God Of football - Chapter 878

Chapter 878: The End.

“FRENCH DESTRUCTION FROM THE SPANIARD!!!!! DRINK IT IN!! Because what more do we have to say? Another hatrick for the history books and on the world stage too.”

“Not that it has ever stopped him, but Seventeen years old, in a Club World Cup final, and he’s putting the ball exactly where he wants it. Football as we know it might just be renamed after this kid at the end of his career because it is about to be a long 17 to 20 years for the world and any team that is not Arsenal or Spain if this is to go by.”

On the pitch, Izan had already wheeled away, running towards the corner flag.

He lifted both hands, pointing up toward the highest rows of the stadium, where Arsenal’s travelling supporters were a storm of movement.

Then he blew them a kiss, slow, deliberate, just before Havertz caught up with him, tackling him to the ground.

Then came Saka and Martinelli, and then the rest of the team, piling on top in a mess of arms, shouts, and laughter.

The Paris players, mainly the defenders, lingered around the box, shaking their heads and just being overwhelmed by the whole thing, while Donnarumma scooped the ball out of his net.

Mendes was still muttering to himself, replaying the foul in his head.

Donnarumma stood frozen inside his box, staring at the net like it had betrayed him.

Even Luis Enrique could only rub his face and glance at his bench, as if searching for a way to stop what no one seemed able to.

The commentators’ voices softened again, cutting through the roar.

“It’s 3–1 now. And you get the feeling that this final, unless something changes, which I doubt will, is already in the grips of Arsenal, who will definitely be thanking their stars they hadn’t let Izan go to Paris back when clubs were fighting over the boy from Alboraya at the start of the season.”

The camera panned slowly over the Arsenal players still celebrating in the corner, Izan lying flat on the turf under the pile, his smile visible even from the overhead shot.

The scoreboard flickered, changing back from the celebratory animation to the scores.

Then it began like a wave rolling through the stands, low at first, then swelling, gathering strength until it broke into a chant that carried through every corner of the MetLife.

“It is finished!” the Arsenal crowd roared.

“It is finished!” again, louder this time, followed by a wall of sound that felt like it could lift the roof off the stadium.

Down on the pitch, the Arsenal players were jogging back to their half, faces flushed with smiles.

“And the Arsenal supporters… just listen to that. They believe this is done. They believe this is over.”

“Well, they aren’t wrong because I feel like PSG’s spirits are done with now that they know that they are being used as target practice by Izan.”

“The Arsenal crowd, though, know that the Club World Cup trophyis just some minutes away from being added to their spectacular trophy haul this season.”

Arteta stood on the edge of his technical area, arms crossed, the faintest trace of a smile forming as he looked out at the sea of red and white dancing and singing.

He didn’t want to say it, but his lips moved, just a whisper to himself, barely audible beneath the roar.

“It’s done,” he murmured, knowing things were well and truly done.

Carlos Cuesta, a few steps away, caught the words and smiled quietly too, before turning back to the field.

The chant changed.

Triumph chants fueled hunger as the fans began calling out loud, “We want more! We want more!”

Izan heard it as he adjusted his socks, a small smirk breaking through his focus.

Even the Arsenal substitutes on the touchline were laughing, shaking their heads at the sheer audacity of the fans who, after watching three of the finest goals ever scored in a final, still wanted more.

The commentators caught on, their voices mixing with the echo of the crowd.

“They’ve gone from celebration to command, haven’t they? They want more. They know what this team is capable of.”

“That’s the confidence of champions, isn’t it? Not arrogance, just pure confidence!”

The Paris players took their places again, silent, their expressions fixed and tired.

Dembele rolled the ball slightly forward with his studs while Doue looked toward the referee with a blank stare, and Donnarumma shouted from the back, his voice drowned by the chant that refused to die down.

The referee looked around, gave a nod, and blew his whistle as Paris kicked off once more, the ball rolling across the green.

The older Nike executive leaned back in his seat ashe pressed two fingers to his lips and gave a slow, impressed whistle as the replay of Izan’s goal flashed across the massive screens above the pitch.

“You see that?” he muttered, his tone more thoughtful than surprised.

“Every brand in this country or outside that is tied to that boy is about to see numbers they’ve never dreamed of in a while.”

His colleague beside him didn’t answer right away.

His eyes stayed fixed on the field, following Izan as he jogged back into position, shirt clinging to his frame, the number ten on his back glowing under the floodlights.

“Look at him,” the older executive went on, pointing toward the pitch.

“He’s so desirable,” he continued, his pointed finger extending as part of his hand as he tried to grab Izan’s frame on the pitch, earning a weird stare from the younger man, but the former couldn’t care less.

“I now understand why they want him so much.”

“Alright, we’ve seen what we can,” he said, flicking the helms of his suit closed as he stood up.

“Wait, we’re leaving,” the younger guy said, but the older executive just walked away, causing the younger man to follow suit, muttering a few curses on the way.

Back on the pitch, the ball was already back in play as Paris tried to deprive Arsenal of the ball, but their exploits going forward as they tried to reduce the arrears only caused them to lose the ball.

…

“Paris Saint Germain have the ball now,” one of the commentators in the broadcast gantry said, which made the chants and the swelling echo of the half-empty stadium, reverberate more, even for those watching at home.

The cameras drifted from the Arsenal bench, where players stood on their feet, arms folded, waiting, to the field, where the game still moved, though the result had long been sealed.

The commentary, steady but charged with that quiet kind of awe, found its voice again.

“Dembele… picks it up on the right-hand side… still Dembele, twisting past Calafiori—oh, that’s quick feet—he’s still going!”

The Frenchman darted infield, his balance delicate, his control desperate.

Calafiori lunged and missed, and as Rice stepped across to block the path, Dembele went to ground under the pressure, but not before swinging his left foot through the ball.

It flew low and hard, grazing past Raya’s glove and then kissing the outside of the post before skidding behind.

A gasp rolled through the stadium.

Then came the “oohs,” long and dramatic, but strangely bright in tone.

If one were to look closely, they’d see the truth behind the sound: Arsenal fans, not PSG’s, filling the silence their rivals had left behind.

Their laughter and applause were not cruel, but tired, almost affectionate, like they were trying to give chants as participation payment to the PSG fanbase and team.

Dembele stayed down for a heartbeat longer, both hands pressed over his face, the weight of frustration folding him into the turf.

He slapped the ground once, sharp and loud, before sitting up and staring at the ball behind the goal as if it had betrayed him.

The cameras caught him there, where defiance lingered just enough to make it feel like art.

Behind him, Raya jogged to collect the ball, glancing once at the scoreboard as he did.

The numbers glowed bold in white against the blue: 4–1.

Back on the touchline, the Arsenal substitutes stood side by side, arms crossed or draped over shoulders, the way players do when they’re seconds from release.

Arteta, slightly apart from them, had his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the pitch, but even he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading.

Raya placed the ball at the edge of his box and then paused, taking a breath before looking upfield with a smile.

There was no hurry or rush to kick the ball, while the Paris players stood emptily.

And then he stepped forward anyway, swinging through the ball.

It rose into the night sky, soaring toward the halfway line.

And just as it began its descent, the whistle came, shrill, final, undeniable.

Pii, Piii, Piiiiiii!

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