Chapter 806: And Then There Were Two[Bonus.]
And now back at the hotel, Arteta and Carlos Cuesta moved through the hotel corridor side by side, shoulders square, heads held with that purposeful air they always carried.
Odegaard trailed just a step behind them, his gait careful, like he didn’t want to draw attention.
To anyone watching, it might have seemed like three men taking a quiet stroll after dinner.
But to the players waiting inside the lounge, it looked more like they were sneaking in through the back door of their own house.
"Mr Arteta and Mr Carlos," Saka’s voice rang out across the room, breaking into a grin as the words tumbled.
"Walking like they’re sneaking around. What a pleasant surprise."
Laughter rippled through the group, heads turning, some of the boys leaning forward to catch the reaction.
Odegaard barely had time to lift his chin before Izan stepped in closer, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.
"How’s the leg?"
The captain blinked, half a second away from brushing it off, then frowned slightly.
"How," he tried to say, but Izan just tilted his head, pointing across the room toward Albert Stuivenberg, who looked as if someone had dropped a gavel over his head.
His stiff posture and the way his eyes darted around gave him away instantly.
The effect was immediate.
The boys swarmed Odegaard, like bees to honey, their laughter and teasing replaced with genuine concern.
"How bad is it?" one asked.
"What did the doc say?" came another, leaning in.
"Are you playing tomorrow, yeah? Tell us straight."
Odegaard raised his hands, overwhelmed but chuckling, answering as best as he could.
"I’m fine, I’m fine. Just a scratch, nothing I can’t handle. The doc sorted me out."
From a few feet behind, Arteta exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he watched the scene behind him.
"So we didn’t really need to hide it for fear of it killing their morale," Carlos Cuesta said as he shadowed Arteta from behind.
"Yeah, turns out it was all for nought," Arteta said with a smile.
The huddle around Odegaard didn’t even notice him anymore.
It wasn’t until the questions died down that Saka, ever the curious one, turned back toward where Arteta and Carlos had been.
"Wait," he said slowly, raising an eyebrow, "why were you even trying to hide it from us in the first place?"
But he stopped mid-step.
The space behind them was empty.
Saka’s mouth fell open slightly, like he couldn’t believe it.
"Like master, like student," Timber muttered with perfect timing, smirking.
"Saka vanishes whenever the boss wants to grill him. Now the boss vanishes whenever Saka wants to grill him. Balance."
The room erupted in laughter, shoulders bumping, players shaking their heads.
Nwaneri seized the moment, pushing past the group with a grin.
"Anyway, dibs on one controller. And I’m taking Arsenal."
Groans rose around him, but nobody fought it.
The team split toward the entertainment lobby, still laughing about Timber’s words, their mood lighter now, as though nothing could touch them on the eve of the final.
"Y’all know that we are playing a Champions League final tomorrow, right?" Odegaard said from behind, with a hint of concern on his face.
"Right?"
"Righttt???"
....
The following morning, Screens across Europe lit up in unison.
Bars, living rooms, and shopfront displays all carried the same poster.
A face divided in two.
On the left, Izan Miura Hernández, blue-eyed, jawline lit with that edge of confidence Arsenal fans had grown used to.
On the right, Lamine Yamal, Barcelona’s wonderboy, his gaze steady, a teenager already carrying the weight of Catalonia.
And between them, the Champions League trophy gleamed like a beacon, a prize that seemed to glow brighter than ever.
A deep German voice cut through first, on ZDF’s primetime broadcast.
"Und dann waren es zwei. Arsenal gegen Barcelona. Izan Miura gegen Lamine Yamal. Zwei Jungen, zwei Wunder, und nur einer wird die Trophäe heben."
("And then there were two. Arsenal versus Barcelona. Izan Miura versus Lamine Yamal. Two boys, two prodigies, and only one will lift the trophy.")
Spain followed, their coverage bursting with warmth and drama.
"Y al final, solo quedaron dos. El prodigio de Barcelona contra la nueva estrella de Londres. No es solo fútbol, es la historia de una generación."
("And in the end, only two remained. Barcelona’s prodigy against London’s new star. It is not just football, it is the story of a generation.")
In France, media bodies wrote, their tones smooth and poetic, something they were known for.
