God Of football

Chapter 842: Calm As You Like.

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.

Komi groaned, tossing a piece of popcorn into her mouth.

”You actually jinxed it. She literally jinxed it.”

Miranda didn’t even look up.

”You should trademark it.”

Hori slumped back on the couch as the tension in the broadcast climbed again, the sound of the Philadelphia crowd bleeding through the speakers.

The referee placed the ball on the spot, stepping back as the noise built into a storm.

The Hernandez living room fell silent.

....

Back in Philadelphia, under the floodlights and the thick, electric hum of the Lincoln Financial Field crowd, Vinícius Jr. picked himself up off the turf with a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He didn’t bother arguing or gesturing; he simply walked over to the penalty spot, scooped up the ball, and turned to Kylian Mbappé, handing it to him with a simple, knowing nod.

Mbappé met his eyes and gave a small clap on the back of Vinícius’s neck, murmuring, ”Appreciate it,” before setting the ball down.

He crouched slightly, rolling it just enough to find the perfect groove in the grass.

The stadium’s noise began to swell again as Real Madrid’s white-clad supporters, scattered throughout the stands, were already on their feet, camera flashes flickering like tiny lightning bolts.

The ESPN commentator’s voice came in over the broadcast, smooth but laced with anticipation.

”Here’s Mbappé, cool as ever, stepping up to take the penalty. You can feel the confidence around him. He doesn’t usually miss these... and you get the sense, neither team can afford for him to.”

Raya bounced on his line, hands out, trying to read something in Mbappé’s body language.

The Frenchman straightened, took three light steps back, eyes locked on the ball as the crowd noise reached a crescendo.

Then, with a short run-up, Mbappé drove through it.

A thunderclap of a strike, fast, precise, unstoppable, slicing high and hard into the top left corner.

Raya dove the right way but was nowhere near it, sending the net bulging as the Real Madrid fans exploded in noise, and the Frenchman was already turning away, his arms spread in that familiar, composed celebration, chin raised, chest forward amid the chaos before folding his arms back.

”Whoooh”, the mics and cameras near the pitch caught Mbappe roaring as Vinícius sprinted over first, followed by Bellingham and Valverde.

The rest of the team mobbed them near the corner flag, laughter and shouts lost in the crowd’s roar.

Even the Arsenal fans couldn’t help but applaud at the penalty, something that had been deemed easy by people on the sidelines, but only those who had graced the pitch knew the pressures that came with a task like that.

”And just like that,” one of the commentators called as the ESPN commentary rolled in again, ”Real Madrid take the lead! Kylian Mbappé, ruthless, clinical, inevitable! You knew it the moment he stepped up. Arsenal trail one-nil here in Philadelphia.”

Near the touchline, Mikel Arteta was already clapping, not in frustration but in command, gesturing firmly toward the midfield.

”Shake it off! Let’s go again!” he shouted, voice sharp but steady.

The Arsenal players began jogging back to their positions as Odegaard called out something to Rice, who nodded tightly.

Saliba and Gabriel exchanged quick words, tightening their line.

You could see the sting in their faces, but they quickly did away with that.

As Mbappé and his teammates drifted back toward their half, still smiling and slapping hands, the Arsenal players gathered in their small clusters as the referee signalled for the restart.

The stadium noise thinned into a buzz again as the whistle blew, and play resumed.

The next thirty minutes unfolded like a prizefight, fast, tactical, and just a little cruel.

Arsenal, stung but unshaken, began to find their rhythm again.

Declan Rice dropped deeper between the centre-backs, pulling the strings in transition, while Ødegaard drifted into those half-spaces he loved, asking questions of the Real Madrid lineup that didn’t know whether to step up or hold their lines.

You could see Arteta’s fingerprints everywhere, a plan recalibrating in real time.

In the 22nd minute, Arsenal almost hit back.

Saka slipped between Fran Garcia and Bellingham, his timing immaculate, before fizzing a low cross across the six-yard box.

