God Of football

[Matchday]

The air outside the Santiago Bernabéu shimmered under the glow of floodlights, even though the sun had only just begun to sink.

Fans poured into the surrounding streets in thick, restless streams, their scarves whipping in the early evening breeze.

Every step toward the stadium seemed to carry more than anticipation—it carried an edge.

They were going there for nothing less than a win.

The broadcast feed cut to a sweeping aerial shot of the stadium, its sleek curves glistening under the twilight.

Then came the voice of the host, steady yet carrying a subtle charge.

"Welcome to Madrid, and welcome to the New Santiago Bernabéu—tonight, sealed under its fully closed roof for the first time in a match of this magnitude. No open skies. No wind to bleed away the sound. Everything that happens here will be trapped inside these walls… and tonight, every roar, every whistle, every heartbeat will echo."

The camera panned closer, catching the slow procession of supporters filing through the turnstiles.

Some moved with heads high and confident, others with faces tight in concentration, as if they were players rather than spectators.

"This decision,"the host continued, "wasn't just about the weather, no. The conditions are perfect outside for football, but this, this was about control. Real Madrid want the noise to stay in, the pressure to stay in. And for the visiting side, that means every moment on the ball will feel just a little heavier… every mistake, a little louder."

Inside, the closed roof created a strange intimacy.

Sound didn't or couldn't escape.

Instead, it swelled, pressing in from every direction.

"You can already feel it," the host's voice lowered slightly, as though leaning toward the listener.

"This is not a stadium tonight—it's a colosseum. Every breath the players take will carry the weight of eighty-three thousand eyes. And when the whistle blows… It's going to be deafening."

The camera lingered on a child no older than eight, clutching a Real Madrid flag almost as big as him, his father's hand resting protectively on his shoulder.

Then it cut to a group of away fans huddled together in a sea of white shirts, their chants stubborn and defiant, swallowed but not silenced by the surrounding noise.

"One roof. One match. And no way out of the sound. Ladies and Gentlemen, we are a few breaths away from the start of the game, and for those of you who don't know, this is Real Madrid, against Arsenal, here at the Santiago Bernabeu!"

The feed faded back to the commentary desk, but the hum of the stadium remained, a constant reminder that the game had already begun—long before a ball was kicked.

........

"They really went all in. I swear I could taste what I would eat tomorrow when I drank the water in the dressing room," Nwaneri said as they got into the path of the tunnel.

Beside him were Saka, Izan and Lewis Skelly, the youngest players of the Arsenal squad all together.

"Well, they are Madrid, so everything has to feel a bit more premium," Saka responded, putting on a tape that would likely not make the start of the whistle.

It was a long strip of light and glass before the floodlights at its end as the players descended the last strip of stairs, and just ahead, the rectangle of light grew wider, spilling across the floor like a stage curtain slowly parting.

The Arsenal players stepped out, one after another, and as soon as they did, the sound hit them like a wall.

From the far corner of the Santiago Bernabéu, the Ultras Sur erupted as if a silent cue had been given.

A block of white shirts rose as one, drums pounding in relentless unison.

Their flags whipped and snapped in the air.

Banners unfurled in perfect sync, bold black letters and sharp insults painted across acres of fabric.

It wasn't just support; it was theatre, and tonight, the villain was obvious.

"Izan, Izan, mentiroso"

(Izan, Izan, liar,)

"¡Te vas a romper! ¡Te vas a romper!"

("You're going to break! You're going to break!")

"¡Izan! ¡Títere de Londres!

(Izan! Puppet of London!)

The chant rolled like a wave, starting high in the upper tiers and crashing down toward the pitch, every voice locking into the same cadence.

The words bit at the air, each syllable pushed with intent.

This wasn't the type of noise you could pretend not to hear.

It clung to the back of the neck, prickling the skin, and even the ones it wasn't directed at could feel it.

Saka jogged a step closer to Izan, his eyes sliding toward the corner stand as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.

"I didn't know Madrid fans could be such big haters," he said, his voice carrying just enough over the noise to be heard.

