God Of football

Chapter 867: 5 OF 6.

The noise from the stadium was still echoing when Enzo Maresca appeared at the edge of the tunnel.

The floodlights behind him poured down in sheets, painting his navy tracksuit in pale silver as he made his way toward the mouth of the corridor.

He didn’t speak, didn’t even glance toward the cameras that crowded near the barrier.

His face was set, a still picture against the blur of reporters waving microphones and pressing closer.

”Enzo! Enzo, a word, please!”

The first voice cracked through the air, followed by another.

”What went wrong out there tonight?”

He kept walking, his steps sharp and deliberate, each one echoing against the concrete as if he was counting the seconds until he could shut the noise out.

”Enzo, do you think the team gave up too early?”

As the latter question came, a camera light flared near his face.

He blinked once, his jaw tightening as his eyes darted toward the source, not a full glare, but enough to send the message.

One of the staff members trailing behind him shifted slightly forward, guiding the reporters away as Maresca brushed past without a word.

You could still hear the crowd above, faint now, the cheers and songs bleeding through the structure.

The tunnel, compared to it, felt cold and metallic.

He reached the turn toward the dressing rooms and disappeared from sight.

The cameras lingered on the entrance for a few seconds longer, waiting for a glimpse, a quote, anything.

But there was only the muffled sound of boots approaching, and this time, it was the players, one after another.

Colwill walked by first, head down, sweat still clinging to his neck.

He didn’t acknowledge anyone, and next came Enzo Fernández, a towel draped over his shoulder, staring straight ahead.

Following the latter was Nkunku, looking tired more than angry, his lips pressed together as he ignored the line of reporters trying to catch his attention.

But none of them stopped.

”Christopher, any thoughts on tonight?” one of the journalists asked, stepping slightly into the path.

But it was pointless.

Each man walked past, the weight of the night still heavy on their faces.

Then came Liam Delap.

He looked the youngest of them all in that moment, shirt untucked, socks rolled halfway down, expression caught somewhere between frustration and disbelief.

”Liam,” a female reporter called out gently, her voice cutting through the low murmur. ”Liam, could we just have a quick word?”

He hesitated, and for a moment, he looked back, his gaze drifting toward the tunnel exit that led to the field.

From there, you could still see the lights spilling across the grass, the faint shape of red shirts gathered near the centre circle in small-scale celebration.

”What more do you want me to say?” he said quietly, his voice rough from the match.

”The game said it all, didn’t it?”

He looked at her once, with a sort of tired honesty that left no room for more words.

Then he turned and walked down the tunnel, the soles of his boots echoing off the walls until the sound was swallowed by the distance.

The reporter lowered her mic slowly.

Behind her, the camera stayed on for a moment longer, catching the back of Liam Delap as he made the turn towards the locker room, leaving the corridors bare as the last batch of Chelsea’s bench passed by.

...

Back in the ESPN studios, the three pundits just sat there, looking at each other, their expressions a mix of disbelief and amusement.

The kind of look people gave when it felt like they were intruding on something they weren’t supposed to see.

A soft, drawn-out sigh escaped from the middle chair as the host leaned back and rubbed a hand over his face.

”You know...” he began slowly, his tone weary but light, ”I feel like I’ve just watched something I probably wasn’t supposed to watch.”

That broke the tension as the two analysts on either side burst into laughter, shaking their heads.

”I mean,” the one on the right said between chuckles, ”six–nil. Six.”

As he spoke, the scoreline appeared on the screen behind them in bold: CHELSEA 0 – 6 ARSENAL.

They all turned to glance at it, and the host gave a quiet whistle.

”It looks ridiculous even seeing it written there,” he said, gesturing toward the display.

”That doesn’t look in the least like a semi-final scoreline. That’s something you see in pre-season when one side’s still finding their fitness.”

”Yeah,” the pundit on the left chimed in, still half-laughing.

”I thought we were getting a contest tonight, a proper heavyweight clash. But that wasn’t a contest. That was a demolition job. They made our predictions look useless.”

”An education,” the host added, his lips curling slightly as he nodded. ”A full ninety-minute masterclass.”

They sat there for a beat, each of them s

haking their heads again, the absurdity of it still sinking in.

The third pundit leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk.

”And whoever comes out of that other semi, Real Madrid or PSG,” he said, pausing for effect, ”they’d better have been watching this very closely. Because that,” he gestured vaguely toward the scoreboard behind them, ”that’s what’s waiting for them.”

That drew another round of quiet laughter, half in admiration, half in disbelief.

”Honestly,” the host said, grinning now, ”I don’t even know what to say anymore. Arsenal have just ripped a new coat for Chelsea, and it is something I never thought I wanted to see.”

He straightened his notes, trying to gather himself.

”Alright, we’ll get into the analysis soon, but before that,” He looked toward the camera with a small smile.

”Luckily for us, we’ve managed to grab a quick word with the man of the hour himself.”

The two pundits perked up immediately.

”Oooooooh,” one of them said, leaning forward in mock suspense. ”Here we go.”

The other chuckled. ”Izan, huh? I can’t wait to hear what he’s got to say after that.”

”Yeah,” the host laughed softly, ”I’m sure if anyone saw this coming, it would be him, afterall, he led this demolition job.”

The camera feed shifted as the picture on the main screen changed, cutting to the tunnel area, where one of the network’s female reporters stood waiting, mic in hand.

A ripple of noise could still be heard from the stadium behind her.

Then, from the left side of the frame, Izan walked into view, calm, collected, his shirt still slightly damp, the faint glimmer of sweat catching the light.

The broadcast cut to her just as she turned to greet him, mic raising slightly.

”Izan! Congratulations on a stunning performance!” she beamed, her voice cutting through the noise.

Izan offered a small smile and a nod, his voice low and polite. ”Thank you.”

She laughed lightly.

”And I’ve got to say, I love your British accent. It’s such a surprise, especially from someone who’s supposed to be Spanish.”

That drew a genuine grin from him, a little sheepish.

”I’ve lived here long enough, I guess,” he said, his tone modest, but with that hint of charm that always seemed to slip through when he wasn’t trying.

”A year isn’t that long, Izan,” the reporter chuckled and turned toward the camera, gesturing slightly as a member of the crew handed Izan a small earpiece.

”Alright, let’s bring in the guys from the studio,” she said, her eyes flicking to Izan with a teasing smile.

”They’ve got a few questions for you, if you’re ready.”

He nodded. ”Sure.”

A short pause followed—the faint hum of the connection, and then a familiar voice came through the line, half-laughing already.

”Izan, be honest with us, are you a sadist?”

Izan blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching as the reporter beside him tried to suppress a laugh.

”No,” he said with an amused shrug, ”I don’t think so.”

”Oh, come on,” the voice pressed on, mock-accusing. ”You have to be! Because what on earth was that performance? Five of the six goals were yours!”

That drew laughter from the small crowd of production staff around the pitch, even the camera operator shaking his head.

Izan chuckled softly, looking down as he tried to find the right words.

”I just got into the right spaces,” he replied, trying to sound casual, but that line only made it worse as another voice came in from the studio.

”If taking the ball from midfield, dribbling through the entire Chelsea backline, and putting it in the top corner counts as getting into the right spaces, then I’m going to need those same spaces for my USMNT boys when they play next week.”

The whole pitchside crew burst out laughing, and even Izan couldn’t help but double over slightly, one hand covering his mouth as he laughed into the mic.

When he finally caught his breath, he looked back toward the camera with a grin.

”Then I think your boys might have to train a bit harder for those spaces,” he said, smiling faintly.