God Of football - Chapter 757

Chapter 757: Without Pride.

[Home dressing room]

Luis Enrique stepped through the doors, his expression tight, the low rumble of his voice cutting through the murmur of boots shuffling and players sipping at water bottles.

He wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular at first, more to himself, as though the words had been weighing on him since the whistle.

“How do we stop him? How…?” he muttered, eyes already fixed on the clipboard in his hand.

He walked towards the tactics board at the front of the room, each step deliberate, before stopping dead in front of it.

For a long moment, he just stared, the magnets and lines on the board reflecting a plan that already felt like a relic, something from a different match altogether.

Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he turned back towards his players.

“Forget it,” he said flatly, voice suddenly rising.

“We can’t beat Arsenal like this, at least not normally, certainly not the way we’ve been playing.”

The room grew still as a few players exchanged glances, confused at first, but none dared speak.

Enrique, when he used this tone, which they rarely saw, meant things were not up for debate.

“Lucas,” he called, locking eyes with Beraldo.

“You’re in for Fabián after the break.”

After Enrique’s words, the rest of the players tried hard not to, but they couldn’t resist throwing a glance at Fabián Ruiz, whose jaw had tightened.

His lips pressed into a thin, wry line as his eyes flickered down towards the floor.

There was no protest, no words, just the unspoken sting of being sacrificed, when he had been one of their most inventive players during the first half.

He knew, and Enrique knew, that this wasn’t about him personally. ‘

It was about Izan.

Everything tonight was about Izan.

The coach’s finger shifted, pointing across the room.

“Pacho. You’ll be stepping into midfield with Beraldo and João Neves. Listen carefully, this is important.”

He walked closer, the clipboard now held under his arm, his free hand gesturing to emphasise each word.

“João will drop back into centre-half with Marquinhos. Beraldo, Pacho—you two, alongside Vitinha, will form the heart of the midfield. Why? Because I need your toughness. Your defensive instincts. Your ability to stick a boot in, to rough him up. You’ll make sure the boy feels you every time he tries to move. If he wants the ball, he has to pay for it. Do you understand?”

He paused, scanning their faces, the discomfort clear in the silence.

“This is the only way we stand a chance. Right now, Arsenal are playing through him. He’s dictating their tempo, their rhythm. We cut him off, we shut him down, and the rest of them have to find another way. Maybe they do, maybe they don’t, but at least they’ll have to fight for it.”

Enrique’s gaze landed on Hakimi, who was sitting forward, elbows on his knees, sweat still glistening down his temples.

“And Achraf, listen to me carefully. You do not face him alone. Not once. I don’t care if he tries to isolate you, to lure you wide, to make you look like the only man in his way. Don’t bite. Don’t let pride trick you. Call for Pacho, call for Beraldo, triple him if you have to. Together, you slow him down. Alone, he’ll eat you alive.”

A ripple of unease passed through the room as shoulders shifted, eyes dropped.

No one liked hearing the admission, and certainly not the ugliness of the plan.

Enrique saw it immediately, the pride stinging at them, and he pressed his words harder, sharper.

“I know what you’re thinking. Pride. Style. Honour. You want to show the world we can go toe-to-toe. But tell me—what has pride ever done for a team when faced with a player who cannot be cornered? A boy who doesn’t even have a fixed style to counter? He improvises, he creates, he destroys structure, so if you play fair, if you play beautiful, you’ll be watching the rest of the tournament from home.”

The silence thickened as Enrique’s voice dropped lower, steadier now.

“So yes. We play ugly if we must. We clog the middle, we knock him down, we cut his lines. If we win, history won’t remember the details. They’ll remember that we advanced. That we overcame. That PSG stood up and found a way. If you want your names in history, this is the price. If you don’t—” he let the words hang, heavy, “—then you’ll regret it for the rest of your lives.”

He finally let the air ease, straightening the clipboard against his side as he scanned the room one last time.

Some players still looked unsettled, others grim but resolved.

Enrique didn’t care.

Resolve was a choice, and they would either make it now or be broken out there on the pitch.

“Hold steadfast,” he said, his final words firm.

