Chapter 814: No Regrets.
Away from the roaring scenes in Berlin, the ever-present 4 of the CBS cast sat around the sleek, glass table, reflecting the soft studio lights with the Champions League logo glowing faintly in the backdrop as Kate Abdo turned toward the camera, her composure smooth and effortless.
"Half-time here in Berlin," she said, peering into the camera on her.
"And what a half it’s been. Barcelona two, Arsenal one. A breathless forty-five minutes, and one that’s left us with more questions than answers."
Beside her, Thierry Henry, Jamie Carragher, and Micah Richards sat poised but visibly buzzing.
Kate continued, glancing down briefly at her notes before looking back up.
"Barcelona started brighter, but since Izan’s goal, Arsenal have really grown into it, maybe even taken control at points. But they’re still trailing. Thierry, I’ll start with you because you are of the Arsenal jersey. How do you see that first half?"
Henry let out a quiet exhale, eyes narrowing slightly as he turned to the big screen behind them, where Izan’s goal replayed in slow motion, the power, the balance, the precision.
He leaned back, nodding once before speaking.
"It’s been Barcelona versus Izan," he said simply.
"That’s how I see it. Don’t get me wrong, Arsenal have had moments, some from Trossard, Saka, but it’s Izan who’s forcing the game. Everything dangerous comes from him. Every spark, every chance, it starts with him. It has been all season, but at some point, it could fall short, and I think tonight could be the night."
Micah gave a short chuckle, shaking his head.
"Man’s doing everything, isn’t he? Dribbling, creating, scoring... he’s like their entire attack right now."
"Exactly," Henry replied, calm but firm.
"And that’s the problem, Micah. You can’t win a Champions League final on one man’s shoulders, not against Barcelona. Arsenal need someone else to take responsibility. Ødegaard, Trossard, and Saka all have to help him. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long night."
Kate nodded lightly, her tone guiding the flow without forcing it.
"So you think it’s a bit too one-dimensional from Arsenal so far?"
Henry tilted his head.
"Yes, because when Barcelona adjust, and they will, they’ll start closing the spaces around Izan. You can already see Koundé and De Jong trying to track him tightly near the end of the half. When that happens, someone else needs to step in. Otherwise, Arsenal will run out of ways forward."
Carragher jumped in then, a trace of scouse bite in his tone.
"Yeah, and you can already see Barca getting nervous, Kate. I mean, after that goal, they were on the ropes. Arsenal kept breaking the line, but it’s the final ball or the timing that’s just off. Saka’s gone early twice, Trossard’s missed one... that’s what’s killing them. In my opinion, Arsenal should have already had like 4 goals."
He pointed at the screen as a replay showed Saka straying offside by inches.
"See, there, he’s leaning, right? Just trying to anticipate. But that’s what Barcelona want. They play that high line; they want to bait you. And Arsenal are biting too easily."
Micah let out a light laugh.
"Still, though, you can’t tell me that wasn’t entertaining. Every time Izan touched the ball, the whole stadium was holding its breath!"
Kate smiled faintly, turning his way.
"That’s true, Micah. But do Arsenal need to rely less on those moments and more on structure?"
He nodded, trying to keep a straight face.
"Yeah, they do. But you can’t blame the others too much, when you’ve got someone playing like that, you want to give him the ball. It’s instinct. The thing is, though, he’s doing too much, he’s tracking back, he’s pressing, he’s carrying it fifty yards forward. It’s not sustainable. If he keeps that up, he’ll burn out before the 70th minute. He knows his body best, but we’ve played the games before, and this thing has its toll on the body."
Carragher gave a knowing grin.
"You think he’s burning out? Didn’t look like it when he sent De Jong to the shops."
The group chuckled lightly, and even Henry’s lips twitched for a moment.
Kate let the laughter breathe before steering them again.
"Barcelona, though, they’ve been clinical. Two goals from two key chances. Lamine Yamal getting that tap-in right after Izan’s equaliser... that’s a huge momentum swing."
