God Of football

Chapter 822: Hand Of god.

The blue dash in Pedri reached the ball first.

His control was seamless, a single touch off the outside of his boot before he flicked it upward, the movement so natural it almost felt rehearsed.

In one fluid motion, he whipped his foot through the air, sending the ball curling high into the Arsenal box.

It hung there, spinning, as if deciding who deserved it more.

Then Saliba rose, defiant as always, neck muscles tensed, and powered it away.

But the clearance didn’t travel far.

Out of nowhere, Lamine Yamal stepped in.

”Lamineeeee!!” Drury roared as his boot met the dropping ball cleanly, the sound of the strike cracking through the Allianz like a gunshot.

The ball flew, a streak of light, vicious and true, but stopped abruptly mid-flight.

There was a pause.

A strange, short silence before the referee’s whistle cut through everything.

It was piercing.

It was final.

And then he pointed, straight at the spot.

”Penalty. Arsenal have just conceded, and boy oh boy. What a game!”

The Barcelona end erupted, a wave of blue and garnet surging to life, screams of disbelief and joy overlapping.

The noise was almost primal.

Meanwhile, on the broadcast, Peter Drury’s voice carried over the chaos, heavy with the cruel poetry of fate.

”And it had to happen, didn’t it? The stars have aligned again, but they have never aligned for Arsenal. Not in Paris. Not in Madrid. Not when they played Chelsea in Baku. Not in any final they’ve dreamed of... and here, on the grandest of stages, in Munich, it looks like the world has conspired against them again once more.”

Declan Rice stood frozen for a moment, hands on his head, chest heaving.

He looked as though he’d just walked off a battlefield, his kit smeared with grass and sweat, eyes bloodshot from the strain.

Timber had both hands on his knees, shaking his head in disbelief.

He didn’t even argue.

There was no point.

Everyone knew it had hit him, not in some strange ricochet, but cleanly.

The contact was undeniable.

Saliba, Rice, and Izan all approached the referee anyway, their faces tight with desperation.

Saliba’s words weren’t angry, but they were pleading.

”Please, check it, check the VAR,” he said, his voice nearly drowned by the roar of the stadium.

But they all knew the truth.

There was nothing to check.

The camera panned to Arteta, his face pale, lips pressed together in a thin line as he turned toward the bench, before turning back and then squatting on the sidelines.

The commentary faded into the background as the world outside the stadium began to hum with reaction.

Within seconds, X and Threads were ablaze.

@COYSSpursForever:”Yes. Oh my God, Justice. Absolute justice. I was so scared. They’ve won everything this season already. FA Cup, League, Carabao. Imagine if they win the UCL too? Nah. London wouldn’t be safe.”

@BlueBloodChelsea: ”Finally, some balance in the universe. Can’t let Arsenal fans start thinking they’re a dynasty.”

@Coolvamp:”You can hate Arsenal all you want, but my God... that kid Izan is unreal. Dragging them back from the dead single-handedly. This is cruel.”

@Zeereads: ”Izan’s might lose, but this kid... he’s HIM. He’s different. The best thing to happen to football since Messi touched grass. Honestly, age-wise and current ability-wise, there’s nothing Izan can’t become in football.”

@TxSadz:”It’s crazy. The same people who called him overhyped are now crying because he’s been too good. Karma. But yeah, penalty’s a penalty. Football’s fair like that.”

@Tyler-Saylor: ”Bro, if this goes in, I might actually cry. Izan doesn’t deserve this. None of them do. It’s always us.”

Even rival fans found themselves torn, half rejoicing, half grudgingly reverent.

@Nameyelus:”So is this how it ends?”

@Anfernee Artis:”Hate him, love him, Izan Miura just gave us a Champions League final for the ages. Whatever happens, this one’s already immortal.”

Back inside the Allianz, the weight of the moment sank over the pitch like fog.

Barcelona’s players huddled near the edge of the box, murmuring, while the Arsenal back line lingered near Timber, trying to lift his spirit with small pats on the back that said everything words couldn’t.

”And so,” Drury continued softly, ”the story writes itself in heartbreak. Arsenal, dragged from the brink by the prodigy of their generation, may yet find their dreams undone by the oldest cruelty this sport knows. A ball, a hand, a whistle and perhaps, the end.”

