God Of football

Chapter 827: Arrival. [Dragon: CoolVamp]

While the players were in the sky, a post from an Arsenal fan quickly caught attention, and beneath it were similar comments or vile ones from rival clubs.

@NorthBankSoul

Woke up this morning feeling good... can’t tell why though.

Maybe it’s ’cause we just won the real treble.

Four trophies. One season.

And the fifth? #CWC loading.

#Arsenal #ChampionsOfEurope

Top Comments:

@gooner_by_blood:

Best sleep I’ve had in years, brother. I still can’t believe it. The real treble, not that ”community shield counts” nonsense.

@COYG_Marcus:

We actually did it. Arteta, you beautiful man. Izan, you absolute alien.

@InvincibleEra:

I’m still crying, not even gonna lie. This club put us through everything and then gave us that.

@ItsMeixzi:

Went to bed after Barca went 4–2 up in the 86th minute... woke up and Arsenal somehow won without extra time. Watched the replay, that goal from Izan? I don’t care what anyone says, that’s not normal. Are we all gonna pretend he’s not some kind of experiment?

@BlueBridgeLad:

You lot enjoy it now. Next season, it’s back to reality.

@NorthLondonIsRed:

Said the same thing after we won the Carabao. That we were going to bottle everything. How is that going for you?

@Lilitha_Siko:

As much as it hurts to say this... that goal was filthy. The keeper didn’t even know what hit him.

@FootyNerd101:

”Goal of the century” might not even be enough. The power, the vision, the moment, and from halfway?! Unreal.

@TottenhamTillIDie:

Cool story, but when’s your open-top bus parade through Holloway Road? We just lifted the Europa League, mind you.

While the normal fans bickered, a post from Arsenal’s camp, specifically, a player, caused the outrage to spill more.

@Nwaneri10(verified)

—posted a photo—

[Image: Nwaneri asleep on the plane, Champions League trophy hugged against his chest, one eye slightly open.]

Caption: You can keep your Europa League. This is how we sleep.

Tagged: @SpursOfficial

@SpursOfficial:

At least we didn’t have to buy a wonderkid from another planet to win ours.

@ArsenalHQ:

At least you finally won something since dial-up internet.

@Gooner_Milly:

He really tagged them mid-flight. Man is living rent-free in N17.

@ChelseaPainHub:

The Premier League ain’t ready for the parade next week. London traffic is about to be red for a month.

@COYG_Pete:

This admin needs to sleep; it’s been 24 hours since the final, and we’re still cooking Spurs.

@BarcaDNA:

You guys deserved it... But that goal still hurts.

@Izan_HighlightsFan:

Barcelona’s defence thought the whistle had already gone. Turns out Izan was just writing the ending himself.

By the afternoon, the post had climbed to the top of every trending chart.

Four trophies, a broken curse, and a fanbase that had waited decades, now completely unleashed.

...

Zinchenko stirred awake as the seatbelt sign blinked off.

The cabin lights were low, the late London morning bleeding faintly through the aircraft windows.

He yawned, stretching before reaching up to pull his luggage from the overhead compartment, still rubbing sleep from his eyes.

”Why does Nwaneri look like he just got dumped?” he asked groggily, glancing toward the aisle where Ethan sat slumped, chin resting on his hand, the picture of teenage despair.

Odegaard, buckling his jacket, chuckled under his breath.

”Leave him, Zinch. He’s sulking ’cause he didn’t get what he wanted, yet.”

”What did he want that he hasn’t gotten yet?” Zinchenko frowned.

Before Odegaard could answer, Nwaneri suddenly sprang upright, throwing his arms in the air.

”This was the moment!” he cried, half serious, half dramatic.

”The one perfect chance to rub it in the faces of those Chelsea and Spurs supporters! I even made a post to start it. But nooo, we’re waiting three days for the parade!”

He slapped his knees in frustration.

”Three whole days! The earlier the better, that’s how it should’ve been!”

Across the aisle, Saka burst out laughing, shaking his head.

”You’re actually ridiculous.”

He reached up, grabbed Nwaneri’s carry-on bag, and hurled it toward him.

The bag thudded softly against the teenager’s chest.

”Here, cry into that instead.”

The players nearby chuckled as Nwaneri mumbled something unintelligible under his breath.

Arteta, who had just stood up from his seat near the front, exchanged a knowing glance with Izan as they began to move toward the exit.

”Alright, let’s go, lads,” he said, voice calm but warm.

Then, glancing back at the young midfielder, he added, ”Ethan, since Odegaard looks half asleep, why don’t you bring the trophy down?”

At once, Nwaneri’s expression transformed, gloom replaced by a spark of delight.

”Me?”

Arteta gave a small nod, gesturing toward the overhead locker where the Champions League trophy sat safely packed in its carry case.

Nwaneri grinned, swinging his bag over his shoulder as he stepped forward, unzipping the case carefully.

The silver gleam hit his eyes like sunlight.

With both hands, he lifted the trophy from its protective foam cradle, and for a brief moment, the cabin went still, every player watching one of the youngest among them cradle the prize they had all bled for.

As they walked through the narrow jetway tunnel, the muffled roar from outside grew louder.

Fans who had somehow found out their flight details were gathered beyond the barriers, holding flags and banners, chanting even at dawn.

Nwaneri stepped out first, trophy in hand, and the second the metal caught the open-air light, the flashes came, a wave of camera shutters, reporters shouting, fans cheering through the barriers.

The trophy’s polished surface caught the morning sun, scattering shards of brilliance across the concrete.

Nwaneri froze for a second, wide-eyed, before instinct took over.

He raised the trophy high above his head, his grin stretching from ear to ear, then pressed a quick kiss to its rim, sending the crowd into a frenzy.

Click. Click. Flash.

Behind him, Saka laughed, shaking his head again.

”Three days late or not,” he muttered, ”he got his moment.”

And as the cameras flashed and the chants of ”Champions of Europe!” echoed through Heathrow, it was clear that the celebrations had only just begun.

.....

”See you soon, Mom,” Izan said softly into his phone, smiling faintly as Komi’s voice on the other end faded with warmth.

He tucked the device into his pocket just as the familiar outline of London Colney came into view through the tinted bus window.

The complex glistened faintly under the glass panels catching light like a waking giant.

The team bus rolled through the gates and pulled to a halt by the training center entrance.

Players began to gather their bags and belongings, tired, half-silent, but carrying that quiet, satisfied energy only champions know.

Izan slung his duffel over his shoulder and followed Arteta out while Nwaneri walked beside him, still visibly buzzing from the airport spotlight earlier.

The automatic doors parted, and the cool air of the facility greeted them.

Inside, waiting near the central lobby, stood Josh Kroenke, dressed sharply but with a looseness that hinted at a sleepless night of celebration, alongside Arsenal’s new sporting director, Andrea Berta.

Both men turned as the group entered, smiles breaking out across their faces.

Josh stepped forward first, giving Arteta a firm handshake before addressing the players.

”Gentlemen,” he began, his voice even but filled with pride, ”you’ve done something extraordinary. Not just for this club, but for everyone who’s worn this badge. You’ve—”

”WHAT ABOUT BONUSES?!”

The outburst came from the back, predictably, from Ethan Nwaneri, who had already slipped behind Zinchenko and Gabriel before shouting.

The room froze for half a second, then burst into laughter.

Josh blinked, then exhaled a laugh of his own, shaking his head.

”That,” he said, grinning, ”will be coming soon.”

A few players whooped and cheered, clapping Nwaneri on the back as he grinned smugly, satisfied that he’d asked what everyone else was thinking.

Josh motioned toward the case by the wall, the one reserved for the club’s greatest honors.

Slowly, reverently, he lifted the Champions League trophy from its travel box, its polished silver catching every drop of light in the room.

He placed it carefully into the display case, the Arsenal crest reflecting faintly across its surface.

”Hopefully,” he said, his tone softening, ”this won’t be the last.”

There was a quiet murmur among the players, before Josh nodded toward Berta.

The two men gave the group one final nod of appreciation and made their way out of the room, the door shutting softly behind them.

For a brief moment, the silence hung heavy, the sort of silence that only comes when triumph starts to truly settle in.

Then Arteta turned around, clapping his hands once.

”Alright, everyone. Go home. Sleep. You’ve earned it.”

His gaze moved toward Nwaneri, who was already smirking at something.

”And I’ll see you all in three days.”

That caught Nwaneri’s attention immediately.

He rubbed his hands together like a plotting cartoon villain, grin spreading.

”Three days, yeah?”

Arteta rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless. ”Three days, Ethan. Don’t make me regret saying it.”

The players laughed, dispersing toward the exits.