Izan's chuckle was low, almost drowned out by the next swell of the chant, while his eyes stayed fixed on the grass ahead.

"Then you've never met the Atlético fans," he replied, the casual tone almost making the words sharper. "They would have begun chants about what they want to do with my mum."

Together they crossed the white line, the sound only getting louder now that the fans could see them in full.

A loose ball rested near the sideline, and Izan bent down, picking it up and rolling it under his foot, feeling the studs catch lightly on the leather.

Until the whistle of a production assistant cut through the noise, sharp and urgent.

He looked up to see the CBS crew set up a few steps away under a bank of lights: Kate Abdo poised with her mic, Thierry Henry leaning casually on the desk, Jamie Carragher mid-conversation with Micah Richards, who was grinning wide like he'd just spotted trouble.

"Go on," Merino's voice came from behind, paired with a nudge between the shoulder blades.

"They're calling you."

Izan gave a faint smile, tossing the ball to a nearby staffer before jogging over.

He slipped the earpiece in just as Micah leaned toward him, still grinning but with a glint in his eye.

"Hostile crowd tonight," Micah said, tilting his head toward the seething wall of white still chanting his name like it was an insult carved into stone.

Izan laughed, brief but genuine, then adjusted the earpiece with a small shrug.

"When they've made it personal like this…" His gaze flicked toward the Ultras once, "…It is hard not to make winning too personal."

Kate smirked, lifting an eyebrow. "That's either confidence or famous last words."

Thierry shook his head slowly, his smile the kind of knowing one that came from experience.

"We'll see which one it is in ninety minutes."

Izan and the four talked for a while before bouncing off after the allotted time for the talk finished.

"Okay, guys," Kate took over after Izan left, "so that was Izan for you with his view on the game an-.........."

-------

"Well, ladies and gentlemen, what an honour it is to be here tonight — and to be the voices behind a game of such magnitude. Real Madrid. Arsenal. The Champions League quarter-final. Two giants, one stage, and a crowd ready to devour every moment. My name is Ian Darke, together with Robbie Savage, for this exciting and crucial fixture."

Beside him, Robbie Savage leaned forward in his seat, eyes scanning the restless stands.

"Yeah, Ian, and you can already feel it. The ball hasn't even been kicked yet, but the game's started in the stands. Look at that."

The cameras swept across the stadium, the white waves of Madrid's faithful surging with chants and banners.

Deep in the noise, corralled into a small pocket of red and white, Arsenal's travelling support bounced and sang as if trying to shake the very air.

Outnumbered thousands to one, yet loud enough to cut through the home roar.

"Those travelling fans," Darke continued, "they've been singing since the buses pulled up. But here, in Madrid, they're outnumbered thousands to one — and yet, you'd hardly know it from the noise they're making."

From the tunnel came the players, two lines stepping out onto the perfect grass, boots tapping rhythmically under the floodlights.

The Champions League anthem swelled, grand and unmistakable, filling every corner of the ground.

From the Ultras Sur came a different kind of music — sharp, cutting boos that sliced through the melody like blades as the camera found Izan.

He stood still, head high, lips pressing into a smile that was far from polite.

It was the smile of a man who understood fear and knew how to thrive in it.

"Look at him there…" Savage's voice carried a trace of disbelief. "He's loving it, Ian and believe me, the boos are only going to keep on feeding him."

The anthem faded just as Odegaard and Lucas Vázquez strode toward the centre circle from their respective lines.

There they met the officials of the game, beginning the age-old ritual of the coin toss.

"So, the formalities done, the stage is set," Darke said, voice tightening with anticipation. "The noise, the color, the weight of expectation — it's all here. This… is what the Champions League is all about."

Savage's tone dropped, the words almost a dare. "Yeah, and now it's over to the players. No hiding places now."

A/N: Damn. I am done. I wanted to begin the game in this chapter but things just weren't clicking with the jumps so I had to end here. Sorry for the wait. I've been trying to sleep as much as I can because our exam starts on monday. Have fun reading and I'll see you in a bit with the first chapter hopefully.