“Play smart. Play ruthless. And remember, stopping him is everything, and if it isn’t, it still is.”

The room stayed hushed as Luis Enrique glanced around the entire room, meeting the eyes of the players before turning away after seeing that his words had been heeded.

Then, slowly, PSG began to rise, each man understanding: the plan was set. Ugly or not, this was their way forward.

….

A few minutes passed, and now, in the tunnel were the Arsenal players, already lined up and waiting, the cool draft from the open pitch brushing past their faces.

Some stretched, some bounced on their toes, but most just stood, saving energy, while their eyes stayed fixed on the rectangle of light that led out to the stadium.

Izan stood in the middle of the group, peeling away the compression layer he’d worn under his kit in the first half.

The fabric clung to him, damp with sweat, before he tugged it free and stuffed it into his hands, before passing it to one of the Arsenal staff.

His arms, lean and now bare, drew a different kind of attention.

Eventually, the sound of boots echoed from the corner, and soon the PSG players emerged from their own dressing room.

Their eyes found him almost immediately.

Not all of them, not openly, but enough.

Quick glances, small double-takes, a few lingering longer than they should have.

As if, somehow, bare skin made him more threatening, more exposed and yet more dangerous.

Bukayo Saka, leaning against the wall beside him, noticed it before Izan did and let out a chuckle, shaking his head.

“You made a good choice, you know,” Saka said.

Izan turned slightly, puzzled. “What choice?”

Saka angled his chin toward him, his smile laced with a dry kind of humour.

“Short sleeves. If you’d stayed in that long-sleeve for the second half, one of them would’ve grabbed you by them and tossed you like a ragdoll by now.”

Izan blinked, half a second of confusion before his eyes drifted right.

He caught it this time, the way a couple of PSG players were still looking his way.

Not hostile exactly, but calculating. Like predators deciding how to close in on prey.

He couldn’t help it as a smile tugged at his lips.

He rolled his shoulders once, slow and deliberate, letting the movement carry a little more motion than necessary, as if to say, Get off my back to the stares.

And just like that, the looks broke apart.

Heads turned away, boots shuffled forward.

The moment dissolved, PSG players spilling out into the tunnel in staggered clusters, no longer the composed line they’d kept before kick-off.

Arsenal held their shape, steady and orderly, but across from them the Paris side drifted out in fragments, the tension of Enrique’s new plan still written across their faces.

The referee’s assistants gestured forward, and the mass of players began to move.

The tunnel filled with the echo of studs on concrete, the shouts of stewards and the rumble of a crowd waiting just above them, before they spilt onto the green again.

The Parc des Princes lit up again, banners waving, chants rolling down from the stands like thunder.

It was feverish, desperate, the sound of a home crowd demanding their team claw something back.

Arsenal emerged from it with an almost clinical calm as the players drifted across the grass, each to their new half, switching ends from the first forty-five.

“Here we go again, then, forty-five minutes that’ll tell us a lot. Arsenal one up through Izan Miura Hernández, Paris Saint-Germain with it all to do.”

Darren Fletcher chimed in, his tone measured but edged with anticipation.

“And just listen to this crowd, Ally. They know how close this is, at least to some extent, and they’re not about to let this slip without throwing everything at it. The second half promises fire.”

McCoist chuckled lightly, the sound almost swallowed by the roar, even over the broadcast.

“Aye, fire’s one word for it. But you’ve got to wonder, what kind of response do PSG have? Enrique’s been scheming all week for this tie, but so far, every scheme’s been bent around one lad in red.”

The cameras swept wide to take in both formations slotting back into place.

Arsenal settled into their shape, steady lines forming across the pitch, while PSG shifted with a restlessness that hinted at adjustments.

“Well, Ladies and Gentlemen, grab onto the edge of your seats because we are in for a kicker. It is the start of the second half here in Paris and it is Arsenal 1, Paris Saint Germain, 0”

Sorry guys, I thought we could do the slight mass release today, but I couldn’t do so because I had to go back to my college for an assignment. I don’t think I can do it tomorrow either, so maybe the day after tomorrow. Very sorry about it.