CHAPTER 670: "IT’S DIIAAZZZ-"

In midfield, Ødegaard was already making himself felt.

Twice in the opening minute, he floated into the passing lane between Mac Allister and Jones, cutting out space without making a tackle.

His arms pointed, shifted, recalibrated Arsenal’s shape like a conductor adjusting a live orchestra.

And when the ball finally came to Izan — for just a heartbeat — the crowd surged.

He’d pulled wide into the left channel, drifting away from Trent and inviting the ball.

Lewis-Skelly saw it, clipped a firm pass, chest-height.

It came down with pressure already on it, but Izan controlled it in stride, a velvet touch dropping it dead at his feet.

"Here he is," Alan said, voice sharpening.

"Izan Miura Hernández — just seventeen — but ready and now the name on every manager and fan’s lips across Europe."

Izan took one touch inside, then another before feigning a pause.

His actions caused Trent to backtrack, but that was Liverpool’s way of resetting.

Izan, not wanting to lose the ball, even though he rarely did, didn’t force anything either — just retreated, recycled, reset.

"Smart play," Alan nodded audibly.

"He’s got that spark — but more importantly, he knows when to use it. That’s rare."

Liverpool’s rhythm built again, after winning the ball back, this time through Robertson down the left.

He fed Díaz, who tried to turn inside but met the shoulder of Jurrien Timber — a quiet reminder that nothing would come easy today.

Three minutes gone.

Not a shot, not even a final ball.

But tension thick enough to taste.

And in both dugouts, the managers stood frozen.

Arteta, with his hands clasped behind his back, while Arne Slot crouched slightly, as if ready to spring.

Wembley roared around them, restless.

The final had begun.

.....

5’

Rice turned, sharp and sure, just outside his own box, the soles of his boots grazing the grass as he took the ball from Saliba, who had calmly gathered it from Raya moments after Liverpool lost the ball in a messy transition.

The crowd’s buzz quickened.

Declan didn’t dwell — he spotted Odegaard high and wide and zipped the ball across the turf.

The Captain took a single touch, hesitated just a second too long, then — seeing nothing obvious ahead — threaded a ball through the tiniest slit between Mac Allister and Szobozlai.

It wasn’t a pass as much as a prayer.

The kind only Odegaard would attempt.

The ball skidded through, and it somehow made it.

And there he was.

Izan.

Breaking past the line like lightning given legs, shoulders square, legs pumping, head tilting up to meet the scene in front of him — and it was one-on-one.

Just him and Trent.

"Kick off was five minutes ago," Alan Smith murmured on comms, voice low, measured.

"And already Izan’s in. This is the very scenario Liverpool swore they’d avoid."

But this wasn’t a normal one-on-one.

Not in Arne Slot’s blueprint.

Trent came at an angle, low and composed — not diving in, not baited.

But just enough to usher Izan toward the sideline.

Behind him, Mac Allister was already closing in, a diagonal sprint forming the base of the triangle.

And then — Van Dijk stepped up.

The trap snapped shut.

"Well, this is something we don’t see from Liverpool every day,"Jim Beglin observed, the tension in his voice rising.

"Trent guiding, Mac Allister pressing, and now Van Dijk sealing the inside. It’s three men against a boy — if the boy wasn’t Izan."

But Izan didn’t panic.

He chopped right — the sharpness of it made Trent blink — then instantly back-heeled into space as if he were made of mirrors.

He twisted his body low to duck under Mac Allister’s reach, rode the Argentine’s arm tug without complaint, and tried to burn upfield.

But Van Dijk was still there. Not flying in. Just blocking.

Just waiting.

Izan had two touches before another red shirt would emerge.

He tried to float it across to Ødegaard — but Szoboszlai had stepped into the lane.

Intercepted.

Liverpool countered.

"It’s a suffocation tactic,"

Alan said, almost admiringly.

"Slot’s built a treadmill out of defenders — and it’s rolling beneath Izan’s feet whether he runs or stops, and Izan has just lost the ball here."

On the Arsenal bench, Arteta clenched his jaw.

And on the pitch, Izan slowed his jog.

"What was that?" he muttered more to himself before he began chasing back into his half.

The first round had gone to Liverpool.