Henry sighed softly.
"Yes. And that’s where experience at this level comes in. Look at what Hansi Flick does on the sidelines. He talked to his men, and Barca didn’t panic when Izan scored; they just went back to playing. They know finals. They know how to punish lapses. Arsenal lost focus for ten seconds, and that’s all it took."
Kate nodded, eyes shifting across the panel.
"So, second half, what do Arsenal do from here?"
Carragher jumped in again.
"Get control back. They’re pressing high, which is good, but they need to calm down when they win it. Izan is creating space, so they should use it smarter. Let him draw defenders, then find the spare man. If they keep forcing it to him every time, they’ll just play into Barca’s trap."
Micah added, "And I think they need to hit earlier. The build-up’s too slow sometimes. When they move it quickly, you can see Barcelona panic — you saw it when Ødegaard almost got through late on. They just need that final touch."
Kate nodded once more, wrapping things up as the studio screen behind them showed live footage from the stadium.
"Well, there you have it. A fascinating forty-five minutes. Barcelona lead, but Arsenal aren’t going away quietly, and with the way Izan’s playing, anything could happen. We’ll see if the Gunners can turn it around in the next forty-five. Stay with us."
.....
The air in the Arsenal dressing room felt heavier than the noise outside.
You could still hear the muffled chants, the faint rhythm of drums beating through the concrete, but in here, it was all shallow breaths and the faint squeak of boots shifting against the floor.
Arteta stood near the tactical board, arms crossed, eyes flicking between his players.
Ødegaard was sitting at the front, a cold compress with ice and Liminent pressed lightly over his toes as the physio crouched beside him.
The white wrap was stained slightly pink, faint but noticeable as Arteta exhaled quietly before walking over.
"How’s the leg?" he asked, his voice low, measured.
The Norwegian looked up with a tired grin, shrugging faintly.
"I’ll live," he said.
The joke was light, but there was a thin thread of pain behind the smile.
Arteta didn’t return it and just nodded once.
"You sure?" he asked again.
"Yeah. The blood just makes it look worse than it actually is. It’s fine."
He gave the leg a little shake as if to prove it. "I can play."
Arteta studied him for a moment longer before giving a curt nod.
"Alright," he murmured, glancing toward the assistant bench.
"Carlos."
Carlos Cuesta was already on his feet before Arteta finished speaking.
"Got it, boss," he said, heading toward the bench where the medical staff were sorting tapes and gels.
He didn’t need to be told twice that someone had to keep an eye on that injury now.
Arteta straightened his jacket, pulling a breath through his nose, and moved toward the centre of the room.
All eyes followed him instinctively as he stood still for a few seconds before speaking.
"This is my first Champions League final," he began, his voice calm but carrying a quiet tremor of truth.
"As a coach... and as a player. Honestly, I played like 6-7 games in the Champions League as a player."
That line landed softly, a reminder that even he, the perfectionist, had waited a long time for this.
His gaze swept slowly across the room.
From Gabriel to Saka’s twitching fingers, to Izan sitting still with a water bottle in his mouth.
"I know how much we’ve worked for this," Arteta went on.
"And I know we’re doing something right. You can see it in the numbers. We’ve created more chances. We’ve had more of the ball. We’ve had more expected goals."
He paused slightly, his tone tightening.
"So now it’s time to take out the ’expected’ part. And make them count."
A few faint nods rippled through the room as Arteta continued, softer now.
"Look, I don’t know if we’ll be here again next season. I hope we are. But football doesn’t promise anything."
He pointed toward the crest on his jacket.
"This badge doesn’t give you guarantees. You have to earn every moment. Every final. Every goal."
He turned then, eyes moving from one player to the next, locking with them for a beat at a time.
"So if we’re going to leave this stadium tonight," he said, his voice firming, "let’s leave it with no regrets. Not one. You hear me? Whether we win or lose, no one walks out wishing they’d done more."