God Of football

Chapter 841: Football’s Poster Boy.

”Welcome to Philadelphia, in what is supposed to be an enthralling fixture. For those of you who have stumbled upon this broadcast in your homes, this is the 3rd group game in group H of the first edition of the expanded Club World Cup.”

The roar inside the Lincoln Financial Field rose like a wave as both teams stepped out from the tunnel, the echo of thousands of voices rolling through the open stadium.

Scarlet red and white mixed with brilliant white and gold across the stands, Arsenal and Real Madrid banners fluttering side by side, while cameras flashed aggressively, trying to encapsulate the moment.

On the ESPN broadcast, the commentary cut through the hum of excitement once again.

”The last time these two sides met,” one of the commentators said, his tone charged with nostalgia, ”was just two months ago in the Champions League, Arsenal beating Real Madrid over two legs to reach the semifinals. And, well... we all remember what happened after that.”

His partner chuckled softly, taking over.

”Oh, absolutely. They beat PSG next, and that final against Barcelona, 5–4, was just ridiculous. It is already being called one of the best games of the decade. Some are even saying it eclipsed the 2022 World Cup final, and to be honest, I agree wholeheartedly. That’s how good it was.”

As the players lined up across the halfway line, the announcer’s voice filled the stadium, rolling out the lineups with theatrical weight.

”Number one, David Raya. Number two, William Saliba. Number four, Ben White, Number six Gabriel Magalhães...”

Each name was met with a mix of cheers and respectful applause, the energy swelling as the Real Madrid players were called next.

Then came a small stir in the commentary booth when the announcer reached Arsenal’s midfield list.

”Number twenty-three, Mikel Merino...”

The first commentator raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with curiosity.

”So, we already saw from the pre-game lineups, but Mikel Merino starts tonight, and Izan... on the bench. That’s an interesting one.”

His co-commentator gave a short laugh.

”A bold call from Arteta, especially against a full-strength Madrid. Look at that front line: Mbappé, Vinícius, and the new additions, Trent Alexander-Arnold slotting in deeper, and Dean Huijsen at the back. That’s as close to a galáctico revival as you’ll get. I do get it, though, since Izan only joined the squad three days ago and has probably gotten only 2 days of training in.”

The camera cut to the Arsenal bench, zooming in on Izan, who had his face half-covered by his black compression turtleneck.

Only his eyes were visible, squinting slightly in what looked like a hidden grin beneath the fabric.

”Speaking of which, there he is,” one of the commentators said, chuckling.

”The kid who can change the pace of any game. You get the feeling we might be seeing him before too long if things start to turn.”

The broadcast cut back to the pitch, where players took their final positions.

Odegaard bent down, touching the turf once before standing upright, telling Martinelli to move a bit farther down Arsenal’s left flank.

Across from him, Mbappé rolled his shoulders, bouncing lightly on his heels as the referee checked both goalkeepers from the halfway line, raised his whistle to his lips, and in the next instant, peeeep!, the match was underway.

The ball rolled, and the roar that followed could’ve powered the floodlights if they were to be needed.

Up in the stands, somewhere near midfield, a group of American fans were still settling into their seats, beers in hand, jerseys mismatched between teams, the kind of crowd that just came for a show.

One of them, a guy in a Phillies cap and sunglasses still on despite the fading daylight, leaned forward and squinted toward the Arsenal bench.

”Yo,” he said over the noise, pointing toward the screen that had just flashed Izan’s face, ”who’s that guy everyone’s chanting for?”

His friend turned slowly, blinking like he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

”...Bruh,” he said flatly, waiting for the punchline to the joke or prank his friend was playing.

But it didn’t come.

The first guy frowned, genuinely confused. ”What?”

”Bruh.”

His friend repeated it, louder this time, dragging it out like he was addressing a lost cause.

Then he leaned closer, his tone shifting from disbelief to pity.

”You don’t know who Izan is? Bro, that’s the kid. He’s like football’s poster boy. Think Lebron for the NBA, but way bigger, even though he just exploded onto the scene just a couple of years back.

