God Of football

Chapter 727: Next Up, Kings Of France!

”This strike changes everything!” the commentator’s voice thundered as the replay rolled across the screen, showing Calafiori’s goal.

The roar of the Arsenal end was still reverberating, as the broadcast came along, this time, toned down.

”It’s not the best of situations when you’re charging into the final stretch of a season like this. Dropping points is costly, but a loss... a loss is worse than a draw. ”

”And this goal,” the commentary resumed, ” for Arsenal, might prove vital in ways we can’t yet measure. Liverpool fans won’t like it, their players won’t like it, because while the point gap has narrowed, it hasn’t closed completely. As it stands, it’s five points between first and second place.”

Down on the pitch, the referee jogged across briskly, his whistle sharp in the London night, calling players back from their celebrations.

Calafiori had already settled in his centre-back role, sitting in a 3-back system with Gabriel and Saliba to end the game.

They had celebrated the equaliser and basked in the joy of not having their unbeaten streak lost, but there were still 2 minutes on the clock.

2 minutes that could either make them or break them, should they score or concede here.

Elsewhere, not the pitch, not the terraces, but the dim-lit corridor of Anfield’s inner sanctum.

In Liverpool’s locker room, the squad sat scattered about, boots loose, shirts clinging, all eyes drawn to the flat screen bolted above the kit man’s corner.

The room was filled with a tense quiet broken only by the noise of the broadcast, a strange mix of distant commentary and muffled cheers bleeding through the speakers.

When Calafiori’s name flashed in the corner of the screen with the equaliser graphic, a collective sigh drifted across the room.

Shoulders slumped slightly, as a few players tilted their heads back against the lockers, frustrated in silence.

It was 3-0 in the 75th minute, with their fans and they themselves celebrating before their game, which ended 5-1, but now, it was level.

Dominik Szoboszlai broke it first.

A small smirk tugged at his lips, almost cynical, as he leaned back on the bench and muttered just loud enough for those near him to hear, ”Lucky...”

A few of the others nodded almost instinctively. Darwin, leaning forward with elbows on knees, let out a quiet hum of agreement while Konaté rubbed at the tape around his wrist, exhaling, eyes still fixed on the screen.

There was no debate, not here.

The consensus was clear: Arsenal had been spared by fortune as much as by force.

But Arne Slot, arms folded across his chest, had been listening carefully.

He didn’t need to raise his voice as the low baritone of his words cut through the room.

”Luck,” he said calmly, his Dutch accent crisp against the stillness, ”is also an ability.”

Heads lifted, and for a moment the players stilled.

Slot didn’t look away from the screen, but his tone carried both a rebuke and a reminder.

The margins at this level weren’t about excuses; they were about who made the most of every sliver of chance.

After a beat, he clapped his hands together sharply, snapping the room out of its lull.

”Enough. Hurry up and get ready to leave.”

His words were brisk, but his eyes flicked from man to man, holding each of them accountable without theatrics.

”We have our own job to do.”

The room stirred again, boots thudding against the floor, tape being pulled taut, shirts swapped for fresh kits.

The screen kept replaying Calafiori’s strike, Arsenal’s lifeline, but no one lingered on it anymore.

Slot’s message had landed, because fortune or not, the fight was theirs to claim.

.......

Fwee, fwee, fweeee.

The full-time whistle cut through the damp South London evening, sharp and final, and for a moment, Selhurst Park seemed to exhale as one.

The tension that had hung in the air for ninety minutes bled away with that sound, relief for some, regret for others.

The Palace supporters, who had dared to dream as the minutes ticked down, slumped back into their seats, their hopes of a famous win slipping just beyond their grasp.

Arsenal’s travelling fans, tucked into their corner, let out a different kind of sigh, half-relief, half-pride, knowing they had clawed their way back from a perilous edge to salvage something when defeat had seemed to be looming.

The stadium announcer’s voice rose above the chatter, measured and ceremonial as always.

”Your man of the match this evening, Declan Rice.”

The applause rippled, not just from the away end but across the ground.

Even Palace fans, bruised by the result, gave a nod of acknowledgement.

Rice had been a colossus, unyielding in midfield, the player who seemed to hold Arsenal together when the cracks threatened to widen.