After winning the ball, Liverpool reset with purpose, the interception by Szoboszlai pushing them into rhythm.

Mac Allister kept it ticking, shifting it to Gravenberch, then to Robertson, then back again.

The midfield moved like cogs now — smooth, mechanical, methodical. Arsenal’s press didn’t bite.

It only shadowed.

And then came the surge.

Salah.

He peeled into the right channel with the kind of menace that made stadiums lean forward.

A sharp switch from Gravenberch found him just behind Timber — who had tucked in to cover Gakpo — and suddenly, there was real space.

The kind of space that screamed danger.

And the danger materialised when Salah turned on the burners.

He dipped his shoulder past the first line, breezed across the halfway line — and just as he opened up to drive centrally—

Bang.

Lewis-Skelly stepped across.

A full-bodied check, firm, well-shouldered and time to a heartbeat.

Salah hit the turf, arms out, while the ball rolled loose and the whistle shrieked before the contact had even fully echoed.

Boos from the Liverpool end sounded, but Lewis-Skelly couldn’t care less.

The referee jogged over, eyes wide, hand half-raised as if considering a card — but it never came.

Just a stern finger wag, firm words, and a glance to make sure Skelly knew he was walking the tightrope now.

"That had to be done. Lewis-Skelly just about toeing the line — he knows Salah only needed one more stride and it’s a one-on-one with Raya," Alan Smith’s voice came steady, calm through the speakers.

"The youngster picks his moments well, doesn’t he?" Jim Beglin added.

"That’s not rash, that’s calculated. He took the yellow risk, but he broke momentum — and momentum is everything against Liverpool."

Salah got up slowly, muttering something while wiping his palms on his shorts.

Skelly, on the other hand, didn’t even blink.

He just backed into position, already watching the next pass, already hunting the next spark before it turned into a blaze.

Arteta, from the sidelines, kept barking instructions, sharp and urgent.

"Look alive!" he roared, slicing his hand through the air like a blade. "Eyes on the runners!"

This was a final. This was Wembley. This was Liverpool.

The foul had gifted them a set-piece, and Trent stood over it with quiet menace — the kind of quiet that sucked breath from a stadium.

The red shirts lined the edge of the box like coiled springs, twitching, ready, and Alan Smith’s voice dropped.

"This is where it gets dangerous. Trent’s delivery, it’s not just pace — it’s precision. One good flick, and it’s a goal."

"Moments. Finals hinge on them. This — right here — could be one," Drury’s cadence held its weight.

Trent took a breath, glancing over at the chaos in the box and then, with the run-up, he struck the ball with venom and curve — a devilish, right-footed whip that bent flat across the six-yard box like a live wire.

It skimmed heads, skipped past Nunez — and then Diaz, out of nowhere, appeared with his foot out.

"It’s Diiaazzz-" Alan Smith roared as the Colombian caught the ball with his foot with the deftest of touches.

Raya stood still, watching as the flicked ball caught the post and rattled it like a drum.

Gasps sounded all around.

Half the Liverpool bench were on their feet, while Diaz clutched his head in disbelief, falling back to the turf with a thump.

Arne Slot, crouched on the sidelines, jumped up in celebration after he thought that his men had taken the lead, but had to be disappointed after the ball his the post.

It had beaten Raya. It had beaten everyone.

But luck wore the Gunners badge in that instant.

The ball bounced off the base of the post, spun wickedly behind Timber’s planted leg — and there was Raya, alert, desperate, diving into chaos and wrapping it up like it was the last breath in his lungs.

Hands on the ball with his arms clutched tight as the ground swallowed him.

"DAVID RAYA HOLDS!" Alan Smith roared, voice spiking through the cold tension of Wembley.

"It could’ve been curtains. It could’ve been a Liverpool lead. But Arsenal survive — by inches, by nerves, by sheer bloody will!"

The Arsenal end erupted — not in celebration, but in relief.

"You can see the look on Raya’s face. Even he thought that was in, and his manager isn’t happy," Alan said as the camera cut to Arteta, who was looking calm, if calm meant flailing his arms around to convey what he wanted.

A/N: OKAY. Last of the previous day. I will follow up soon with the first of the day so have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit.