God Of football

Chapter 816: Crumbling.

The rebound spun wildly across the box, chaos in motion, as both Cubarsí and Saliba threw themselves into the scramble.

Two desperate stretches, one from each side, but it was Cubarsí who got there first, his toe nudging the ball clear a split second before Saliba’s outstretched leg clipped him across the ankle.

The Spaniard went down with a cry, clutching his shin, and instantly the referee’s whistle split through the noise.

Foul.

Saliba threw his hands up, irritation written all over his face as Arsenal shirts around him protested, swarming the referee, but before anyone could say much more, Koundé snatched the loose ball, setting it down and swinging it forward in one motion.

No hesitation.

The Arsenal players froze in disbelief.

The whistle was still echoing in their ears, but the play had already restarted.

The Barcelona bench leapt, shouting for their players to go, go now.

”Wait, the referee hasn’t, no, he’s allowed it! They’ve played on!” Drury’s voice broke over the noise, equal parts shock and awe.

The ball was already spinning across the halfway line, caught cleanly by Pedri, who took one glance up and then struck through it, a perfect switch out to the right wing, where Lamine Yamal and Myles Lewis-Skelly were sprinting like lightning.

Yamal got there first, chesting it down under pressure before flicking it deftly ahead of himself.

Myles was tight on him, shoulder brushing, but the teenager showed a flash of composure that felt far older than his years, a soft, looping ball curled toward the box before Rice could even close in.

Rice lunged, sliding in with his studs grazing turf, managing to nick the ball midair, but not enough to clear.

It dropped awkwardly, tumoring back into the danger zone, and Lewandowski was there.

The Polish striker met it first time, lashing a venomous shot low toward goal as the Barcelona crowd raised their hands, ready to celebrate, but Raya reacted, throwing himself down.

”SAAAAVED!” came the roar from the commentary box, the crowd erupting as the ball cannoned off Raya’s gloves, with the Barcelona fans settling down once more, but the spinning ball and the danger weren’t gone, causing them to get right back up.

It bounced loose, spinning toward the left side of the box where Raphinha came charging in, with no control or hesitation.

The Brazilian unleashed a thunderous strike that screamed past everyone, a flash of yellow boots and blur, before the ball slammed into the back of the net, sending the Cauldron of emotions into Pandemonium.

”RAPHINHAAAAAA!!!” Peter Drury’s voice tore through the stadium noise.

”From the streets of Porto Alegre, to the Favelas. From Leeds to Barcelona, Raphinha has just scored in the final of the Champions League. This is footballing heritage, and this is what persistence can do!”

Raya was rooted, eyes wide, disbelief flooding his face as the net bulged behind him.

He slammed his gloves against the turf once, twice, before sitting still, knowing there was nothing he could’ve done.

On the far side, Raphinha was already gone, sprinting toward the stands, leaping over the adboards and into a wave of blue and red flags.

His fists pumped wildly, his scream swallowed by the chants of the Barça faithful behind him.

He pounded his chest once, twice, eyes blazing, as teammates swarmed him, Pedri first, then Yamal, and finally Lewandowski, who threw an arm around his shoulders.

On the touchline, Hansi Flick was on his feet, fists clenched, shouting toward the pitch with a rare, fiery smile while Gavi, from the bench, jumped on the manager.

”This,” Drury continued, voice trembling with energy, ”is Barcelona at their most ruthless, a team that punishes hesitation with fire. Arsenal were caught appealing, and Raphinha made them pay the ultimate price!”

The camera cut to Arteta on the sideline, frozen, his jaw tight.

His players looked to him for clarity, for grounding in the chaos, but he didn’t even blink.

He simply pressed his hands together, took a long breath, and mouthed the words, focus.

In the background, Barcelona’s fans were still roaring, flags waving like wild flames across the stands.

As Raphinha finally broke free from the crush of teammates and fans, his chest still heaving and his grin fierce, the camera panned upward to the scoreboard.

BARCELONA 3 — 1 ARSENAL

The numbers glared against the Munich night like a taunt, bright, unrelenting and cruel.

Peter Drury’s voice came first, carrying that weight of awe and disbelief only he could conjure.

”Three-one... Barcelona... and that changes everything.”

