God Of football

Chapter 869: Kylian’s Karma.

The next day, the tunnel that led through the underbelly of the MetLife Stadium felt like it was breathing with the crowd above.

The faint vibration of thousands of feet and voices carried through the concrete, a low thunder rolling above their heads as the Arsenal squad walked through the dim corridor.

The players were dressed in their white Adidas shirts marked with the Arsenal crest and slim black trousers.

Their trainers squeaked faintly against the polished floor as the hallway curved upward toward the stands.

The echo of the crowd grew clearer with every step while snippets of chants, camera shutters, and the thump of bass from the stadium speakers filled the air.

Bukayo Saka, walking beside Izan, nudged him with his shoulder and grinned.

”So,” he began casually, ”where’d you disappear to last night? Everyone was looking for you after we got back.”

Izan looked ahead, hands tucked loosely into his pockets.

”My family came to watch the game,” he said, glancing briefly toward him.

”We just went out to get dinner after.”

Saka smirked, raising his brows in mock suspicion.

”Dinner, huh?” He stretched out the word, his grin widening.

”Sure, it wasn’t just a date that ran till midnight?”

Izan turned his head, pretending to look unimpressed before reaching out and poking Saka in the cheek.

”You think too much,” he said, and gave him a small shove that sent him stumbling playfully a few steps away.

Saka chuckled, shaking his head, still teasing under his breath as they reached the ramp leading up to the opening of the stadium.

The light hit them first, the bright wash of the pitch under the afternoon glow with the floodlights, still beaming down on two of the biggest clubs in world football.

Real Madrid players in pure white warmed up on one side while PSG’s navy and red moved on the other.

The sound hit next: a roar of cheers as the Arsenal players began to emerge from one of the high tunnels, climbing toward the upper rows reserved for them.

The crowd caught sight of them and soon a ripple of excitement, like a challenge, began rolling through the stands.

Saka and Nwaneri led the way, laughing quietly about something.

Behind them, Rice and Ødegaard exchanged a few words, pointing towards Dani Ceballos on the ground.

The rest of the team spread out as they reached their section, taking in the sight of the pitch below.

The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation, Champions of England watching potential opponents for the final.

Arteta followed closely behind, hands clasped behind his back.

He scanned the players as they took their seats, his expression calm but sharp.

”Alright, lads,” he said, his voice carrying enough weight to hush their chatter and the noise around them.

”You’re not here for entertainment. You’re here to learn. Watch both sides closely because this could be who you face next.”

His gaze lingered on Saka and Nwaneri, both trying not to look guilty even though they hadn’t said anything yet.

”That includes you two,” he added pointedly, before taking his seat a row below them beside Carlos Cuesta and Albert Stuivenberg.

As Arteta settled in, the Jumbotron above flickered to life, capturing the Arsenal section.

The camera zoomed in on their faces, prompting an eruption of cheers from the crowd.

The players straightened slightly, a few offering awkward waves and smiles.

Nwaneri grinned widely while Calafiori gave a small nod, and Saka, unsurprisingly, pretended to pose, drawing a bit of laughter from the fans and from his mates as well as from the players on the pitch.

Up on the big screen, the caption appeared: ”In attendance: Arsenal – Club World Cup Finalists.”

The stadium buzzed louder, the chant of ”We are coming!” echoing faintly from what seemed to be the Real Madrid crowd and ”It is coming, Paris,” also rolling from the other side of the arena, the Paris Saint-Germain side.

Down on the pitch, a few of the Real Madrid players glanced upward, shielding their eyes from the after-glow of the sun as they spotted them.

Jude, waving towards the stands, gave a small nod while Mbappé, stretching on the opposite side, looked up once before turning away, jaw set.

Then the announcer’s voice boomed through the PA system, rich and dramatic.

”Ladies and gentlemen, joining us tonight, your Club World Cup finalists... Arsenal!”

The cheers grew once more, the camera sweeping past their section before cutting back to the pitch.

