God Of football

Chapter 753: Parisian Lights.

”Good evening, wherever you are watching around the world,” Darren Fletcher began, voice loud and clear over the TNT broadcast.

”Tonight, we find ourselves under the Parisian lights, with the Parc des Princes bracing itself for another European night of consequence.

Arsenal arrive here carrying the weight of a first-leg defeat. A defeat not only on the scoreboard but in spirit, as they fought much of that battle without their general at the heart of it all. What about you, Ally?”

”Yes, and that absence was telling,” Ally McCoist answered.

”Without him for most of the game, Arsenal looked like an army without its commander, courageous but fragmented, unable to steer the tide. Paris took full advantage, striking with precision, and tonight they stand with the lead, the confidence, and the home crowd roaring behind them.”

”But now he returns. The general, restored and ready to marshal his side. This is where legends are either forged or forgotten, although I don’t think Izan can ever be forgotten. Arsenal come not merely to play, but to reclaim. To turn Paris from a city of lights into a city shadowed by terror and destruction, if they can summon it.”

”It is the beauty of this competition, isn’t it? A single figure can tilt the balance. A single performance can rewrite a story. Arsenal know the task ahead: break Paris here, in their fortress, or bow out once more in Europe. Tonight, we will see whether the return of their heartbeat is enough to spark a miracle.”

......

”You are cooked today,” Desire Doué grinned, leaning closer to Hakimi as they stood side by side near the halfway line, their bibs tossed casually behind them after their own warm-up.

His chin jerked toward the far end, where Izan had just curled yet another ball into the top right pocket of the net, hitting it with the kind of precision that made the Arsenal supporters in that corner erupt.

Hakimi rolled his eyes, exhaling a short laugh.

”And what, you think you’ve got it easier? Partey will have you in his pocket all game. Don’t start celebrating yet.”

Doué smirked, arms folded as if he’d already won.

”At least Partey isn’t seventeen and smiling like he’s here for a kickabout. You? You’re about to spend ninety minutes chasing shadows. Miura is licking his lips. And I know you’ve seen his speed. I might say he is closer to Mbappe’s or faster even.”

Hakimi shoved him lightly on the shoulder, shaking his head with a laugh.

”Go away, man. You talk too much.”

But even as the laughter left his lips, his eyes betrayed a flicker of focus.

They drifted back across the pitch, toward Izan, who was now facing Fabian Ruiz, who had jogged over with a casual stride, boots thudding softly on the turf.

Izan stopped juggling the ball at his feet, his grin sharpening into a look of intent as the Spaniard approached.

”Well,” Hakimi muttered under his breath, almost to himself, ”he’s not going past me tonight.”

On the far end, Fabian Ruiz slowed, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he stopped a few steps away from Izan.

The atmosphere between them was different, two players from the same nation.

”I would have told you to let me have this one,” Fabian said, nodding toward the looming stands, ”since Paris have never lifted it before. But...” he tilted his head, a knowing look in his eyes, ”...that would be hypocritical since Arsenal haven’t touched it either.”

Izan’s laugh was short and quiet, but his gaze never softened.

”Fair enough.”

Before anything more could be said, Cuesta’s sharp voice carried across the pitch, calling the Arsenal squad back in as the warmup drew to a close.

Izan lingered a moment, his boots brushing the grass as he turned one last time toward Ruiz.

”Have a good game,” he said simply, the words stripped of malice but heavy with meaning.

Then he jogged back toward the red cluster gathering near the touchline, leaving Ruiz watching him go.

...

”Can I get my rubber band?” Izan called out to one of the staff, pointing to his long hair.

”You know I don’t get why you don’t get a shave. You are starting to look more like a woman,” Saka, who was wearing the other half of his boots, called out to Izan as the latter took the band from the staff.

”I like this like how you like your taper,” Izan said as he wore the rubber band around his hand, leaning down to put his small shin guards inside his socks.

”Well, tie it then,” Saka muttered once more, standing to his feet, but Izan didn’t pay him any heed.

Away from the banter of the duo, the Arsenal dressing room buzzed with a quiet energy.

Some players tugged on shirts, tying laces, adjusting shin pads with methodical repetition, while the bench lads loitered in small groups, filling the silence with half-whispered jokes and short bursts of laughter.

The smell of liniment hung in the air, sharp and familiar, clinging to the walls like ritual.

The chatter dimmed when the door clicked open as Arteta strode in, his gaze sweeping across the room as though weighing each face.

He didn’t start immediately, choosing to let the silence find its way first, pulling every eye toward him.

