CHAPTER 683: HARD EARNED.

A few club VIPs walked behind him—Edu, Per Mertesacker, even Thierry Henry, as well as the families of players.

But it wasn’t them who made the noise swell again.

It was Saka.

As soon as they saw him, Martinelli turned.

Declan Rice stood up halfway from the grass.

Nwaneri pointed, his mouth dropping while Izan’s head whipped toward the tunnel like something had yanked his attention.

And all at once, they started moving.

Toward him.

All of them.

Players charging like kids at the schoolyard gate, like something sacred had just entered the building.

But then—

A single arm shot out.

Martin Godleman, one of Arsenal’s physios and a stern one at that.

He stepped forward from Saka’s side, looked up—calm, unmoved—and extended a firm hand.

Just one gesture.

Stop.

He didn’t yell. Didn’t say a word.

But every Arsenal player froze.

Dead still.

Even Izan, who’d started jogging toward Saka with arms halfway lifted, caught himself mid-step.

His boots skidded faintly on the grass.

Rice chuckled from a distance, rubbing the back of his neck while Martinelli gave an exaggerated bow and stepped back, same as Nwaneri, who offered a hand gesture of surrender.

The message was clear: He’s still healing. Respect the shield.

But their smiles didn’t fade.

Nor did Saka’s.

He waved to them, raising his crutch playfully in the air, his face a picture of quiet pride and glassy eyes.

The whole team turned back toward the pitch—but you could feel it now.

And as they returned to their celebrations, the noise built again.

The night, somehow, still had room to grow.

.......

The Wembley pitch shimmered beneath the lights, a bit of light drizzle now, making the pitch glisten.

It was as if the pitch itself was exhaling after holding its breath for ninety tense minutes.

Up on the podium, photographers repositioned with urgency.

A flock of them shifted with the grace of practised chaos, backing away to clear the space.

High above, the screens lit up in full Carabao green, and a ripple of anticipation swept through the crowd like electricity down a line.

Then they appeared.

The important men in dark suits with sharp ties.

Officials from the EFL, sponsors, and broadcasting partners—some known, some not—but all significant enough to be part of this exact moment.

One of them, Sir Nicholas Richard Parry, the chairman of the EFL, carried the Carabao Cup trophy himself.

His hands were gloved in white, a symbolic gesture more than a necessity, and he walked with reverence, as if the silver vessel he carried was something closer to myth than metal.

They ascended the few steps to the centre podium, where a glistening Perspex stand waited under the spotlights.

Without flourish, without speech, Levitt placed the trophy down with both hands, slowly, precisely, aligning the handles with the invisible axis the cameras preferred.

The stadium roared—not in full voice, but like it was clearing its throat for something loud and final.

Around the stand, Arsenal’s players gathered.

Slowly, in loose packs at first, clapping and patting each other’s backs.

A few put their arms around each other’s shoulders.

Their kits were soaked, but none seemed to care.

They playfully interacted with each other, but Izan wasn’t among them yet.

He was a little further back, toward the touchline, where four familiar faces had stepped onto the pitch with lanyards flapping in the wind and jackets zipped halfway up.

Komi had a half-scolding, half-proud look on her face—her usual expression these days—and Hori, who kept looking around, like this was the bare minimum for a personality like her.

"Yes, be honoured by my presence," she called as the noise in the stadium went up a notch.

Olivia, shaking her head at Hori’s antics, stood just beside Izan, arms loosely wrapped around his waist, her eyes still glassy from before.

Miranda, heels in one hand, phone in the other, kept trying to take a picture without falling into the grass.

"Are you even allowed to be this far in?" Izan teased, looking at the four of them with mock suspicion.

"Oh, please," Miranda waved him off. "You think a security guard’s stopping me after what I did in the Euros?"

Izan broke out into laughter, remembering a funny scene in which Miranda had spoken her way into being treated like royalty when Spain had won the Euros.

"Besides," Olivia added, "you looked like you were going to pass out out there. Someone had to be nearby."

"I was calm."

"You were possessed," Hori said, pointing.

"Like, actually possessed. Your eyes did that weird, focused thing. Mum thought you were going to explode."

Komi nudged her daughter lightly. "I said transform, not explode."

"Same thing," Hori grinned.

But before Izan could respond, a new voice cut in.

"Oi! Superstar!"

Saka.

He stood, somehow balanced on his good leg with his crutch raised high like a flag.