"Et maintenant, il n’en reste que deux. Arsenal, Barcelone. Miura, Yamal. C’est un duel qui restera gravé dans la mémoire du football."
("And now, only two remain. Arsenal, Barcelona. Izan, Yamal. This is a duel that will be carved into the memory of football.")
From Italy, passion spilt through RAI’s microphones.
"E alla fine, sono rimasti in due. Londra contro Barcellona. Il giovane re contro il principe catalano. Domani, uno scriverà la storia."
("And at the end, only two remain. London against Barcelona. The young king against the Catalan prince. Tomorrow, one will write history.")
And then, in the crisp familiarity of Sky Sports in England, the message wrapped itself in clarity.
"And then there were two. The journey has been brutal, the giants have fallen, but what remains is perhaps the most poetic final of all. Arsenal versus Barcelona. Izan versus Yamal. Two teenagers, carrying empires on their backs. And between all this, the most definite winner is Spain and its fans because two jewels of Spanish football headline this final."
After that, a montage of the road to the final rolled.
Izan’s goals against PSG, the camera freezing on his celebration, as well as others of Yamal’s run through Inter, skinning defenders twice his age.
Fans screaming, coaches clapping, commentators shouting their names in crescendos of disbelief.
The words in every language kept repeating.
Variations, accents, tones, but always the same message: And then there were two.
Munich, meanwhile, pulsed with life.
Streets carried a sea of flags, red and white for Arsenal, blue and garnet for Barcelona.
Children in jerseys darted between legs, their faces painted unevenly with club colours as the time for the game neared.
Cafés overflowed, tables spilling onto pavements, and every car radio seemed to hum with analysis, speculation, or outright bias.
On a narrow street, Klaus, a man in his mid-forties with silver streaks in his beard, rolled down the shutters of his small convenience shop.
He double-checked the lock, tugged at it twice, before pulling his jacket collar against the evening chill.
His neighbour, a fruit seller stacking the last of his apples, raised a brow.
"Closing early, Klaus? Off to the stadium already?"
Klaus laughed, shaking his head.
"Not yet. I can’t go until I get my flag, face paint, and a proper jersey. My son would never forgive me if I showed up without them."
The fruit seller chuckled, crossing his arms.
"You used to swear by Freiburg. Since when are you Arsenal?"
"I didn’t stop supporting Freiburg," Klaus replied, almost defensive but smiling.
"They are in my blood. But sometimes, you’ve got to share the love. My favourite player plays for Arsenal now."
The neighbour smirked knowingly.’
"Ah. This is about Izan, isn’t it?"
"Exactly," Klaus admitted, grin widening. "The boy’s too good to ignore."
He slid into his small Volkswagen, the engine coughing awake.
With a wave, he pulled away, joining the stream of cars heading toward the Allianz.
Elsewhere, a group of teenagers stood outside a souvenir shop, arguing in a mixture of German and English.
"I’m telling you, we need the Yamal poster. He’s the real deal!" one insisted.
His friend shook his head, pointing at a rolled-up Arsenal flag.
"Forget that. Izan is winning today. You’ll see."
Their argument melted into laughter as they disappeared into the crowd, where a Spanish family stepped out of a taxi near Marienplatz, the father hoisting his young daughter onto his shoulders.
She was dressed head-to-toe in Barcelona gear, her face painted with uneven stripes of blaugrana.
The girl waved a tiny flag, chanting "Barça! Barça!" while strangers passing by smiled and clapped.
Across the square, two Englishmen were setting up their cameras, microphones in hand, sending live updates back to London.
"The city is electric," one said to the camera, his voice nearly drowned by the roar of passing supporters.
"You can feel it everywhere. Munich knows it’s the centre of the world right now."
The camera panned briefly to a massive banner stretched across a building façade, where the poster with Izan’s face on one side and Yamal’s on the other, the trophy blazing between them, was.
"It is all to fight for here in Munich," one of the men proceeded to report as the noise in the square hit a crescendo.
A/N: I needed to put this one here so you guys see it clearly. The hype for this match has got to go punch for punch with the game or else I am cooked. Anyways, I wanted to say thanks for the support and all that you do for me. I never thought I would make it past 500 Chapter when I started this book but here we are at 800+ and counting. Thanks for all the love you’ve shown the book. See you in a bit with the first of the day.