God Of football

Chapter 870: Bad Day To Be A Fan.

The morning after the second semi-final was noisy before the sun even had the chance to stretch across Europe.

From Madrid to Marseille, from North London to Naples, the football world woke up with one voice: ”How did it end 4–0?”

A game everyone was expecting to go down to the wire, possibly.

A game that had all the star power, but only one team’s star power came through.

Phones buzzed on nightstands.

Twitter (or X, depending on who you asked) was a riot of laughter, disbelief, and meme warfare.

In Barcelona, cafés opened early, and laughter came free with the morning cortado.

”Real Madrid, trophyless. Kylian Mbappé, finished before he started,” one fan tweeted, attaching a photo of Mbappé’s face edited onto a crying baby wearing a Real Madrid bib.

Within minutes, it had over fifty thousand likes, and so the replies came flooding in.

@ItsMeixzi: Bro left Paris to escape humiliation of not winning the UCL and to possibly win one, only to end up on Real Madrid’s bottle-job timing.

@MadridistaKing:Say that again when you’re not celebrating a pre-season trophy.

@Pistacho031_3:Pre-season? You mean the 3 trophies we beat you four times across the season and three separate tournaments to claim?

The thread exploded, drawing in fans from every corner of Europe.

Some defended Mbappé, but most didn’t.

Every Madrid fan who tried to type something found themselves buried under memes of empty trophy cabinets, Luka Modrić photoshopped with a ”retirement plan” banner, and a looping clip of Bellingham walking off the pitch shaking his head.

By mid-morning, Marca tried to calm things down with an article titled ”A Difficult Year for Real, But The Future Is Bright.”

But that didn’t help either.

The replies under the headline were merciless.

”The future? What, your club bottling everything after signing the supposed best player of the current generation?”

”Bright? The only thing bright is the 4–0 on the scoreboard.”

”Imagine telling us a year ago that Mbappe would join Real Madrid on a free, with a news station telling Barcelona and the world to get ready, only for them to lose 4 El Clásicos in a row, go battered 4-0 by Mbappe’s former club, who were supposed to be the problem back when Mbappe was there, and go trophyless. I am a Barca fan, but I would have bet my balls a year ago that it was impossible.”

Meanwhile, across the Pyrenees, Paris was quiet.

Too quiet.

French outlets went from cautious to defensive overnight.

RMC’s morning show tried to play it cool.

”PSG still have the final,” one host said, flipping through papers. ”And all I can say about that is that they’ve earned the right to be there.”

But even he didn’t sound convinced.

His co-host laughed under her breath.

”Final or not, they looked scary yesterday. And Arsenal were in the stands. You could see it, they were studying.”

Online, PSG fans tried to regroup.

Hashtags like #InLuisWeTrust trended briefly before being hijacked by Arsenal and Barcelona fans with clips of Arteta nodding in the stands, arms folded.

@Tyler Saylor Bro was studying like it’s the end of the world if he loses, even after winning a quadruple. This is the greed they talk about in the bible.

@CoolVamp:Paris serving 4 to Real Madrid, but are about to be the next victims of Arteta’s HaramXIzan ball.

@TxSadz:Who remembers Izan dropping the quote on the Parade that Arsenal would bring the Club World Cup to North London? Gives me the chills now that we are in the final. Bro could be a prophet if this football thing doesn’t work out.

And by noon, Arsenal fans were living it up.

Compilation edits flooded TikTok, ”Road to the Final,” backed by the usual drill beats and overdramatic captions: ”From North London to the World.”

But in the middle of it all, Barcelona fans remained the most vocal; their agenda was simple: mock Madrid at every opportunity.

In one popular clip, a Catalan YouTuber named Xavi Ferrer leaned into the camera, eyes gleaming with mischief.

”Four El Clásicos. Four losses. No league. No Europe. No cups. Nothing. The mighty Madrid, reduced to memes. Mbappé left Paris for trophies, and now Paris is in the final while he’s in bed watching. Football, señores, is beautiful.”

The chat flooded with laughing emojis and comments:

”God bless karma.”

