CHAPTER 668: NIGHTMARE IN THREE [2]

"That kid’s terrifying. Like, honestly, 42 Premier League goals at 17? He is setting a new record every day after breaking Haaland’s 36-goal season. That’s not even Messi regen territory. That’s like... that’s game-breaker stuff. And I’ll be real—if he turns up, no defence on Earth stops him for 90 minutes. Not Van Dijk, not Konaté, not even if you bring back Paolo Maldini from retirement."

...

Alan was laughing now, rocking back in his chair.

"But Robbie—" the host said, eyes glinting, "—you are a Liverpool legend. Who do you say is winning this?"

Fowler grinned. "Honestly?"

"Yeah."

"I think Arsenal will win it."

There was a pause.

Carragher blinked. "You think what?"

"No, no, hear me out. As Carragher said earlier, I want Liverpool to think of themselves as the underdogs this time round because, well, they are. I also want this game to change their mentality. Because, should Arsenal really win, then Liverpool will go into the title run-in angry."

"Like, you lose the cup final, but you take that loss and go full steam into the league. I want them to win, but I also want them to chase. I want them to turn the heat up. Liverpool needs that edge back."

"So you’re playing 4D chess now," Alan joked.

"Look—complacency is a killer," Fowler said, shaking his head.

"We’ve seen it before. You think the final is already done and dusted, but then the underdogs come out with a bang that dizzies you and dims your momentum. And then Arsenal could start dropping points in the league if they can’t shake things off. And then Liverpool comes out again in their last meeting of the season to win the whole thing."

The host nodded slowly, thoughtful.

"And if this is the title decider in disguise..."

"Then imagine the actual final day," Carragher added quietly.

"Imagine the nerves. Wembley might feel like a picnic."

"Only difference," Alan chimed in, "is one of them leaves that picnic with a medal."

They all smiled, but nobody laughed.

Because they all knew—it wasn’t just the Carabao Cup, this time round.

........

"Come on, Gunners!" a scream tore through the late London afternoon like a starter’s pistol.

A teenage boy in a red Arsenal windbreaker stood on a bench outside Wembley Park Station, fists clenched and eyes blazing, surrounded by a chaos of limbs and noise.

Behind him, a blur of faces surged forward — scarves, smoke, flags, phone screens — all woven into the flood of humanity swarming Wembley Way.

Moments later, the response came from deeper down the opposite lane — slower, heavier, but no less powerful.

"Allez... Allez... Allez..."

The Liverpool chant started low, then bloomed into a roar, carried on the backs of a sea of fans in deep red.

And so it began — the final march.

Wembley Way became a battlefield without blood, a clash of colour, noise, and rhythm.

Arsenal fans were youthful and feverish, their chants ragged but raw.

One group had a snare drum wrapped in plastic, bashing out chaotic beats as flares lit up like mini-volcanoes.

Another had wrapped a massive Izan banner over their shoulders like a cape, singing about the boy who’d become the embodiment of prophecy.

"Slay them! Izan, slay them all!"

"Seventeen years and already a legend!"

"Let the world see it today!"

A small crowd broke into a coordinated chant near the barricades, stomping in time as they bounced under the fading sky.

It was chaotic. Unscripted and frenzied.

Liverpool’s fans came in different.

They sang in unison, arms outstretched, flags over their shoulders.

A few veterans with Premier League patches sewn into their jackets walked with arms linked, eyes already ahead, while a group of younger fans held up a hand-painted sign that simply read.

"You’ll Never Walk Alone."

And across the massive concourse, somewhere near the metal fencing where press lines began, the atmosphere tightened.

Because the first team bus was pulling in.

Fans surged against the barricades, phones snapping, smoke curling around the wheels.

"There they are!"

"C’mon, Izan!"

"Bring it home! Bring it home!"

"We believe in you!"

The chants multiplied, some pounding on the sides of the bus as it rolled slowly past.

Through the tinted glass, glimpses of faces became visible.

Izan watched it all, unmoving.

The flares.

The kids shouting his name.

The sign that read "God made Izan to save football" in permanent marker, drawn in a child’s handwriting.

His eyes didn’t betray much.

He just stared, blinking once, as the bus rolled to a halt beside the entrance.

And once the door hissed open, Arsenal’s players stepped down.

They were met with cheers like thunder.

Applause. Screaming.

But the players’ energy didn’t match the chaos.