Havertz, who had been quiet all game, slid in, studs brushing the ball, but it glanced just wide of the far post, causing the Arsenal crowd in the stadium to gasp.

”Oh, nearly, but nearly is enough to score against Real Madrid.”

The camera caught Arteta clapping again, lips moving fast, encouraging, demanding.

On the other end, Real Madrid responded with something almost cruelly elegant.

Modrić, still dancing through games like time forgot him, lifted a ball over Arsenal’s backline.

Mbappé darted onto it, cutting inside Saliba before unleashing a curling shot, only for Raya to stretch every muscle in his frame and tip it past the post.

The Real Madrid bench stood, half ready to celebrate, but got stunned by the save as the ESPN commentary cracked through the noise.

”Brilliant from Mbappé... and an even better stop from Raya! That’s fingertip stuff right there and Arsenal still alive, but they’re walking a fine line.”

”Yeah, they are,” his co-commentator called it, ”but Real Madrid haven’t been let off either. They would have surely conceded had Havertz poked the chance from Saka well enough.”

Before the game could continue, the referee signalled for a water break, giving the players a little bit of time to re-cuperate as the clock his the 27th minute mark, but even after the restart, the tempo didn’t slow.

Arsenal pressed high now, almost angry at the scoreline.

Ødegaard and Martinelli combined beautifully down the left, exchanging a quick one-two that left Alexander Arnold scrambling.

Ødegaard, who had gotten the last touch, pulled it back across the box, where Mikel Merino arrived late, but his first-time effort sailed over the bar, a frustrated shout escaping his lips as he jogged back.

Moments later, Real Madrid countered with frightening speed.

A misplaced pass from Rice found Bellingham, who immediately flicked it wide to Vinícius.

The Brazilian didn’t need a second invitation.

He tore down the left touchline, shifting gears like a sprinter, before cutting inside and threading a perfect pass toward Mbappé.

But Gabriel timed his tackle perfectly, sliding in to nick the ball away at the last heartbeat, the sound of studs scraping turf echoing beneath the roar of the stands.

”Top-tier defending from Gabriel!” one commentator shouted.

”An example of a textbook tackle. He read that like a book. Mbappé was through on goal, and if he mistimed that by half a second, it would have been detrimental to Arsenal’s hopes and morale at the juncture.”

The crowd, regardless of allegiance, applauded.

It was football at its most frantic, two sides trading blows, each refusing to blink.

By the 35th minute, Arsenal had another golden chance.

Saka, the hotspot of Arsenal’s attack, drifted inside, playing a delicate chipped ball over Madrid’s line for Martinelli.

The Brazilian brought it down with a velvet touch before he slipped past Trent and drove a shot low toward the near post, but Asencio, standing in for Rudiger, read it well, throwing his body in the way to send the ball out for a corner.

You could see Saka smirk, raising a hand as if to say, Next one.

The next ten minutes were a blur, Madrid weaving triangles through midfield, Arsenal snapping back with counters that had real menace but ultimately failed to put the ball into the back of the net.

Vinícius, on the other hand and as electric as ever, clipped the crossbar from a tight angle after some dazzling footwork, while on the other end, Ødegaard’s curling effort from twenty yards forced another full-stretch save.

”This has been end-to-end football, ladies and gentlemen. No signs of fatigue, no signs of caution, just pure quality from both sides. Real Madrid with the edge on the scoreboard, but Arsenal aren’t going anywhere.”

And they weren’t.

When the clock hit 45, the referee glanced at his watch.

Mbappé tried one last through ball toward Bellingham, but Saliba stepped across him with that calm arrogance only great defenders have.

He rolled it back to Raya, who looked up, held the ball in his gloves for a moment, and then booted it downfield, before the whistle followed soon after.

Halftime.

”It’s the first 45 here at the Lincoln Financial Field and currently, Real Madrid are leading, courtesy of the early minute penalty won by Vinicius and converted by Mbappe.”

On the pitch, the players trudged toward the tunnel, sweat glistening, the scoreboard reading Real Madrid 1–0 Arsenal.

But it didn’t feel decided.

Not even close.