confirming Merino’s substitution.

Now, though, all eyes were back on the pitch.

Liverpool’s number 18 glanced at the referee, who gave a quick.

And with a soft touch of the ball backwards to Mac Allister, the final resumed.

”Back underway here at Wembley,” Jim Beglin called out, his voice trying to inject normalcy back into the game.

”One-one between Arsenal and Liverpool — and 66 minutes played. That goal from Merino... brave beyond words. But there’s still time here. There’s still a trophy to be won. And you get the feeling this one’s not done. Far from it. Both teams have had their moments. This second half’s been a different beast from the first.”

The ball skidded across the turf under Mac Allister’s foot — a gentle roll, but in a stadium like this, even soft touches felt like the pull of a trigger.

A strange kind of hush settled over Wembley.

Not silence, no.

It was far from that.

The noise was constant, relentless even — drums thumping from the Arsenal end, chants roaring back from the Liverpool section — but beneath all of it was a current.

A thrum in the chest.

The collective heartbeat of 90,000 people who knew the Carabao Cup final had just entered its final quarter.

Sixty-nine minutes gone.

One-all.

Merino’s goal still echoed through the air like smoke after a firework as Liverpool began their slow dance.

A calculated attempt to tease Arsenal out, pull them in and open them up.

Gravenberch, slowing down the pace, slipped the ball from Mac Asllister to Van Dijk before hopping and occupying another earth of space next to the defence in hopes of providing an outlet should the press of Arsenal get to them.

Van Dijk to Konate. Konate to Robert, and then a low sideways switch to Arnold, who had settled just behind Jesus in the midfield.

It was measuring, gauging and waiting.

Mac Allister hovered like a pivot, always within reach of an escape route, while Szoboszlai jogged a quiet circle just inside Arsenal’s half, hands out like he was asking for the music to start.

But Arsenal weren’t biting.

Izan moved with deliberate patience, watching Mac Allister’s eyes more than his feet.

Ødegaard stood just to the side of Szoboszlai’s path, like a door left almost closed, while Trossard, fresh on, hovered between the right of Liverpool’s wing and central press line, itching and ready to explode.

”You can feel it now, can’t you? The hourglass is sinking so fast,” Alan Smith murmured from the gantry.

”Both sides holding their breath, trying to be the last one to blink.”

The ball reached Trent again, and with a flash of studs, he pinged it forward into the feet of Gakpo — a test.

But Saliba was there before the Dutchman could even dream of a turn.

Shoulder to shoulder and touch for touch, the Arsenal centre-back nudged him just enough to send the ball spilling loose.

The roar from the Arsenal end was like the kick of a generator.

Still, Liverpool didn’t panic.

Like a Mimosa leaf under scrutiny, they quickly shelled themselves, the defenders dropping so deep that Allison, their keeper, couldn’t go back further or he’d enter the goal.

Slot — pacing on the edge of his technical area, could only watch and hope that his players remembered the tactical masterclass they had shown in the first half.

He only stepped forward slightly, hands behind his back, eyes narrowing like a chess master watching a gambit unfold.

On the other side, Arteta crouched low, hands on knees, lips pressed tight.

You could see it on his face — a coach who smelled blood, but didn’t want his team diving in too early.

The trap was set. Arsenal weren’t pressing for the sake ofit. They were waiting for a wrong pass. A heavy touch. A stumble.

Because one misstep... and Izan would be gone and just across the pitch, the 17-year-old lingered in space like a storm cloud on the horizon.

Far enough to be forgotten but close enough to be deadly.

For Liverpool, Chiesa had peeled off his bib and started slow lunges.

Endō stood beside him, nodding in rhythm to the game and just beside him was Curtis Jones, who already had one boot off, his sock rolled down, stretching his ankle like a man about to step into a different world.

The commentators had gone quieter too, not out of boredom but because it was looking like the next goal could see things through.

The final had turned into that rare kind of storm.

