Chapter 824: In their Grasp.[GT Chapter.]
Izan spotted Arteta a few paces away, frozen where he stood, both hands over his mouth, eyes wide with disbelief and pride, trying to comprehend if they had actually won the thing.
The former smiled, looking at his coach and then walked towards him, every step heavy with the weight of what had just happened.
When he reached him, his voice came soft, almost shaky.
"We did it."
Arteta let out a breath that sounded half like a laugh, half like a sigh.
He grinned wryly.
The thought of Izan including him as part of the reason they won the final, when it could be said that Izan won the whole thing single-handedly, made him feel a bit bad inside.
"No," he said, voice catching slightly. "You did it."
Then he pulled the boy into a hug, clapping a hand against the back of his head.
"Thank you," Arteta whispered, voice hoarse. "Thank you, Izan."
Before either could say anything else, a surge of red came crashing around them.
The rest of the Arsenal squad had arrived, hollering, laughing, tears mixing with the light drizzle that had begun near the end of the game as if the heavens were blessing their achievement and within seconds, they had Arteta off his feet, lifted high on their shoulders.
The manager threw up his hands in disbelief, laughing helplessly as the team paraded him around.
Izan slipped quietly out of the crowd, brushing past the celebrating storm until he saw Odegaard standing a few yards away, with staff helping him, watching everything with that calm smile of his.
Izan approached him, nodding to the staff, that he had got him for now and then opened his arms.
The two embraced tightly, the weight of the night passing silently between them.
"Thank you," Odegaard murmured, voice low. "For leading the boys when I couldn’t."
Izan shook his head slightly, eyes glancing over the field still painted in rain and light.
"We all led each other," he said, before patting Odegaard’s back and stepping away as the staff swooped in again, excitedly.
It wasn’t every day that one got to be in this close of a proximity with a football star of Odegaard’s calibre.
By now, the podium crew had entered the pitch, setting up the stage for the ceremony.
Floodlights turned the center of the pitch almost white, and the UEFA logo gleamed against the metallic surface of the steps.
Izan turned and saw Yamal standing with Pedri near the halfway line.
The two looked lost between exhaustion and heartbreak, faces still streaked with effort.
Before he could move, Saka came running up from behind, trying to drag him back into the huddle where the others were still singing.
"Oi, come on! Don’t go hiding now!"
Izan laughed, slipping free of Saka’s grip.
"Two minutes," he said, jogging off before his friend could grab him again as he crossed the stretch of pitch towards the two Spaniards.
Yamal and Pedri turned as he reached them, their expressions unreadable under the lights.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then Izan reached out a hand.
"You did well," he said simply.
Yamal took it, gripping tight before Izan pulled him into a hug.
Pedri followed, his forehead brushing Izan’s jaw as the duo embraced.
The respect between them didn’t need words.
Yamal looked up after a second, blinking hard, eyes glistening and trying to keep them from falling.
"It hurts," he murmured. "To lose on a night this beautiful."
Pedri looked down, lips pressing together, and Izan didn’t have to ask what Yamal meant.
He knew, they both did.
Some losses weren’t just about silverware.
Izan gave his shoulder a light squeeze, then turned, moving toward where Balde, Gavi, and Olmo stood nearby.
He greeted each one in turn, quiet nods,brief embraces,before finally walking back to his own team, who were now gathering for the ceremony.
The announcer’s voice rose above the murmur of the crowd.
"Ladies and gentlemen... your UEFA Champions League Player of the Match, Izan Miura Hernández!"
Cheers broke out again, echoing through the stadium like thunder as Izan stepped forward, the flash of cameras lighting his face as he accepted the small, shining circle of stars, the emblem of European mastery.
He held it up for a moment, expression still calm, almost reverent.
Behind him, the Barcelona players, together with their coach, began ascending the podium in silence, each taking their silver medals from the UEFA officials.
Some applauded faintly while others bowed their heads as the broadcast commentary filtered faintly through the noise, the commentator’s voice breaking slightly with awe.
