God Of football

Chapter 807: Regular Saturday Night.

And as the time wound down, the Allianz sat like a gift under the pale afternoon sky.

Ribbons of red and blue paper fluttered from lamp posts and on the sides where scaffolding had been dressed with giant banners, and temporary stalls lined the outer plaza.

The air smelled of fried food and coffee.

People moved in small knots, stopping to take photos, to argue quietly about formations, to rehearse the chants they meant to raise later.

A child clutched a plush toy wearing a tiny jersey and would not let go.

And amid all that, a long motorcade threaded toward the stadium.

The Barcelona bus eased into the drop-off point, doors folding open with a soft hydraulic sigh.

Staff stepped out first, crisp jackets and radios clipped to belts.

They were checking lists on tablets and nodding to security.

And then the stars of the night began climbing down.

Hansi Flick was the first after the staff, pausing to survey the crowd as he got down, and then walked towards the open entrance.

From behind him, the first player to step down was the goalkeeper, Wojciech Szczesny.

He moved with the slow confidence of someone used to being the last line, eyes lifting to the stands to find the faces of fans who had travelled across borders to be here.

One by one, the rest of the squad followed.

Some were smiling, some kept their heads down.

A few stopped for quick, solemn autographs as the cameras flashed until the plaza looked like a field of stars and the fans answered as one.

A roar went up from the side the bus had stopped on, a deep wave of Spanish voices and bright young cries as flags snapped in hands.

The chant started low and rose until it filled the air.

People shouted homegrown phrases that spilt into the plaza, phrases the television cameras repeated with subtitles later: Visca el Barça, vamos barça, canta fuerte.

Amid the emotional weight being experienced, the journalists threaded through the cordon, microphones extended, cameras angled.

”Hansi!” one reporter called, but Flick answered with a nod and a practised, closed-lip smile, before walking away.

The players stepped past the barricade, cleared security, and walked toward the tunnel entrance, pausing only to wave and to fold their scarves back into small, neat rectangles to hand to young fans when the moment allowed.

Not long after they had left, a low rumbling began in the opposite direction.

Street noise rose and mixed with the distant chant still trailing from Barcelona’s corner.

Then the Arsenal bus appeared, blacked-out windows and the club crest catching the light.

It slowed into the same area, and an audible, anticipatory hum ran through the crowd.

Phones were lifted again.

Voices switched languages as people pointed and shouted in quick, happy bursts.’

When the Arsenal doors opened, the reaction rivalled Barca’s reception.

Gunners’ chants rose, a pattern of exultation and rhythm: come on you Gunners, come on you Gunners.

One woman in a vintage coat held a sign that read simply: ”My son’s first final,” with a child on her chest.

The Arsenal players left the bus with the same mix of focus and acknowledgement as seen earlier from the Barcelona players.

Some offered quick smiles while others scanned the crowd, taking in the banners and the people who had invested days of travel and money and hope to stand here.

And, when Izan stepped down, there was a particular lift in the noise.

A cluster of people near the barricade started to chant his name.

The sound arrived like a wave, wholehearted and a little surprised, like a chorus that had only just found its tune.

Izan paused for a fraction of a breath, then turned his face into something near amusement.

He lifted his hand in a quiet, steady wave.

There was no need for anything over the top, outside of the pitch.

He simply acknowledged the people there, and that was enough.

Phones rose.

A young supporter with a handmade banner cheered so loudly he looked winded, and an elderly woman in a flat cap cried quietly as if the moment contained more than a match.

Security shepherded the players along paths laid out to keep the flow tidy while the stewards in bright orange vests guided fans back behind the barriers, calling for calm in multiple languages.

The heavy sounds echoed, and for a moment, the city felt split in two, the world outside buzzing with talk and the stadium beginning its private preparation.

Then the final lines of barricade were pulled into place, and the plaza settled into a hum, as the fans were led away from the entrance used by the players.

Everything was in place.

The teams were in.

The fans had been heard.

And, the stadium itself seemed to wait, patient and wide, as if it knew the night ahead would ask for everything.

.......

[Arsenal Locker Room]

Arteta stood near the corridor outside the dressing room, hands behind his back, eyes moving slowly across the small groups of players who were settling into their routines.

He turned to the nearest cluster and asked in a low voice, ”Where’s Ethan?”

Bukayo Saka, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, let out a chuckle.

”The boy just went into the washroom. Said he wasn’t feeling too well all of a sudden.”

Arteta frowned slightly but nodded.

Before he could say anything else, one of the staff members came striding in, holding up a small white bottle.

”Has anyone seen Nwaneri? He left this behind.”

The label was clear even from a distance.

Anxiety pills.

Izan stepped forward calmly, his hand reaching out.

”I’ll give it to him,” he said.

His voice carried a quiet reassurance that made the staffer relax almost instantly.

”Alright. Make sure he takes them if he needs to,” the man said, handing it over before leaving.

Moments later, the washroom door creaked open and Ethan appeared, his face a little pale but his expression trying hard to mask it.

Before he could speak, Izan tossed the small bottle lightly toward him.

Ethan caught it with both hands, a bit startled, before seeing what it was.

”Breathe, mate,” Izan told him.

His tone wasn’t dramatic, not overbearing, just simple advice from a junior to a senior, like it was normal, but it wasn’t.

Ethan looked down at the bottle, then back at Izan, managing the faintest nod.

”Easy for him to say,” Saka muttered from the side, shaking his head with a crooked smile.

”Man’s out here telling people to breathe like he’s not the calmest seventeen-year-old in the world. I swear, I wasn’t even this nervous when we played Italy in the Euros final back in 2020... or even when we faced you and Spain in 2024.”

Izan glanced sideways at him, one eyebrow slightly raised.

”That’s because this is different,” he said evenly.

”We’re standing on the edge of history, Bukayo. We win tonight, we break something that’s been hanging over this club for generations. That’s bigger than anything else. Honestly, I want to get this over with and get rid of the bottle allegations even though we haven’t lost a final in all the 2 we’ve played, 3 if we count the title decider with Liverpool.”

The words carried a weight, but Izan shrugged a moment later, as if reminding them he wasn’t one to dwell too long on pressure.

”Still, at the end of the day, it’s just another match. We play our game, nothing more.”

The door opened again, and Carlos Cuesta entered, clapping his hands together once.

”Motivational speeches are good, Izan,” he said with a small grin, ”but you might want to give them while wearing your boots.”

He stepped forward and placed a long box in Izan’s hands, while the latter stared at the slides he had on.

The weight of the box, on the other hand, already told him what was inside.

He lifted the lid, and his eyes landed on a pair of gleaming red-and-white Predators, with the Adidas signs done in such a way that it accommodated the Champions League star circle design near the lace.

On top, a card sat neatly tucked against the inner lining.

Izan picked it up and read it out loud: ”Cheers to the first trophy of many.”

The Adidas logo was stamped at the bottom.

He blinked at the message and let out a soft laugh.

”They’ve already written me into the script. A bit biased, isn’t it? Yamal’s an Adidas player too.”

He shook his head, but there was no irritation in his voice—only quiet amusement.

”Still, I get it.”

He slipped his feet into the boots, feeling the snug fit.

They hugged just right, softer than the training pair he’d been wearing all week.

A touch of extra room in the toes, the kind that meant comfort without losing sharpness.

As he stood and flexed his foot, a smile spread across his face.

”The scriptwriters have already started,” he said, almost to himself, but loud enough that the room caught it.

The others exchanged glances, and for a moment, there was a hum in the air, as if everyone felt the edges of fate drawing close.