”We cannot,” he began, voice calm but cutting, ”come this far only to fail now. If that was our destiny, then it would have been better to let Real Madrid beat us in the quarterfinals.”

A few players shifted uncomfortably while the others straightened.

The words landed.

He stepped further in, his hand brushing against the whiteboard before turning back toward them.

”But we didn’t let them. We fought, and we earned this. And tonight... we are ninety minutes away from doing what no Arsenal team in history has ever done, reaching the Champions League final.”

The gravity of it echoed in the room as nods spread like ripples, Saliba with his arms folded, Rice tapping his knee, even the younger lads standing taller, absorbing the weight of the moment.

”Play for your passion,” Arteta continued, his tone tightening.

”Play for your pride. And if any of you—” his lips curled into a quick, mischievous grin ”—if any of you think you don’t have enough passion tonight... then play for that handsome Champions League bonus.”

A burst of laughter cut through the tension, players shaking their heads, grins flashing.

The release was brief, but deliberate.

Arteta clapped his hands once.

”Now go. Show them who you are.”

The team rose as one as boots scraped marbled floor, with shirts tugged into place, and the squad funnelling out into the tunnel, where the atmosphere thickened into something heavier than words.

The Arsenal players lined up, waiting for the officials to gather them.

PSG emerged a moment later, their navy blue kits cutting a sharp contrast against Arsenal’s red and white.

The two lines squared up, players stealing glances, the hum of the stadium outside vibrating faintly through the concrete walls.

Izan stood near the middle, beside Desire Doué.

As the officials adjusted their earpieces, Izan bent slightly, tying his dark hair into a bun.

Doué’s eyes lingered, more curiosity than hostility.

”Bonne chance,(Good Luck)” he said in French, a little grin tugging at his lips.

Izan lifted his gaze, met it, and replied smoothly in French, ”Merci, à toi aussi.[Thanks, you too.]”

The grin faltered into surprise as Doué hadn’t expected that.

At the front, the lead official raised his arm, beckoning both sides forward.

The lines shuffled into order, children stepping up to take their places at the players’ sides.

Izan placed a steady hand on the boy next to him, leaning down just enough to whisper in French: ”Allons-y. [Let’s go]”

The child’s eyes lit up, hands clinging more around Izan’s as the lines began their march into the storm.

The noise inside the Parc des Princes had already swelled like a wave breaking against steel and concrete.

But the moment the players appeared from the tunnel, the volume jumped a level, thousands of scarves twirling, flags beating the air, a chorus of chants colliding from both ends of the ground.

”Here they come... ” Darren Fletcher roared over the din.

”Paris Saint-Germain and Arsenal, stepping out into the Parisian night under the brightest lights of all. Two clubs chasing something that has eluded them both—the Champions League final.”

Ally McCoist chimed in, his tone carrying awe and warmth.

”And just listen to this... goosebumps stuff. Every seat filled, every voice at full throttle. You can almost feel it shaking through your chest.”

The two lines walked out shoulder to shoulder, the glint of cameras catching sweat already beginning to bead on brows. T

They filed into position on the lush green pitch, side by side, facing the stands as the first notes of the Champions League anthem struck.

The anthem rolled across the stadium like a hymn, voices dipped, phones lifted, a thousand lenses capturing the moment.

Arsenal players stood tall, red shirts gleaming under the floodlights, their faces calm but eyes sharp, while PSG mirrored them in navy, the tension threading invisible lines between the two groups.

When the last note faded, the players sent the children in front of them trotting back toward the touchline, and tradition resumed.

Arsenal moved first, turning toward the PSG line, hands extended.

One by one, grips were exchanged, firm, professional, with the odd word muttered under breath.

Then they peeled away, scattering toward the centre circle.

Martin Ødegaard jogged up to the referee, who flicked a coin and let it clatter onto the turf before the Arsenal captain shook hands with the officials and then Marquinhos before he trotted back.

”Right to left for Arsenal in this first half,” Ødegaard called out, gesturing as he rejoined his teammates.

Players drifted into their designated zones, each movement rehearsed yet alive with edge.

Izan, walking slowly toward the left flank, tugged once at his bun, tightening it until the strands sat firm against his head, letting the remainder loose over the sides of his head.

Across the grass, PSG’s shape hardened, lines settling.

”So here we go,” Fletcher’s voice carried again.

”The Parc des Princes, the Champions League semi-final, second leg, and it’s Paris to kick us off.”

The referee checked his watch, raised the whistle to his lips and then let the shrill blast cut through the stadium.