God Of football

Chapter 844: Called Upon.

Vinícius burst forward with that signature, elastic stride, light on his toes, heavy on intent, slipping past Ben White with a flick of speed that drew a surge of noise from the Real Madrid supporters packed behind the goal.

A wall of white flags rippled in rhythm with his run, the chants swelling as if the entire end of the stadium leaned forward with him.

”Cover!” Declan Rice’s shout sliced through the air, his arm outstretched as he tracked the play, but his voice was drowned under the swell of Madrid’s cheers.

And then, just as Vinícius shaped his body to drive into the box, a sudden streak of red and white flashed across the scene.

Bukayo Saka, sprinting from deep, slid in with perfect timing.

His tackle was surgical, no hesitation, no foul, just a crisp clip off Vinícius’s shin as the ball spun out toward the sideline, tumbling neatly over the line.

The Madrid end groaned, their celebration cut short, while Arsenal’s travelling supporters erupted into approving applause.

Even the players on the bench lifted slightly, hands clapping, before settling down as the game was set to be restarted with a throw for Arsenal.

”Brilliant recovery from Saka! He’s done the hard yards, and that’s exactly the kind of work rate Arteta will love.”

Ben White was already at the line, retrieving the ball and hurling it down the pitch with a throw that barely spun.

Ødegaard met it mid-bounce, his touch light as breath, instantly flicking it across the field, a little piece of arrogance disguised as efficiency.

The ball drifted to Martinelli, who took off the second it hit his boot.

He blazed down the left flank, his gait frantic and graceful all at once, the Arsenal fans behind him roaring with every stride.

Valverde lunged in but was brushed aside with a neat shoulder feint before Martinelli darted inside, eyes snapping toward the box.

Havertz was making a delayed run from the right, trying to slip behind Alaba, but the Austrian was clinging to him, arm across the German’s chest, stalling the move.

The hesitation cost Martinelli.

He shaped his body to shoot, one touch, two, but Jude Bellingham, gliding back with that effortless stride of his, timed it perfectly.

With one sweeping motion, he nicked the ball from behind, sending Martinelli, who had followed through with the swing, tumble down, the loose ball rolling into Jude’s grasp.

The gasp from the Arsenal end turned to collective frustration, while Bellingham, without even looking back, carried the ball away with the same calm assurance that had defined his rise.

”Madrid win it back again, courtesy of Jude Bellingham,” the commentator’s voice rolled through with a mix of admiration and tension, tightening every word.

Almost on cue, Bellingham, cool as you like, pivoted on one foot and slipped a pass to the right flank, smooth, measured, almost lazy in how simple he made it look.

Trent Alexander-Arnold was already tearing down that side, ghosting into the overlap like he’d seen the play two seconds ahead of everyone else.

The crowd lifted with his stride, expecting something.

Trent reached the ball, let it settle under his boot, then slowed,

He lifted his head, eyes darting across the sea of bodies in Arsenal’s box, before he gave the ball one more teasing nudge forward, adjusted his stance, and then, with that old-school Beckham swagger in his delivery, he swung his right foot through the ball.

It wasn’t a cross.

It was an invitation.

The ball bent and dipped perfectly between Arsenal’s defensive line and the keeper, making both parties hesitate, wondering which was getting to it, but one man who didn’t have any such problem was Gonzalo García, who ghosted in from behind the Arsenal defensive line.

The young Spaniard threw himself forward, almost parallel to the ground, arms flailing for balance and forehead meeting the ball cleanly, a textbook diving header.

For a split second, it looked destined.

The Real Madrid fans were already half out of their seats, but Raya reacted like lightning.

The keeper flung himself left, hands strong, palming the ball away in midair.

It ricocheted back to the edge of the box, where Valverde was lurking like a predator.

He drew his leg back like a medium-sized slingshot and then moulded the ball to fit his boots.

”Valverdeeeee!!”

Raya barely had time to reset as he pushed himself upright and threw his body at the shot.

It caught him square in the abdomen with a hollow thump that seemed to suck all the air from his lungs.