The camera found Izan again, standing at the edge of the box, staring into space.

The crowd behind him shimmered in a blur of colour and noise.

Sweat glistened across his face, catching the floodlights as though his skin itself burned with defiance.

He didn’t say a word.

But the look in his eyes said everything:

If this was fate, he wasn’t done fighting it yet.

”It’s cruel. It’s utterly cruel... but football, sometimes, chooses the hardest roads for those destined to walk them.”

The camera cut once more, the referee holding the ball, pointing to the spot as Barcelona’s penalty taker, in this moment, Ferran Torres, stepped forward, steady, calm.

The noise rose as the tension suffocated the air.

”One kick,” Drury murmured. ”One heartbeat between despair and deliverance.”

Ferran Torres was already walking toward the spot, with the ball in hand.

He set it down, before picking it up gently again, wiping away imaginary specks of dirt as though polishing fate itself.

Around him, the Allianz Arena, every camera, every pair of eyes, was fixed on him.

The referee stood beside him, palm raised, making space.

”Out! Everyone out of the box!” he shouted.

Rice backed away slowly, together with the rest of the players.

Izan stood by the arc, hands on his hips, eyes on Ferran like he was trying to use his gaze to make the player falter.

Ferran rolled his shoulders once, eyes locked on Raya.

No smile, no smirk, just a look of cold focus.

He placed the ball down precisely, aligning the valve with the corner of the goal like he always did.

Then he took six steps back as the referee’s whistle sliced through the air.

And suddenly, silence.

The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.

You could hear the faint flapping of a flag in the upper tiers, the low hum of cameras zooming in.

The Arsenal end was a sea of tense faces, half-praying, half-dreading as Peter Drury’s voice barely rose above a whisper.

”Ferran Torres... with the weight of a city, of history itself... upon his shoulders.”

Ferran began his run-up, slow, deliberate.

His boots brushed softly over the grass, his body language calm to the point of arrogance as Raya leaned slightly forward, reading his hips, trying to find the tell.

And then Ferran did it.

Not a thunderous strike.

Not a blast into the top corner.

A Panenka.

The ball lifted from his boot like a drifting feather, soft, arrogant, and artistic.

It hung in the air for a moment that felt eternal, floating toward the centre of the goal with teasing slowness.

Raya had already gone to his right, a full-body dive, arms outstretched, but halfway through, instinct screamed.

The ball wasn’t flying; it was floating.

His eyes widened mid-air as his brain calculated faster than thought, and then, he slammed his left foot down, hard, anchoring himself against the wet grass.

His dive jerked to a stop, painfully as he twisted his hips mid-motion, a move that should have been impossible, redirecting his weight back the other way.

His body skidded as his gloves reached out, fingertips brushing the faint curve of the ball.

And then, the ball ricocheted awkwardly, kissing the inside of the post.

Clang!

The metallic ring sliced through the silence, followed instantly by a gasp that rolled across the stadium like thunder.

”He’s saved it!” Drury roared as the rebound dropped almost kindly, but Raphinha was already charging in from the edge of the box, his eyes wild, and seeing the trophy in front of him, he swung with everything, one clean, ruthless strike.

But Gabriel Magalhães was there.

His slide tore a line through the grass, boots scraping, as his shin met the ball with a dull thud.

It cannoned off him, spinning away across the goalmouth, before Rice booted it clear with a roar that split the air.

And suddenly, it was chaos.

The Arsenal end exploded.

Fans who had been on their knees a moment ago were now on their feet, screaming, crying, and grabbing at strangers.

On the bench, Arteta punched the air with a soundless yell, his coaching staff piling onto each other in disbelief.

Raya was on his knees, hands gripping the turf, his chest heaving as he clutched his left ankle, which he seemed to have sprained.

His teammates swarmed him, Saliba first, Rice right behind, both yelling, ”You madman!” over and over again, but Raya pushed them away, telling them to focus.

”When everything was lost... he turned the clock back! When the gods of football wrote Arsenal’s heartbreak, David Raya tore the script apart! You can’t write this! You can’t!”