Chapter 808: Are You Ready?
While the tunnels of the Allianz Arena thrummed with the low hum of preparation, outside, a restless sea of supporters swelled with anticipation, colours split between the red-and-blue of Barcelona and the red-and-white of Arsenal.
Flags swayed, scarves twisting in the air while drums rumbled from the stands.
It was the kind of electricity that prickled against the skin, one you felt even if you couldn’t hear the sound.
Then, the stadium announcer’s voice boomed through the sound system, deep and commanding, echoing across the dome.
"Seid ihr bereit?"
(Are you ready?)
The German words carried with them the rhythm of command as the Munich faithful in attendance, those neutral locals who had bought tickets months before, roared back with a thunderous "JA!" that seemed to rattle the steel above their heads.
Without missing a beat, the announcer switched tongues.
"¿Están listos?"
(Are you ready?)
This time it was the Spanish section that erupted, a tide of Catalan and travelling supporters who had made the pilgrimage north, their voices rising in an almost songlike chant.
"¡SÍÍÍÍ!"
And then, one final shift, deliberate, to the global language of the game.
"Are you ready?"
The entire stadium rose as one.
It was no longer divided, no longer split by allegiance, at least not for this brief instant.
It was a singular roar, deafening and defiant, shaking the walls of the Allianz.
And then, over that thunder, for those watching the broadcast, came the voice of Peter Drury, his voice soaring amid the noise from the crowd, threatening to escape the mediums they were currently playing through across the globe.
"And then there were two. From 36 teams to two, from autumn shadows to this night of nights. Arsenal and Barcelona, bound not merely by the weight of their shirts but by the enormity of history. Two clubs who see themselves as more than football, two clubs who stand as ideals... now locked together for the ultimate prize."
The camera swept across the stadium, catching faces painted in stripes, flags pressed against cheeks, fathers holding sons aloft, strangers singing shoulder to shoulder.
"In the city of Munich," Drury continued, "this cathedral of football welcomes a final that could speak to generations. Arsenal, carrying the burden of a curse that has lasted too long, a dream deferred for decades, is carried now by a seventeen-year-old prodigy who refuses to bend beneath it. Barcelona, led by their own boy wonder, who also, at 17, has already rewritten what it means to be fearless. Izan. Yamal. Two names on every lip, two futures on a collision course. And tonight, one will carve himself into immortality."
As Drury’s voice faded for a moment, the cameras caught the players emerging from the tunnel in training kits.
Boots clicked against the floor as they stepped onto the greenery.
Arsenal, in their dark, with red and green sleeved warm-up tops, and Barcelona in their red and white dotted shirts.
The crowd lifted once more, whistling, cheering and chanting the names of their heroes as the sound shifted again, on the broadcast, a familiar tone now sliding into place, as if an orchestra had added its second instrument.
Martin Tyler, calm but weighted, joined the broadcast.
"Well, Peter, you could not have framed it better. Nights like these... they belong to the world. Not just Munich, not just England or Spain, but everyone who has ever dreamed with a ball at their feet.
This is the Champions League final, and these are two of its youngest, brightest stars, asked to deliver when the stage could scarcely be bigger."
Drury came back, softer now, almost reverent.
"It is not just a match, it is a moment. A generation may well measure itself against this night. Who stands tallest? Who carries his club’s burden higher? We are about to find out."
The players spread across the grass, stretching, jogging, loosening limbs as the cameras followed them.
The red boots of Izan flashed beneath the lights, the calm smile on his face contrasting with the feverish chants around him.
On the other side, Yamal bounced lightly on his toes, laughing about something with Balde while passes continued to zip between them.
And all the while, the two commentators let their words rise and fall with the atmosphere, not overtaking it but weaving into it, the poetry and the gravity forming the soundtrack of a night that promised to live long in memory.
....