The ball spun away for a corner, while Raya stumbled back, then went down to his knees, his gloves pressed against his stomach.

”Goodness me!” the lead commentator burst in, his tone a mix of awe and concern.

”David Raya again, that’s two big stops in the space of seconds! He’s saved Arsenal there, but he’s clearly taken that one full force from Valverde. That’s a rocket to the ribs if I’ve ever seen one.”

His co-commentator added, ”That’s what Fede does, no hesitation, no mercy. But Raya’s reactions... that’s pure instinct.”

The camera panned in close with Raya grimacing, chest heaving as the medics sprinted onto the pitch, one kneeling beside him while another gestured for water.

A soft murmur rolled through the stands, a mix of clapping for the keeper’s bravery and anxious chatter.

”Let’s hope he’s alright,” the commentator continued, voice softening.

”He’s been outstanding tonight and Arsenal will be desperate to see him back on his feet.”

And as the medics checked his breathing and he nodded that he was fine, the pent-up breaths held up in the lungs and throats of the Arsenal fans were all released.

The Arsenal supporters broke into applause as Raya finally got to his feet.

It wasn’t just polite clapping.

It was a surge of appreciation, a collective sigh of relief.

”It seems he is okay after that hit and will continue. What a durable keeper,” one of the commentators said with a chuckle as the keeper raised one gloved hand to acknowledge them while the medics gave him the all-clear and jogged off the pitch.

He reached for a bottle, squeezed a mouthful of water between his lips, swirled it, and spat it straight out onto the turf.

Then he rolled his shoulders, took a few deep breaths, and walked back toward his line.

Real Madrid were already setting up for the corner.

Trent stood over the ball, motioning with his fingers to where he wanted it, an inward whip toward the six-yard box.

The tension was back, thick as fog.

And immediately the whistle followed, Trent curled it in with that trademark precision, the ball swinging dangerously through the crowd of shirts.

But Raya stepped forward, muscles tense, and leapt, commanding and clean as the ball stuck to his gloves like glue.

”Safe hands again from Raya!” the commentator called out. ”Brilliant claim under pressure.”

But Raya wasn’t done.

He landed, looked up, and immediately spotted Martinelli bursting into open space on the far left.

The counter was on.

He took a few steps forward and flung the ball with everything he had, except, for once, it didn’t go where it should’ve.

The throw drifted awkwardly, landing in no man’s land, right between Saliba, himself, and Kylian Mbappé.

”Oh, what has he done? That’s a loose one!” the co-commentator fired off, rushing to describe the scene. ”That’s trouble!”

Every sound in the stadium blurred into one rising roar as all three men broke into a sprint.

But everyone watching already knew how this race ended.

Mbappé’s acceleration hit like a lightning strike, two strides and he was past Saliba, poking the ball through the narrowest of gaps under Raya’s arm before the keeper could even dive.

The ball rolled across the goal and found Gonzalo García, wide open on the left side of the goal, and there was no way he was missing the easiest finish one could ever have.

GOOOOOAAAAALLLL!!!!!!

”Two–nil! Real Madrid double their lead!”

The Lincoln Financial Field erupted, white shirts bouncing, flags waving, and García wheeled away, arms wide, face lit with disbelief and joy as he sprinted toward the corner flag.

His teammates poured after him, Mbappé first, then Vinicius, Jude, and even Dean Huijsen from deep.

”Madrid punishes the mistake! Mbappé with the burst, García with the finish, the La Fábrica prodigy scores the easiest goal of his young career! Arsenal’s high just came crashing down in seconds!”

The cameras caught Raya on his knees, eyes shut, muttering something under his breath, frustration, maybe a curse, maybe just disbelief.

Saliba reached down, patting him on the shoulder, murmuring a quiet, ”Forget it, we go again.”

But across the pitch, Real Madrid’s bench was a scene of chaos, players off their seats, Xabi Alonso clapping hard with that half-smile that gave nothing away but satisfaction.

In the stands, the chants began to roll again, ”¡Madrid! ¡Madrid!”, shaking the air as the scoreboard blinked to 2–0.

[Arsenal’s Bench]

”Izan, you’re on”