”Madrid tried to buy a dynasty, but they bought disaster.”

”Mbappé’s agent needs to start selling apologies.”

Even neutral fans joined in, Italians, Germans, and even a few from South America.

The tone was unanimous: Real Madrid had fallen, and Europe was feasting.

But in North London, the energy was different.

On a podcast recorded that morning, one host summed it up perfectly.

”Paris are next. Madrid are gone. This is our time. But if we lose... man, the memes will last forever.”

Her co-host laughed. ”Nah, not this team. When was the last time you actually saw Arsenal losing a game? I, for one, can’t really think of one except the first leg of the UCL semi-final. That’s how good this team has become, and with that 17-year-old demon carrying us, you know damn well that this trophy is ours.”

...

The screen dimmed after the last clip played, a Barcelona fan screaming through his phone about Madrid’s ”trophy drought of the decade.”

Saka was lying back on a hotel couch, phone in hand, the reflection of the screen flickering over his grin.

Around him, a few of the Arsenal boys were sprawled across the lounge of their New York hotel in their slides and white socks with snacks on the table and bottles of water everywhere.

Nwaneri leaned forward, laughing as another meme popped up.

”Nah, this one’s mad! Look, look, they put Mbappé’s face on a fish in a tank, and the caption says, ’Left the ocean for a bowl.’”

The room burst out laughing.

”Bro, these fans have no mercy,” Calafiori said, shaking his head, trying not to choke on his protein bar.

”They’ve been cooking him since last night.”

”Deserved, though,” Saka replied, still smiling. ”You can’t lose 4–0 like that and expect silence.”

Even Merino, usually quiet in moments like this, let out a short laugh.

”Spanish media haven’t stopped crying. My uncle texted me this morning, talking like it was World War all over again.”

Saka chuckled again, flipping through a few more posts before putting the phone face down on the table.

The laughter still lingered, but the air softened a little.

The weight of what was next, the final, hung somewhere in the back of their minds, just waiting for one person to say it.

And Saka, of course, did.

He sighed, scratching his neck like someone about to admit something risky.

”Alright, I’m not supposed to say this,” he started, ”but if we lose that final...” He paused, looking around at the faces watching him. ”...we’re cooked. Finished. The internet’s gonna bury us alive.”

The room reacted instantly as a loud groan rolled through the lounge.

Rice threw a pillow at him first.

Then someone’s slide came flying, missing Saka’s shoulder by inches.

”Oi!” he laughed, ducking as another one bounced off the table. ”I’m just being real!”

”Don’t say stuff like that, man,” Saliba said from the corner, deep voice carrying over everyone else’s noise.

”That kind of talk brings bad luck, so if you can’t say anything good, keep it shut. Don’t ruin it for us by jinxing an injury or something.”

The room went half quiet, half amused as Saka put his hands up like he’d been caught stealing biscuits.

”Alright, alright. My bad.”

He stood up from under the table, grinning as another slide whizzed past his leg.

”Relax! I didn’t mean it like that.”

Saliba leaned back, shaking his head.

”Don’t care how you meant it. Just don’t say it.”

”Fine, fine,” Saka said, laughing as he ducked behind a chair for cover.

”I take it back! We’re winning, happy?”

”You better,” Rice said, still smiling, tossing another pillow his way.

”Man’s trying to curse us before kickoff.”

Saka peeked out from behind the chair, both hands raised like a peace offering.

”Alright, alright, I surrender.”

He looked around the room, eyes landing on Izan, who’d been quiet through it all, sitting on the edge of the sofa with his phone in hand.

Saka grinned.

”Alright, future Ballon d’Or,” he said, voice playful but curious.

”You haven’t said anything all night. What do you think? What’s the score gonna be?”

All eyes turned to Izan, wanting to hear what the literal heart of their team had to say about the game.

Izan, on the other hand, just looked up from his phone, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

”We’re going to win,” he said simply.

For a moment, nobody said a word.

Then Nwaneri let out a low whistle. ”Man didn’t even blink.”

Saka smiled, dropping back into his chair.

”Alright then,” he said softly, nodding like he believed it too.