God Of football 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.

she said, peering into the camera on her.

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.

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.

he said simply.

Micah gave a short chuckle, shaking his head.

Henry replied, calm but firm.

Kate nodded lightly, her tone guiding the flow without forcing it.

Henry tilted his head.

Carragher jumped in then, a trace of scouse bite in his tone.

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 . They play that high line; they want to bait you. And Arsenal are biting too easily."

Micah let out a light laugh.

Kate smiled faintly, turning his way.

He nodded, trying to keep a straight face.

Carragher gave a knowing grin.

The group chuckled lightly, and even Henry’s lips twitched for a moment.

Kate let the laughter breathe before steering them again.

Henry sighed softly.

Kate nodded, eyes shifting across the panel.

Carragher jumped in again.

Micah added,

Kate nodded once more, wrapping things up as the studio screen behind them showed live footage from the stadium.

.....

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."