CHAPTER 676: SUPER MERINO

Down on the touchline, Arteta had spun toward his bench, arms wide, shouting instructions and pulling one of his bench players in the person of Nwaneri closer.

His lips moved rapidly, eyes scanning the pitch like a man watching a dam begin to crack.

He didn’t shout at the players—just barked once, short and sharp, then snapped back toward the fourth official.

On the opposite touchline, Arne Slot’s face had tightened.

He stood still, but his hands were gripping the sleeves of his black jacket like he was holding onto something slipping.

The plan he had worked on for almost 2 months was starting to creak, not that it was Izan-proof since the start of the match, but he could see where it was going, and he didn’t like it.

This wasn’t Arsenal probing anymore.

This was Arsenal breaking through.

"Well, Arsenal have a corner now and a chance to make it level in the final. Arteta’s men this season have been known for their set pieces, especially with the boy walking towards the ball now. Dangerous enough to have 19 assists in the Premier League and 9 goals from free kicks alone this season"

Izan jogged over to the right corner flag for the setpiece, his bun getting loose in the process, before he pulled another rubber band and tied it.

The fans behind him were on their feet, scarves in the air, screaming his name like a war cry.

This was one of the moments they knew could change everything.

And everyone in that stadium knew the ability of the person standing over the ball in dead-ball situations.

Declan Rice trotted over, offering the short pass, motioning with a subtle lift of his hand, but Izan glanced at him, then shook his head with a sharp wave.

"Stay back," he seemed to signal, pointing instead to the edge of the box.

"In case it spills out."

Rice nodded and peeled away, jogging back to the zone just outside the 18-yard line — the safety net, the volley line, just beside Odegaard, who also seemed to be waiting for the same thing.

Inside the box, it was a warzone.

Gabriel and Saliba jostled with Van Dijk and Konaté, with neither duo giving the other an inch of space.

Just shoulders, shoves, half-grips and foot stomps.

A corner kick wasn’t even a set-piece now— it was a bar fight in slow motion.

"Arsenal don’t have time to play this cute,"

came the voice of Alan Smith on commentary.

"They’ve got height in there. Let Izan swing it in."

The whistle blew with all eyes turning towards Izan behind the corner flag, who Izan took three steps back and breathed once.

Then, with a willful run-up, he powered through the ball like it had insulted him.

It tore through the air like a bullet disguised as a cross as the fans rose like a wave with it.

Saliba went first, leaping through Konaté’s arm like a man trying to headbutt a brick wall and as would happen if anyone tried to headbutt a brick wall, he failed.

Gabriel followed, twisting around Van Dijk’s shoulder, but he was also denied.

And then — like he’d just spawned in the middle of the chaos — Mikel Merino came crashing into the frame from the edge of the far post where he had been left unmarked the whole time.

He sought out the ball with his head, jumping into a flying header after realising that he couldn’t get there after his first few steps and then-

Thwack.

The header connected, and the ball thundered into the top corner as the net rippled like it had just taken a punch.

GOOOOOAAAAAAL.

The stadium exploded, the Arsenal fans sticking their head up high as the red shirts on the pitch threatened to wheel away.

"I CAN’T BELIEVE THAT!" Alan Smith erupted.

"MERINO WITH A HEADER FROM HELL! THE FINAL IS LEVEL!"

But it didn’t feel level.

Not yet.

Because Merino wasn’t moving.

He was crumpled on the turf, his back against the post, his face twisted in agony.

His ribs, after he launched himself into the air to head the ball into the back of the net, had met the post fully.

And the stadium — the same one that had erupted seconds ago — turned cold.

The noise dimmed as some fans of both teams covered their mouths.

The flags stopped waving. Something was wrong.

"Hold on—hold on—It looks like he’s hurt. Badly," Jim Beglin muttered, his voice dipping low.

Izan saw it first from the corner flag — Merino lying there, boot half-off, one leg twitching with his arms clutching his ribs like they were falling apart.

