CHAPTER 672: FIRST BLOOD DRAWN [FINAL]

"Sit down, Komi," Miranda hissed, dragging her gently but firmly by the wrist.

"You watched him win the Euros, remember? The Euros. Against England. This is just the Carabao Cup."

"I didn’t really understand how big it was until after the game; otherwise, I would have collapsed!" Komi protested, still clutching the scarf like it was a stress ball.

"Which is why you’re alive to tell the tale," Miranda muttered, flashing an apologetic smile to the couple behind them who had just gotten a faceful of Komi’s flailing hands.

"I’m really sorry," she added in a low voice, before turning back to the pitch, voice clipped.

"Now sit, breathe, and let your genius child work."

Komi grumbled something again, but relented, folding her hands in her lap as Hori leaned over and whispered, wide-eyed, "Mum, that cut was filthy. Like, Trent’s gonna have PTSD. He’s gonna check his mirrors before crossing the road."

Miranda didn’t respond.

Her eyes were fixed on the pitch again, mouth set in a flat, tight line—but the corner of her lip twitched upward.

Her boy was just warming up.

.......

[Back On The Pitch]

The screen pulsed with energy as Arsenal built up again — and it was Izan who picked the ball up near the left touchline, tight to the sideline, right in front of the technical area.

Alan Smith’s voice cracked through the commentary, tone rising just slightly in anticipation.

"Here he is again. Izan. You always get the sense something could happen...even with all the preparation by Arne Slot."

The camera zoomed in as he drifted inward towards the right side with lazy elegance, almost trotting as he approached Liverpool’s midfield line — the way he let the ball roll across his boot suggested a painter about to strike the first brush stroke.

He didn’t look hurried.

Gravenberch was the first to step toward him.

The Dutchman squared up, feet shuffling, crouched low like a predator ready to pounce — but Izan merely tapped the ball rhythmically between the inside of his feet, as if teasing him, beckoning him closer with every bounce.

"Look at that," Jim Beglin said, with something between laughter and awe.

"Just look at the audacity. This is a cup final, and he’s playing like it’s a Tuesday night in the cage at Finsbury Park."

Gravenberch lunged, frustrated, but Izan was already gone — with a flick behind his own standing leg, an inside-out turn that barely looked real.

In the same motion, his left foot arced around his planted right and delivered a rabona pass across the pitch, high and spinning, toward the opposite flank.

"UHH, Audacious but Lovely." Smith yelped. "What are we watching, Jim?"

The ball landed with a crisp bounce at Martinelli’s feet.

The Brazilian, who had just switched flanks with Izan moments earlier, didn’t break stride — he controlled it first-time with his thigh, letting it drop in front of him before letting his chest push it past Trent Alexander-Arnold.

It sparked a chase, Wembley rising with every stride they took.

Martinelli had a yard.

Then two asTrent recovered, baring down with teeth clenched.

But Martinelli reached it just before the byline, whipping a vicious low cross with his weaker foot.

It skidded across the face of the goal, crying out for a touch — but none came.

Konaté lunged in with a moment of calm amidst chaos, sweeping it with precision but not distance.

The ball trickled toward the edge of the box, where it bounced once.

And again, until Izan appeared, the ball, still bouncing like it was at his beck and call.

There was no buildup.

No warning.

Just presence — a flash of red and white as he came onto the loose ball like a storm, setting up his stance as if he were about to unleash a volley that would tear the roof off Wembley.

"IZAN!" Alan screamed, but the shot never came.

Mac Allister threw himself into the path, anticipating the hit.

But Izan didn’t swing.

At the last second, he feinted — his leg motion flowing naturally into a drag, the ball slipping just a half-step left on the toe of his boot, and the Argentine went flying past, sprawled across the turf like a fallen soldier.

"OH, that is disgusting!" Smith wheezed. "He sent him back to Buenos Aires!"

But just as Izan looked up to pick his spot, Konaté came crashing through — not with studs or malice, but with force, leaning in, shoulder to face.

It was enough.

Izan’s head whipped sideways as the contact came, his legs folding beneath him.

He hit the ground hard, rolling once.

The ball, meanwhile, pinballed away... and Konaté lashed it clear upfield without hesitation.

"Surely a foul?" Alan asked the question before it was answered — but the answer never came.

No whistle. No delay.

Only the sight of the referee pointing for advantage, his arm slicing through the air.