The youngest player ever nominated for the Ballon d’Or came second, by the way. Won the Euros with Spain, winning the top scorer award and equally a historical record. Won the quadruple with Arsenal in the season that just concluded. The dude’s basically football’s main character right now, and the main character of the book we are in. How can you not know?”

He stared at his friend, shaking his head slowly.

”Man, you really need to get up to speed. Do you even have social media?”

The first guy just raised his eyebrows, trying to look unimpressed, but before he could defend himself, a sudden roar cut through their section like thunder.

Down on the pitch, Mbappé had just exploded down the left wing, all pace and control, burning past White and Gabriel in one movement.

”That guy, I do know,” the fan in the Phillies cap said, causing his friend to shake his head like he was a lost cause, but it wasn’t all lost if he at least knew Mbappe.

Back on the pitch, Vinícius drifted into the middle, calling for it, his run cutting into the box like a blade through fabric.

But before he could get the shot off, Mikel Merino came sliding in from behind, catching him just enough to bring him down.

The whistle shrieked as the stadium groaned.

”Foul on the edge of the box!” the ESPN commentator called out.

”Merino, a little too eager there, and he’s lucky that wasn’t half a step closer.”

As the referee jogged over, hand raised in warning, the Real Madrid players swarmed around the spot.

Trent Alexander-Arnold jogged over from the right, gesturing to Arda Güler and Mbappé, who were already hovering behind the ball.

The wall lined up, five red shirts standing shoulder to shoulder with Raya barking orders from behind them.

”Go back, go back,” the referee called just as the wall began to encroach on the space in front of them.

After seeing that everything was in order, the referee’s whistle blew.

Güler took a quick glance up as Mbappé and Trent both stutter-stepped forward as if to take it, selling the feint perfectly, and then Güler smashed it, curling his left foot around the ball.

It dipped viciously toward the top corner, but Raya was there, springing to his right, gloves snapping the ball out of the air and clutching it tight against his chest.

”Fantastic save from Raya!” the commentator shouted. ”And that’s a warning from Madrid, they’re not here to play it safe.”

Raya rolled the ball out calmly, resetting play, the Arsenal backline spreading out once more.

”I know a guy who would have made that count,” one of the commentators said, causing them all to break into chuckles.

.....

Back in London, thousands of miles from the roar of Lincoln Financial Field, the evening hum of Hampstead felt almost too calm for what was happening across the Atlantic.

Inside the Hernandez home, the glow of the large screen spilled across the living room, painting soft light on the faces of the people in the couches.

It was just past eight, and Komi shuffled in from the kitchen with a tray of snacks, popcorn, grapes, and chocolate which was eaten, when she willed it.

”What did I miss?” she asked, settling into the couch beside Hori, balancing the tray on her lap.

”Nothing,” Hori said, eyes still fixed on the screen. ”You were gone for, like, twenty seconds.”

But the words had barely left her mouth when Vinícius Jr. drove into the Arsenal box like a flash of white lightning, cutting past White and into Gabriel’s blind spot.

The crowd noise rose, swelling like a warning.

Then, contact.

Vinícius went down. (like the flop he is. [clears throat])

The stadium on the broadcast erupted as the referee’s whistle followed half a heartbeat later, sharp and merciless.

”Penalty!” the ESPN commentator shouted, his voice cutting through the tension in the room.

”And it’s Arsenal hearts in mouths here, Vinícius brought down right as he looked ready to pull the trigger!”

Hori’s jaw dropped.

”You’ve got to be kidding me!”

Komi blinked, still holding her tray, staring at the screen like she couldn’t process how fast everything had turned.

”Wait, I literally just sat down.”

On the far side of the couch, Miranda hadn’t even looked up from her tablet.

She’d been following emails, checking through her digital notes, half-listening to the others’ reactions.

But at Hori’s outburst, she glanced up, saw Vinícius rolling on the grass, and then saw the referee striding confidently into the box, hand pointing straight to the spot.

She sighed, expression dry as ever.

”Your mouth,” she said to Hori, eyes flicking back to the tablet.

”It’s a calamity. Every time you speak, disaster follows.”

Hori turned, half-offended, half-laughing. ”That’s not true!”

But on-screen, the referee was surrounded by protesting Arsenal players, his decision unmoved, and Vinícius was already dusting himself off, waiting for the ball.