Izan quickly looked towards the sidelines, where the referee was motioning the medics to get onto the pitch immediately.

And suddenly, the goal didn’t matter.

Arsenal’s players, who had started to run toward the fans, slowed.

The chants stopped, and the clapping faded.

"Level now, yes, but at what cost?" Alan Smith said softly, "The entire Wembley is holding its breath. Even the opponent fans."

Slot, arms folded on the Liverpool bench, didn’t move — but his eyes flicked toward the replay on the screen above.

His jaw tightened as he watched the replay. His players weren’t really at fault, as the goal was one you could stop, and the man?

Not a man you could blame either.

Arteta had already stepped to the edge of his technical area, waving, calling, lips moving fast.

"How bad?" he asked his staff, voice tight, but the medics were too busy to pay him any heed as they returned to the pitch after coming onto the sidelines for a stretcher.

On the pitch, Merino tried to sit up, then gasped, lay back down, and curled slightly.

One of the medics, crouching low, whispered something to Merino, to which the Spaniard seemed to listen and nod weakly.

Then came the decision.

The lead of the medical team pointed once, firmly, and motioned to his colleagues.

They unfolded the stretcher fully now, locking it in place as another man reached to secure Merino’s neck while a third adjusted the padding behind his back.

And Arteta... Arteta, on the touchlines, had seen enough to know when his player couldn’t go on.

He turned sharply, walking a few quick paces toward the bench, raising a single arm and pointing with two fingers in that unmistakable motion.

"Tross!" he shouted, and with little hesitation, Leandro Trossard was already halfway up.

Bib gone. Shin pads strapped.

His body still glistening slightly from the warm-up runs he’d been doing for the last ten minutes.

Now he was up the touchline, zipping his jacket down and tossing it toward the nearest assistant without even looking.

He jogged to the fourth official, glancing only once at the far end of the pitch where Merino was being carefully lifted.

"I just want to say," Jim Beglin spoke, his voice quiet in the press box above, "that’s one of the bravest goals you’ll ever see in a final. And one of the most painful.The commitment to follow through with a situation you know you might not get out of."

The fourth official raised the board — "19 on for 23" — as the announcement echoed through Wembley.

"Substitution for Arsenal — coming off, number 23, Mikel Merino... replaced by number 19, Leandro Trossard."

Arteta walked over to meet Trossard at the edge of the coaching box and clapped once before leaning in.

"You know your role," he muttered, intense but calm.

"Switch with Izan when he goes inside and make it count. Play off Izan. Time it and the gaps will eventually show."

Trossard nodded, eyes sharp, and jogged into the midfield and across the stadium where the noise was slowly rising again, like someone turning up the volume on a stadium-wide speaker.

"Leandro Trossard is no stranger to big moments... but I have to say — this one comes with extra weight. Not just tactical, but emotional." Alan Smith’s voice crackled back into the airwaves as Trossard took his position on the left side of midfield.

At the heart of the pitch, Gakpo stood over the ball at the centre circle, boots tapping in a quick rhythm like a man waiting for a starting pistol.

The official had only just stepped onto the pitch after confirming Merino’s substitution.

Now, though, all eyes were back on the pitch.

Liverpool’s number 18 glanced at the referee, who gave a quick.

And with a soft touch of the ball backwards to Mac Allister, the final resumed.

"Back underway here at Wembley," Jim Beglin called out, his voice trying to inject normalcy back into the game.

"One-one between Arsenal and Liverpool — and 66 minutes played. That goal from Merino... brave beyond words. But there’s still time here. There’s still a trophy to be won. And you get the feeling this one’s not done. Far from it. Both teams have had their moments. This second half’s been a different beast from the first."

A/N: OKay so this is the last of the day. You might think I have a lot of free time because today is a Saturday but sorry to tell you, I’m done. I will see you later in the day with the first Chapter of the day because I feel like I might get a tumor if I don’t sleep and typing for so long isn’t really good for the health. Have fun reading and I’ll see you in a bit. Also , I will try and release Chapter for the other novel If I can when I can today.