A few of the boys were behind him—Martinelli, Nwaneri, even Ben White, already halfway up the podium steps—but it was Saka who called out.

"Enough romance! Let’s go get this damn trophy!"

Before Izan could object, Saka hobbled forward with a grin and grabbed his forearm, spinning him around with exaggerated drama.

The others joined in.

Martinelli hooked Izan’s neck from behind while Nwaneri took his other arm like they were abducting a suspect.

Olivia let go with a theatrical sigh, but, "You’ll get him back later," Saka told Olivia, not missing a beat. "We’re borrowing him now."

Olivia laughed. "Just don’t drop him on the stairs!"

"Can’t promise that!" Nwaneri said cheerfully.

"You lot are ridiculous," Izan muttered, trying and failing to suppress the grin blooming on his face.

And with that, they marched him forward, toward the waiting platform.

Step by step, the sound around them swelled—fans chanting his name, camera shutters flicking like static, and somewhere overhead, the booming voice of the announcer calling the names of the Arsenal players one by one.

The Liverpool squad, in contrast, were just finishing their trip down the other end of the podium.

A few handshakes, polite applause, one or two quiet nods.

Mac Allister passed Izan going the other way and offered a faint smile, tired but respectful.

Izan nodded back.

And then—finally—they reached the edge of the Arsenal section of the podium.

All around him, his teammates waited, their faces glowing with something larger than victory.

The trophy gleamed just ahead.

And for a breathless second, they all stood still—poised, as if something sacred was about to be claimed.

They ascended the royal steps, one by one, under a corridor of thunderous cheers.

First went Raya, still gripping his gloves like a soldier returning from war. Then Jurrien Timber, smiling with that tired, blissful grin of a man who had emptied every ounce.

Rice followed, hands on his hips, scanning the red-sea crowd like he couldn’t believe they’d made it.

Then, Saliba, Zinchenko, and Martinelli.

Each player nodded, bowed slightly as they were handed their medals by the dignitaries lined up with half-stiff smiles and firm handshakes.

Izan walked up slower than most, but his eyes glowed.

The crowd grew louder as he stepped up, draped in the Arsenal jacket someone had thrown over his shoulders.

The camera caught his profile, half shadow, half shine, and it hit the screen like a painting.

Then, the announcer’s voice cut through the atmosphere, suddenly louder over the stadium speakers, clear and echoing.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen... the Player of the Tournament... the youngest to ever claim the honour—seventeen years of age, and a heart that burned like myth itself... from Arsenal Football Club—Izan Miura Hernández!"

The eruption was instant.

It was a shockwave.

Screams from kids in the front rows, grown men throwing arms into the air, young women throwing shy looks his way, hoping he would catch them.

Alan Smith’s voice filtered through commentary like a cracked whisper of reverence.

"Well, I think we all knew it... but hearing it out loud, Jim, it’s something else entirely. That boy has just raised the status and my expectations of this tournament. I think this will be a very feisty affair next season."

Jim Beglin could only chuckle, shaking his head.

"He moved like he had stories to write and demons to silence. Just seventeen... my God. What a player!"

Izan smiled as they draped the shimmering silver medal around his neck, shaking hands with the chairman, who said a few words as Izan turned to rally the Arsenal supporters.

Martin Ødegaard slapped him on the back from behind.

"That’s yours. No one else even came close."

Havertz grinned, tousling his hair before pulling him into a side hug.

"You’re a monster, kid. Scared me, and I’m on your team."

Izan lowered his head slightly, finally allowing a breath of a smile.

But even as they laughed around him, even as the trophy awaited them on the podium, his fingers kept touching the medal hanging from his chest, tracing the rim.

He’d earned it.

It wasn’t as prestigious as the league trophy, the Champions League or the Euros, which he had won, but he had worked hard for it.

Through kicks. Through screams. Through suffocating triangles of defenders. Through chaos.

He had earned it.

And now, beneath the Wembley lights, beneath the ribbons of red and silver confetti starting to drift from the rafters above, the boy stood crowned.

Then Saka, of course, muttered, "Right, someone carry me. I’m not missing this photo."

The boys laughed—and the final act was about to begin.

A/N: Okay, guys. This is the last of the previous day. I think this will go on for a while because my schedule for classes is full on Mondays and Tuesdays. I will try and release the first Chapter of the day when I wake up, but I still think you might get it later. Anyway, have fun reading, and I’ll see you in a bit.