Jorginho waved politely while Ødegaard walked a few steps forward, bag slung over his shoulder, as a kid yelled his name, with Ødegaard replying with a wave.

Izan was the last off, as always, slow and calm, but calm wasn’t what the moment demanded.

There was no edge in their steps.

They nodded toward the fans, waved, stepped past the metal barrier and vanished into the tunnel.

Then came a shift.

A sound like distant rolling thunder — deep and unified — began to rise beyond the corner of the stadium.

The Liverpool bus had also arrived.

It cut a sharper line through the road, parting the red sea with urgency.

Its windows were darker, its pace faster, escorted tighter by stewards as the Merseyside fans leaned in, many already singing full volume:

"We are Liverpool, tra-la-la-la-la..."

There was no pounding on the windows. No selfies. Just a cold, humming presence.

And then the doors opened.

First came Virgil van Dijk — tall, sharp suit, eyes narrowed like a man stepping into the colosseum.

Then Konaté, massive shoulders squared, a silent shadow behind him.

Then Robertson, Mac Allister, Szoboszlai — not talking, not grinning, not filming anything.

They didn’t acknowledge the fans much.

Just a few nods, a wave here and a single fist bump for a child who had leaned so far over the barricade he nearly fell.

Then, already ahead of his men, Arne Slot raised his hand, not in acknowledgement but to signal his men.

The players adjusted and, in a clean, disciplined group, they moved through the security gate in silence.

They walked like a team arriving not for applause or spectacle.

But for something colder.

Something harder,

Something shinier and metallic.

And Wembley — just for a moment — seemed to recognise it.

One team had arrived for a final.

The other had arrived to claim it

.

...........

[Arsenal Locker Room]

A knock came on the door.

"Warm-up time," one of the Arsenal staff said, poking his head in.

Izan tugged his tracksuit over his shirt, glancing around the changing room.

A couple of his teammates bumped knuckles, and someone cracked a joke he didn’t catch.

But his mind was calm.

He was already tuned in for the third Silverware of his already prolific career.

The walkout was filled with the usual sensory blur—stadium sounds, echoing announcements, the first roar when fans caught sight of players lining the exit.

He passed the final steward at the end of the tunnel and stepped into the fresh Wembley air.

That’s when he heard it.

"Izan!"

He turned.

Diogo Jota.

Jogging over, a smile on his face, hands in the pockets of his jacket.

The Portuguese forward looked relaxed, even as the stadium rumbled with anticipation.

A couple of Liverpool players moved ahead, but Jota lingered.

"There’s someone who wants a word," he said, nodding behind him.

Izan raised an eyebrow while Jota gave a little wave, and from behind, Alexis Mac Allister strolled over—hesitant at first, but not shy.

The Argentine looked a bit awkward, hands brushing together, trying to find a starting point.

Before he could speak, Jota gave a quick nudge. "Tell him, bro."

Mac Allister chuckled sheepishly.

"I, uh... Just wanted to say sorry for the other time. I got carried away. Not who I am, really. I let the game mess with my head, but I’m not looking for beef. Respect, always, kid."

Izan tilted his head. "It’s all good. I already knew that."

Mac Allister looked surprised.

"I follow you on TikTok," Izan smirked.

"You’re too chilled off the pitch to fake all that. Don’t worry. Nothing personal ever came out of it."

The Argentine grinned, relieved.

They exchanged a quick handshake, and Mac Allister jogged back to join his team.

Jota stayed back a moment.

"Still not gonna go easy on you though," he said, the playfulness returning to his voice.

Then his eyes softened—just a flicker.

A glint that felt older than it should’ve.

"Y’know..." he paused, glancing out at the buzzing stands, the flashes from cameras, the thousands of voices layering into a living soundtrack.

"These days? You don’t know how many of them you’ve got. So you play like each one’s your last. Even if you think you’ve got a thousand more waiting."

He smiled again, fully this time, like he knew something he shouldn’t.

"Good luck, superstar," he said and jogged off before Izan could reply.

And for a second, Izan just stood there—frozen in the middle of all the noise.

A/N: Ok, guys. This will be the last time you hear of Diogo Jota in the novel because I feel like it is the best thing to do for the player. I didn’t want to do this, but I had to. His death came as a shock to everyone, and I wish his family all the best because it is hard to cope when you suddenly lose your backbone. I wanted to do something extra so we could send him on his way in this novel, but this was all I could think of. R.I.P., Diogo, You’ll Never Walk Alone.