"At one point," Peter Drury said, "this final was Barcelona’s to lose... and then, in true Izan Miura fashion, the boy who never knows when he’s beaten pulled something straight out of non-existence... and made sure Barcelona were runners-up tonight."
The camera lingered on Izan as the words rained, young, drenched, unshakably calm, standing there beneath the lights of Allianz Arena, the man who had rewritten Arsenal’s history with one swing of his boot.
When they turned to leave, heads down after taking their medals, Hansi Flick raised his voice softly but firmly.
"Wait," he said, lifting a hand.
The players paused, confused.
Flick nodded towards the podium.
"Stay," he told them.
"You need to see what it means, to be champions."
There was no bitterness in his tone, just quiet respect.
The young squad, battle-worn and heartbroken, obeyed, forming a loose line near the edge of the pitch as the Arsenal players prepared to take their turn.
And then it began.
First up came Jurrien Timber, the Dutch defender, who had missed nearly an entire year through injury before the season, now walking up the steps with tears already shining in his eyes.
He took his medal and looked down at it for a long second before glancing skyward, his lips trembling into a smile.
The Arsenal fans roared for him, their applause warm and loud.
Then came David Raya.
The Spaniard walked up, greeted by a standing ovation that rolled through Allianz from the remaining Arsenal fans.
His penalty save, that one moment of reflex, that defiance of gravity, had been the spark that lit Izan’s miracle.
He shook hands with the officials, his grin boyish, the kind of joy only a keeper who had lived on the edge of despair could understand.
"Raya, the man who started it all," came the voice of Martin Tyler over the live broadcast.
"His save was the heartbeat before the miracle."
One by one, the Arsenal players followed: White, Gabriel, Rice, Saka, Martinelli, Trossard, Ødegaard.
Each name was met with a thunderous cheer from the red-clad faithful.
Each medal glinted beneath the floodlights like a shard of history being reforged.
And then, after Arteta ascended the steps to rapturous applause, shaking hands with UEFA’s top brass, that familiar look of composed pride on his face until the final name came.
The announcer’s voice rose above the chaos, resonant and full of reverence as he bellowed across the stadium.
"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, the tournament’s Top Goalscorer, with twenty-six goals, the highest ever in a single Champions League campaign... and the heartbeat of Arsenal’s European conquest, Izan Miura Hernández!"
The eruption that followed felt like the ground itself might give way, with some coming from even the Barcelona fans.
Phones went up like fireflies while Red smoke swirled in the upper stands.
Even the Barcelona players found themselves watching in quiet awe.
Izan stepped forward, his gait steady, calm, almost serene.
He moved through the line of officials, shaking each hand with quiet respect.
When he reached Aleksander Ceferin, the UEFA president smiled broadly and placed the medal around his neck.
"History," Ceferin said, leaning in just enough for the microphones to barely miss it.
"You’ve changed history, young man."
"Seventy goals for Arsenal this season alone," Peter Drury continued, "and that, that thunderbolt tonight, was his one hundred and first career goal. At seventeen years of age. The youngest player ever to reach that milestone in club football history. Just Ridiculous."
As Izan turned toward the centre of the podium, the lens caught his face, a faint smile forming.
The Arsenal players clapped him onto the stage, forming a semi-circle behind their young talisman.
Across the pitch, Hansi Flick watched in silence, arms folded, the faintest nod of respect on his lips.
Izan looked to the left, at the gleaming silver trophy standing atop its pedestal, waiting.
The Champions League trophy.
For a second, he just stood there, the crowd noise softening into a distant hum, his reflection glimmering across the polished surface of the cup.
Then, with slow, deliberate steps, he began walking toward it, every step a story, every breath a lifetime.
As he approached, the commentary softened into a near-whisper.
"The boy who carried a club’s hope, who refused to bow to destiny... now walks toward the trophy that crowns immortality, for a long time and it least until we meet her again next season, they are the best team in Europe."