The jumbotron returned to the pre-match coverage, the noise settling back into the steady rhythm of expectation.

Up in their seats, the Arsenal players leaned back, conversations softening as their eyes turned toward the field under the MetLife lights, the cheers rising once again over their heads.

...

The whistle hadn’t even settled in the air when Real Madrid came charging.

From kickoff, Modrić took two touches before rolling it wide to Valverde, who was already motoring down the right.

His cross zipped in behind PSG’s line, where Mbappé ghosted between Marquinhos and Lucas Beraldo, cushioning it on his chest.

For a split second, the crowd rose, sensing the inevitable, but Mbappé’s shot, low and curling, clipped the inside of the post and rolled agonizingly across the goalmouth before Donnarumma clawed it out.

The stadium gasped in unison, white shirts flooding the box as the rebound was cleared, while the commentator’s voice cut through the rising noise on the broadcast.

”Real Madrid wasting no time at all! And if that’s anything to go by, it could be a long night for Paris’s defence.”

The camera panned briefly toward the Arsenal section, where a few players leaned forward, already engrossed.

Arteta, once his arms folded, didn’t move once, eyes keenly settled on the players below him.

—

Hours later, the night had settled heavily and quietly over East Rutherford, New Jersey, in the Big York.

The glow of the MetLife Stadium was now far behind as Arsenal’s convoy of black vans hummed down the wide, empty road back to their hotel.

Inside one of the vans, the mood was loose, some players already trying to get some shut-eye on the short distance back to the hotel, but Saka’s laughter broke the quiet.

It came suddenly and loudly, causing his mates to turn towards him, wondering what had caused the sudden outburst.

He was hunched over his phone, shaking with laughter, trying and failing to compose himself.

”Bro, what’s funny?” Nwaneri asked from beside him, blinking through his own tiredness.

Saka waved a hand, still laughing.

”Nah, nah—sorry, sorry,” he said, gasping between chuckles.

”The memes, man. The memes are too good.”

The others exchanged glances, half amused, half confused, while Izan, sitting a few seats away, looked up from his phone with a faint grin.

”Memes about what?”

Saka could barely get the words out through his laughter.

”About Mbappé!” he said, shaking his head.

”Imagine leaving a club to win trophies, yeah? Then in your first season, you lose everything. No league, no Champions League, no nothing. You lose four El Clásicos in a row, and then—” He broke into laughter again, clutching his stomach. ”—you get battered 4-0 by your former club in a Club World Cup semi-final!”

The van erupted.

Even the driver’s shoulders shook as he tried to keep steady on the road.

Nwaneri slapped his knee, laughing.

”Nah, that’s evil! Mbappé really has it tough right now.”

Saka leaned his head back against the window, still laughing.

”I swear, man, this has to be karma. Man must’ve hurt someone in a past life, probably broke some girl’s heart so bad, the football gods took it personally.”

Izan chuckled softly, shaking his head.

”You’re going to get cancelled one day, you know that?”

”Maybe,” Saka said, grinning widely, ”but at least I’ll be right when it happens.”

The laughter slowly faded into small snickers, before erupting again after Saka spoke about another meme on how Mbappe might and will most definitely watch Izan win the Ballon d’Or before he does.

The van rolled quietly through the dimly lit streets, the low hum of the engine filling the silence.

As they neared the hotel, conversation drifted into murmurs.

Phones dimmed, shoulders slumped.

Saka, now half-dozing, mumbled one last line, still smiling faintly.

”Man... Mbappé just can’t catch a break.”

The van slowed to a stop outside the hotel entrance as the others followed behind, headlights pulling up one after another in a slow, quiet procession.

The doors slid open, and the players stepped out into the soft chill of the night, a few yawns breaking out as the last of them got out of the van.

Inside, the lobby lights were warm and golden and one by one, the players filed in, their laughter from the ride replaced by the soft shuffle of tired feet and the low murmur of some of the players asking Arteta if they could eat dinner late so they could get some more minutes in their naps.