[Inside the stadium]
Miranda’s heels clicked softly against the polished concrete as she made her way down the walkway toward the Allianz Arena’s VIP suite, her pace calm and deliberate.
She glanced over her shoulder at the group following her, voice carrying just enough authority to cut through the hum of noise echoing up from the stands.
"Relax, it’s only the warmups," she said, her tone clipped but gentle, as though she were both reassuring and reminding them at once.
"No need to rush. The match itself won’t start for a while yet."
Hori, walking just behind her, nodded quickly.
"Yeah, Miranda’s right. We’re not late. The boys are just stretching their legs."
But Komi and Olivia weren’t listening.
"You had to make us go back for your phone. Don’t tell me to be calm," Komi said to Hori, who shrank a bit.
The two women walked faster, weaving slightly ahead, their eyes fixed on the path that led toward the suite doors.
No words were exchanged between them, but the urgency was clear enough.
Miranda sighed through her nose and shook her head, sharing a knowing look with Hori.
"See? Impossible."
By the time she and Hori caught up, the two were already at the suite entrance.
A stadium staff member, crisp in his uniform, greeted them politely and pushed open the glass door with a smile.
"Please, right this way," she said as she stepped to the side to make way for the quartet.
The moment the door swung inward, the sound hit them.
A sudden, thunderous cheer, so loud it felt like a wave crashing over the room, shaking the suite’s glass panels.
Olivia flinched at the noise while Komi simply pressed her lips together, unfazed.
Hori blinked, curiosity tugging him toward the source of the roar.
She moved quickly to the edge of the suite, pressing up against the glass that looked down onto the pitch and once there, her eyes widened.
On the grass below, in front of tens of thousands of eyes, Izan and Lamine Yamal were in the middle of their own improvised contest.
Both had wandered far from the halfway line, the invisible divide between Arsenal’s warm-up area and Barcelona’s, in opposite directions, before they began sending balls across a distance to each other.
Fans cheered with each touch, phones lifted high in every corner of the stands to capture it.
The ball floated between them like a tether, never once hitting the ground.
Yamal, light on his feet, flicked it up with his thigh before popping it neatly toward Izan.
The Arsenal number ten cushioned it against his chest, holding it there for a half-second, then lifted it back into the Munich sky.
His timing was unerring, the ball spinning with precision as it dropped toward Yamal again.
The Barcelona teenager absorbed it against his own chest, bouncing lightly, before giving it back with a flick of his instep.
The crowd roared louder, swept into the spectacle, and the atmosphere momentarily transformed from tense anticipation to playful awe.
Then came the moment that drew the loudest response yet.
Izan stepped under the dropping ball, adjusted his balance, and absorbed it with his heel without looking or without letting it fall, before he angled his body and volleyed it back across the divide.
The strike was clean, sharp, the ball arrowing with such pinpoint accuracy that it seemed magnetised to Yamal’s chest.
The young Spaniard caught it perfectly, barely moving, the control so smooth it looked like the ball had been glued to him.
The cheer that erupted was almost celebratory, as though the final itself had already begun.
But just as suddenly as it started, their little game within the game ended.
A shrill whistle from one of the officials echoed across the pitch, signalling the end of the warm-up routine.
Both boys, smiling faintly but keeping their composure, jogged back to their respective groups.
Arsenal players immediately drifted toward the tunnel while Barcelona followed soon after, the air thick again with the gravity of what was about to come.
Up in the suite, Hori leaned back from the glass, shaking her head in disbelief.
"He calls me a diva, yet he can’t help but cause a scene wherever he is," she muttered softly.
Miranda adjusted her scarf, lips pressing into the faintest of smirks.
"It’s gonna make the clips on TikTok," she said as she turned towards Hori.
"It is going to make good Publicity."
Hori rolled her eyes at Miranda’s words as the crowd continued to buzz, but already the stadium was shifting again.
The pleasantries and all the talk off the pitch were done with, and now, it was time for the talk on the pitch.