God Of football

[Halftime]

The heavy door to the Emirates' home dressing room swung open with a dull thud as the Arsenal players filed inside in ones and twos, boots clattering against the tiled floor.

Shirts clung to their backs with sweat, shorts streaked with blades of damp grass, and almost at once the room filled with the low murmur of tired voices.

Declan Rice dropped onto a bench, peeling off the tape on his wrist and tossing it into his cubby before leaning back with a long exhale.

Jurrien Timber, on the other hand, was already unlacing his boots, shoulders rolling as the tempo and the physicality of the first half caught up with his body.

Others moved slower, lingering as if their thoughts were still caught somewhere on the pitch.

"Man," Odegaard muttered, wiping at his face with the bottom of his shirt, his voice tight with frustration.

He sank down beside Izan, who had just set his water bottle against the wall.

"Vitinha and Neves don't give you a second, you know? You think you've turned one, and the other's already on your back."

Izan glanced over, tugging a strap of tape loose from the seat beside him before tossing it into the bin.

"Yeah, they're swarming you. I can see it from my seat. Every time you try to pivot, they're just… there. Like shadows."

"That's exactly it," Odegaard said, shaking his head. He pressed the towel a physio handed him against his neck.

"No space and no time to think."

From across the room, Gabriel let out a short laugh as he dropped into his seat.

"At least they're not chasing me. I'd take Vitinha over Dembele hounding me any day."

He gestured toward his shin, where the club's medic was already kneeling to inspect a scrape.

The little quips and comments bounced around quietly, with players muttering words under their breath, some half in jest, while others just kept to themselves.

The air began smelling of Liminent as the Physios and medics moved in and out like clockwork, carrying bottles, fresh tape and sprays that hissed against bruises.

Lewis-Skelly, who had taken a bit of a knock, lay flat on a padded table, groaning as a trainer worked his hamstring with a steady pressure.

Across from him, Martinelli leaned forward, adjusting the ice pack strapped to his thigh.

The chatter dimmed here and there, replaced by the sounds of tape being torn, boots being retied, water bottles snapping open, and then the door opened again.

Mikel Arteta stepped inside, suit jacket unbuttoned, his expression sharp but unreadable.

At once, the conversations began to dwindle as the players who were talking halted their speeches.

Even those on the tables kept quiet, eyes tracking him.

Arteta didn't speak immediately.

He stepped to the side, talking a bit with one of the physios attending to Lewis-Skelly.

Finally, he clasped his hands once and started, voice clear and clipped.

"We're playing too rigidly," he said, eyes scanning across the squad.

"They want that. They want us in straight lines, predictable. You can't feed into it."

His hand moved in a small slicing motion.

"The gaps are there, but we have to move for each other to create the angles and pull them out of position."

He pivoted toward the back line.

"And defensively—" he snapped his fingers, quick and sharp, eyes narrowing. Saliba and Gabriel met his stare and nodded, backs straightening.

"Stay alert. They'll look for that one direct ball, and if we switch off, it's gone. No lapses."

Arteta's gaze travelled, deliberate, until it settled briefly on Izan.

The teenager was at his locker, slipping a band he had brought with him to the dugout area, inside the storage.

Arteta looked on for a while before he turned and then looked away, back to the room at large.

"That's it. Keep the focus and we'll find the breakthrough if we trust the movement."

After watching a round of nods from his men, he reciprocated, giving a small nod and then turned for the door, Cuesta and another assistant falling in beside him as they left.

For a moment, the dressing room held onto the quiet he'd imposed, a stillness stitched through sweat and breath, before the soft noise of boots, whispers, and physios returned again.

...

"Hot chips, fresh and golden! Don't miss your fish and chips, lads—crispy cod, piping hot!"

"Halftime pies, sausage rolls, come on then, keep yourselves warm!"

Steam rose from the stalls lined along the Emirates concourse, thick with the smell of frying oil and vinegar as vendors barked over the hum of the halftime crowd, their voices cutting through the air like gulls above the Thames.

Paper trays clattered against counters, salt shaken in a flurry as bottles of ketchup slapped down with the haste of the rush.

A boy tugged insistently at his father's coat sleeve, bouncing on his heels with restless energy.

"Dad, come on, we'll miss kick-off for the second half! They'll be starting again any minute!"

"Yes, yes, I hear you," the man replied, his voice somewhere between amusement and weariness as he leaned over to hand the vendor a few crumpled notes.

"Patience, eh? We can't watch Arsenal on empty stomachs, can we?"

The vendor slid across a tray, fish glistening under its coat of batter, chips spilling to the edges.

"There you are, mate. Enjoy the second half, big night tonight!"

"Cheers," the father said, shifting the food into one hand before reaching for his son with the other.

The boy grasped it tightly, still tugging him toward the turnstiles.

"Come on, Dad!" he urged, eyes darting toward the glowing red lights above the entrance.

The man laughed under his breath, shaking his head as they threaded their way through the tide of supporters, the crowd surging back toward the stands.

He gave a quick nod of thanks to the vendor, then tightened his grip on his son's hand before, together, they disappeared into the stream of red and white scarves flowing back into the stadium, carrying the smell of salt and vinegar with them.

–––

Entering the stadium once again for the second half, the Emirates' floodlights seemed brighter now, their glow pooling across the pitch as though inviting the game to spring to life.

The chants of both sides continued to streak across the stadium, despite seeing no signs of their players coming out for play.

"Well, we've had a bit of time to reflect, McInally," Alan Smith's voice came in over the backdrop of noise, his tone carrying both patience and the faintest tinge of disappointment.

"That first half," *sigh*, "hard to dress it up, really. Neither side took a chance, nor side looked particularly willing to pull the trigger."

Beside him, Alan McInally gave a dry chuckle.

"Yeah, I'd say that's putting it kindly. The game's had all the ingredients to be a classic. You've got Arsenal looking for rhythm and PSG trying to make their intentions heard, but it's been flat. Honestly, if you were expecting fireworks, you'll still be waiting."

Smith let the comment hang for a moment as the camera caught a glimpse of the Arsenal bench, Mikel Arteta standing arms folded, his face unreadable.

"Not a single change from either manager," Smith continued, almost with a hint of surprise.

"Which is interesting, because you look down that Arsenal bench and you'd see plenty of attacking options there. Especially, one option going by the name of Izan Miura Hernandez. You'd think he'd want to shake things up, just to give PSG a whole dictionary to deal with, but he is still keeping his talismanic teenager on the bench!"

McInally leaned in again, his voice picking up over the crowd's fresh swell as Arsenal's players spread across the turf.

"I think the home fans will be expecting more than just tidy passes. You could feel it toward the end of the first half, murmurs, a bit of

restlessness. They want risk, they want somebody to break the script, but that's easier said than done, especially as you said, Izan is on the bench. Hate to say it, but Arsenal are a different beast when he's on the pitch."

Smith nodded audibly.

"And, going on about Arsenal, PSG haven't been the sharpest we've seen this campaign tonight. Sure, they've had chances, but they are just that, chances, as they haven't been able to capitalise on them."

The broadcast camera caught Martin Ødegaard clapping his hands, rallying his teammates as they set into shape as Saka jogged into view, grinning as he exchanged a few words with Jurrien Timber.

McInally gave a little hum. "Well, it's all in front of us now. Forty-five minutes to change the story. Hopefully, both sides decide they actually want to write one because if they don't, we are in for another long half of piggy in the middle."

And with that, the referee raised his whistle to his lips, the stadium falling into a sharp, expectant hush.

Fweee

"And, we are off again," Alan Smith called as Jesus nudged the ball behind.