He paused, just long enough for the noise of the crowd to swallow the silence as blue and red flags whipped the air and the Catalan chants rolled down from the top tiers like thunder.

”You know, Peter...” Martin Tyler took over, glancing at the Seismic events below the gantry.

”People always say two goals aren’t impossible to come back from. But in a final like this? With this kind of control, this kind of momentum... it feels impossible.”

Drury nodded audibly through the mic, the sound of his breath catching.

”Indeed, Martin. It’s not the number, it’s the message and the mood. Arsenal were finding rhythm; they were pressing, believing. But now? That third goal is like a whisper in the wind that says, You can fight all you want, but this mountain won’t move.”

Tyler sighed, almost ruefully.

”And the cruel part of it, Peter, is that they’ve played well. The first half ended with them on top, with Izan carving openings from nowhere. But in football, moments kill, and Barcelona just had theirs.”

The camera cut to Izan.

Standing near the centre circle, staring at the giant screen overhead, expression unreadable.

Sweat glistened across his temple as the replay of Raphinha’s strike flashed again.

Meanwhile, Arteta stood still, arms folded, a storm of calculation behind his eyes.

And as the ball rolled back toward the centre circle, waiting for the restart, Drury’s voice carried through the hum of noise like a verdict.

”Three-one, Barcelona lead. Arsenal aren’t out of this, not yet, but you’d be forgiven for thinking they’ve just seen their mountain grow twice as high.”

Arsenal’s players trudged back into their half, their shoulders heavy, faces blank with that hollow look of disbelief that follows a sudden collapse.

The air around them had changed; it wasn’t the energy from the start of the half anymore, it was weight.

Kai Havertz rolled the ball back to Declan Rice as the whistle blew to restart, but even that small motion felt laboured, weary.

”Back underway,” Peter Drury murmured, voice trailing with a sigh. ”But... It’s hard to see where Arsenal go from here.”

Barcelona pressed instantly, sharp and synchronised, a swarm of blue and red reinvigorated by their 3rd goal.

Pedri closed in while Raphinha pressed from the left, and within seconds, Rice’s passing lane vanished.

The ball squirmed loose under pressure as Olmo pounced, and suddenly, Arsenal’s rhythm disintegrated again.

”And so it crumbles...” Drury exhaled quietly, almost mournfully.

”Just when they needed control, it slips away like sand through their fingers.”

On the touchline, Mikel Arteta was a storm barely contained.

His voice cut through the noise, sharp and urgent, ”Press! Press higher! Stay with it!”, but it felt like shouting into the wind.

His gestures grew frantic, his eyes wild with disbelief as his men retreated further, forced into their half, into that messy, hurried brand of football they had promised they’d left behind.

Passes went astray as all the hallmarks of desperation, like mistimed and unnecessary fouls, crept back in.

Martin Ødegaard clapped his hands hard, three times, the sound lost in the crowd’s roar, but his message was clear: wake up.

He shouted to Rice, then to Trossard, his voice cracking from effort.

He was trying to pull life from somewhere, trying to drag belief back into a team suddenly terrified of its own shadow.

Then, a miscontrol.

Koundé’s touch let the ball spill free near the halfway line.

Ødegaard saw it and didn’t think twice; he surged forward, a captain’s instinct overriding logic.

He reached just before the Frenchman, both boots clashing in a tangle of limbs, and the sound that followed was sharp, ugly.

Ødegaard crumpled, clutching his leg before he even hit the ground, with the stadium going silent, after the initial explosive roar of the Arsenal fans after the clash.

”Oh no...” Martin Tyler’s voice sank, soft but heavy with concern.

”Something’s wrong there. He’s gone down straight away, no hesitation.”

The play slowed as the referee’s whistle cut through the air, with the ball rolling harmlessly to the side, forgotten.

Drury’s voice was quieter now, the kind that seems to carry an ache. ” And that could be a devastating moment, not just for Arsenal tonight, but for their captain.”

The camera zoomed in, Ødegaard’s face pale, jaw clenched, tears forming at the edge of his eyes.

Around him, the Arsenal players froze in silence while Izan stood a few steps away, hands on his hips, staring blankly.

The camera lingered just long enough to show a tear slip down the Norwegian’s cheek before cutting back to the touchline where Arteta stood, hands on his face.