"Play on!" yelled the official, to a chorus of outrage from the Arsenal players and supporters alike.

Arteta exploded on the touchline, palms open, pacing toward the fourth official.

"How is that not a foul?! How is that not a foul?!"

On the pitch, Saliba spun in place, roaring at his teammates.

"BACK! GET BACK!"

Liverpool were already in motion.

Luis Díaz had taken the clearance on the turn, and suddenly it was three on three.

Díaz, Salah, and Gakpo against Saliba, Gabriel, and Timber.

"Arsenal have been caught way too high!" Alan Smith called. "This is trouble — big, big trouble!"

And the crowd knew it.

The sound changed.

The red half of Wembley roared.

The white-and-red Arsenal end screamed back, begging their players to recover.

"Fine Margins here in this final," Alan said, almost breathless.

A roar came, a guttural, sharp rip through Wembley’s air.

Half joy, half dread, depending on the side of the red you belonged to.

Diaz.

He didn’t stop running.

Timber stuck a leg out, desperate, decisive—his only real option.

But the Colombian anticipated it and danced past the attempt like it was part of his rhythm.

One touch to his left, followed by a feather-light tap into the vacuum of space ahead.

His hips swayed, head up like he had his thoughts, upright.

Luis Diaz tore into the box like a crack of thunder through a tense sky, eating up green blades of pitch like a man possessed.

"Diaz! He’s away from Timber!" Alan Smith’s voice cracked with tension.

"He’s still going—he’s played it inside!"

And there was Salah.

Like a ghost gliding in at the top of the arc, curling his run in that signature half-moon.

He didn’t need to look up. He knew what to do. He always did.

His first touch came with a subtle shift as Salah locked onto the angle where he wanted the ball.

And then the strike came off his left boot with venom, shaped towards the far post like a painting in motion.

"SALAH—ON THE CURLEEEER—"

But David Raya was ready. He had been watching.

He had seen the glint in Salah’s eye and the drop of his shoulder.

He took the risk a moment early, pushing off his left foot and diving with full extension and made contact.

The ball fizzed away, clipped just enough to divert from goal.

But before the Arsenal defenders could breathe—before Timber could fully rise from his half-lunge and shake the sting off his shoulder—Diaz was back.

He hadn’t even slowed down.

"LUIS DIAZ—STILL ALIVE—WHIPS IT BACK IN—"

Timber saw the blur in red flash by his side just as he pushed off the turf, wincing, not fully upright yet.

He turned his head—too late.

Diaz cracked a wicked return ball across the six-yard box, and Salah again made no mistake this time.

The Egyptian pounced, rifling it home on the second bite, past the flailing boot of Gabriel and the outstretched arms of Raya, who couldn’t repeat his miracle twice.

"GOOOAAAAAL!" Alan Smith’s voice crescendoed through the speakers.

"And it had to be Mo Salah! When he missed the first, you knew the second was never in doubt! The first goal, and might be the only goal of the Carabao Cup final, here at Wembley."

The Liverpool end erupted.

Scarves thrown.

Flags whirling.

A sea of bouncing bodies drowning in euphoria.

Salah sprinted, arms wide, eyes fierce—he wasn’t just celebrating, he was declaring.

Straight to the corner flag, where he dropped to his knees, fists clenched in triumph.

"Liverpool strike first at Wembley!" Beglin added, breathless. "And it’s the duo of Diaz and Salah combining like lightning and thunder!"

Behind Salah, the bench emptied.

Endo, Curtis Jones, even backup keeper Kelleher—all stormed the edge of the pitch, hugging coaches and back-slapping one another.

Arne Slot, emotionless only seconds before, let out a fist pump and a barked command to the substitutes to sit again.

"I tell you what, Alan... that goal is a punch to the gut for Arsenal. They were controlling tempo just moments ago. And yet—it’s the sheer relentlessness of Diaz, and Salah’s composure, that cracks the door open. You don’t get two chances against this Arsenal side... unless you earn them. And boy, did they just do that."

A/N: Okay, guys. This is maybe the last of the day. I have already released 4 Chapters just since 1 a.m., so have fun reading, and I might see you with a couple of Chapters during the day to thank you guys for supporting me in this writing journey throughout another month. I AM FOREVER GRATEFUL. Okay, guys, I have to sleep now. See you in a bi,t and keep spamming the Golden Tickets if you can, because 6 pm starts a new ranking for the new month. Thank yOU and love ya’ll.