And when it hits, you don’t get to look away.

”And yet,” Alan Smith returned, voice calm but steeped in tension, ”for all the slowing down in tempo... my heartbeat hasn’t followed suit. And I doubt anyone watching — even the neutrals — can say theirs has.”

”You can feel the air changing, Alan,” Jim Beglin added, almost under his breath.

”It’s slowed, yeah — but not because anyone’s relaxing. It’s that... tightening. Like something’s coming and every player on the pitch knows it.”

And right then — it did.

Arnold picked up the ball near the far touchline, just ahead of his technical area, his head lifting for options.

The space he had lingered a bit too long, and like a hawk coming for a prey, Salah arrived, ghosting in like he had every right to be there, and without a hint of hesitation, took the ball straight off his teammate’s boot and kept moving.

Lewis Skelly, already on the back foot, turned and chased.

His steps weren’t sharp — they were laboured, full of the weight that seventy-something hard minutes put into an 18-year-old’s legs.

Still, he closed, doing everything he could to read Salah’s movement.

But Salah wasn’t just moving.

He was teasing.

First a hesitation, then a bolt forward.

Then a shimmy.

Then another pause again, and just as Lewis committed for the second time, Salah exploded past him.

In one motion, he sliced infield onto his left, dropped a shoulder, shifted the ball out of his stride, and struck it — a vicious, low-flying missile from outside the box.

The crowd jolted as one.

But the ball didn’t make it far.

Izan — somehow — was there.

Body launched across the path, absorbing the shot with the right side of his torso.

The ball cannoned off and bounced wildly, spinning out towards the far side, but just then, the whistle screamed before anyone could chase it down.

The referee was pointing — not to the spot, but just outside the box.

Free kick. Handball.

A few Arsenal players, who were looking on at that sequence, turned towards the referee.

”That hit his side,” they appeared to say, palms open, baffled.

But then came the screen.

The stadium stilled as the replay rolled.

Slow-motion, brutal honesty.

The ball ricocheting off his upper ribs — but just high enough to skim the underside of his right forearm, and the angle didn’t lie.

Even the Arsenal end groaned.

Not from anger — but confirmation.

”Yep... he’s got that right,” Alan Smith admitted, exhaling.

”It’s not deliberate, but Izan’s arm... It’s out, it’s away from his body. The ball’s struck it. It’s the modern interpretation. That’s a foul.”

Jim Beglin was quieter. ”Could’ve been worse. Could’ve been inside the box.”

But the danger was still real.

Salah bent over to place the ball, his fingers spreading over it like he was planting something.

Trent stood next to him, arms folded behind his back, lips moving quietly.

A whisper shared between conspirators.

Raya in goal shifted on his line, gloves pressed together, knees bent low.

He tried to read it — the hips, the eyes, the angle of the run-up — but there was no giveaway, at least not yet.

”You’ve got Salah and Alexander-Arnold standing over it,” Alan Smith murmured, voice coated in anticipation.

”One is second in the top scorers list and the other is one of the best strikers of a dead ball you’ll find in England...”

”And no idea which one’s taking it,” Jim Beglin finished.

The wall was up now.

Four men wide — white shirts clinging to red bodies, locked in place by barked instructions.

Gabriel. Saliba. Ødegaard.

And Izan — standing furthest to the right.

Raya barked again, waving his right hand in a low gesture, adjusting the angle of the wall by inches.

Inches could mean everything.

The noise inside Wembley dulled.

Phones had been pulled up in anticipation of the shot.

Every pair of eyes locked on that tiny stretch of grass 24 yards from goal.

”For all the talk about Salah,” Alan Smith murmured, ”I’ve got a feeling it’s Trent...”

”They’ve done this before,” Jim Beglin added. ”It’s a disguise — a sleight of foot.”

a/n; Okay, this is the first of the day and as I said yesterday. I didn’t have that much time today as well. Hopefelly the next Chapter ends this final.