His presence was undeniable, albeit not everyone seemed to share the opinion.

The players shook hands, exchanged shirts and gave pats on the back because both teams had survived the match.

Fulham and Arsenal had produced a match that was far from flawless, but it was the kind of contest that reminded spectators why football mattered so much: momentum shifts, nerves tested, emotions pulled tight.

”Well, that’s it from Selhurst Park,” the commentators, who had narrated every rise and fall, began to find their closing words.

”Arsenal leave here with a point that will feel, for some, like a lifeline rather than a missed opportunity. For Palace, it’s disappointment, because they had it within reach. But you can’t fault either side for the fight tonight,” one voice carried, rich with finality.

”South London to North London,” his partner added, softly, ”the journey continues. And for Arsenal, it’s not just the Premier League anymore. Their attention now swings toward Europe, toward Paris, toward a Paris Saint-Germain side that has quietly reshaped itself under Luis Enrique.”

”A young, energetic team, underestimated by many, but not by those who have watched them closely this season. They’ll bring a new kind of challenge and crucially, Arsenal may have to do it without their talisman.”

” No confirmation yet on whether Izan will be fit, and his absence would be felt in ways that go far beyond numbers on a scoresheet. Without him, the rhythm changes, the threat changes. Every player in that Arsenal dressing room knows it. Every PSG analyst knows it too.”

The camera swept across the pitch one last time, the players disappearing down the tunnel and the Palace supporters filing out into the night, Arsenal’s fans lifting their scarves and songs into the cool air as if to remind themselves that the story wasn’t over, just shifting to a different stage.

”From Selhurst Park to the kings of France, that is the road Arsenal now travel. Tonight, it was grit and stubbornness that carried them through. Next week, it will need to be something more, and we’ll see you then. Good night.”

.......

The quiet of Hampstead was now a world away from the tension of Selhurst Park.

Upstairs, though, peace wasn’t exactly the first word that came to mind.

Olivia squealed, half-laughing, half-protesting as Izan had her pinned down on the edge of the bed.

His arms wrapped firmly around her waist, refusing to let her wriggle free.

”This is completely unfair!” she cried, breathless from laughter, her hands pushing at his chest. ”It wasn’t even my fault!”

”Oh, it wasn’t?” Izan raised an eyebrow, deliberately tightening his grip.

”You followed her, didn’t you? Willingly and with little to no hesitation.”

”That’s because—” Olivia twisted, trying to wriggle free again, ”—because Hori made me! If you’re punishing anyone, it should be her. She’s the instigator here!”

Izan chuckled, lowering his voice into that mock-serious tone that always made her grin.

”Yeah, she started it. But you?” He tapped her nose lightly.

”You went along without even blinking. Hori’s punishment will come... trust me. From Komi. Not me. But you—” he gave her side a squeeze that sent her squirming— ”you’re paying your share now.”

Olivia laughed so hard she had to gasp for air, finally collapsing back against the bedspread.

”I swear... Izan, stop, I’m dizzy!”

That made him relent.

With a quiet laugh, he finally set her down properly and let himself fall beside her on the mattress.

The room dimmed around them, the only light spilling through the open doorway, a soft orange glow from the hall, and she didn’t waste a moment.

Olivia rolled onto her side and nestled against him, her head settling comfortably on his chest as Izan’s breathing slowed, his arm naturally circling her shoulders.

For a while, they just stayed like that, letting silence wash over them.

After a long pause, Olivia tilted her head slightly, her voice muffled against him.

”What did you mean earlier? When you said Hori would get her punishment from Komi?”

Izan’s lips curved into a smile.

He didn’t answer straight away, letting the mystery linger in the air.

She poked his chest lightly, as if to insist.

And then, before he could reply, Hori’s voice drifted up from downstairs, carrying clear through the open door.

”Mamaaa! Why is my white dress red now?!”

Olivia froze for a second, then broke into a wide, helpless smile against Izan’s chest.

She didn’t even need him to answer anymore.

The image in her head with Komi already on Hori’s case was enough.

A/N: Okay, this is the first of today. I need to sleep guys so see you in the afternoon with the last of the day and if the GTs had reached the mark, I will release a bonus Chapter so keep spamming them for your bonus Chapter.