God Of football Chapter 863: Semi Final Action.

The next day, the rain came down like it had a point to prove.

What started as a drizzle over the training pitch soon turned into a full downpour, slicking the grass and soaking through jerseys.

But the session didn’t stop.

If anything, it got louder, boots splashing, voices cutting through the wet air, the smell of rain thick in every breath.

Izan was in the middle of it all, grinning like someone who didn’t care about getting drenched.

He had been sharp all evening, but now, under the floodlights and rain, it was like something had clicked so much more than it had earlier.

His movements were too quick to read, something between a blur of movement and barely trackable.

"Oi, someone get him!" Neto shouted from the side, laughing as Izan skipped past another tackle.

Saliba tried stepping in, and Gabriel joined him, the two of them closing the space, their training kits clinging to their skin, but Izan barely looked up.

One quick drag, a feint, and he slipped right between them, the ball glued to his foot even as water splashed up from the turf.

Saliba turned, Gabriel lunged, and both missed.

Izan kept going, the rain running down his face, eyes locked on Raya.

"Close it! Close it!" Arteta shouted, clapping from the touchline.

Raya rushed forward, sliding low, but Izan just lifted the ball past him with the lightest touch and rolled it into the net like it had been planned that way all along.

The whole squad burst out laughing and shouting.

"Bro’s playing like it’s dry out here!" Saka yelled, shaking his head.

"Pass the ball next time!" Gabriel called out, grinning even though he’d just been twisted inside out.

Izan jogged back, breath visible in the cold, rain dripping off his untied hair.

"Can’t do the ball justice if I pass after going on a run like that!" he shouted back, earning a few mock boos from his teammates.

Arteta clapped again, still smiling, but he lifted his voice over the noise.

"Alright, enough! Close it there!" he called out.

"We don’t need anyone catching something stupid before the game!"

The players slowed, still joking and teasing each other as they made for the sidelines.

The rain was heavier now, a steady roar on the roof of the bare dugout.

Izan grabbed a towel from the bench, still half-smiling, that restless spark still in his eyes, like even the rain couldn’t wash it off him.

"Not that it’s not always like this, but whatever extra you ate today", Saka said, laughing as they walked off, "eat it again tomorrow."

Izan just shook his head, towelling his hair.

"What, the gummy bears?"

Saka just looked at Izan questioningly before turning towards the pitch where the rain pellets were in a war with the grass.

....

"They’re Here!", roared a voice in the crowd as the Chelsea bus rolled into the MetLife under a humid gray sky, threatening rain but held it back just enough to make the cold.

A sea of blue waited near the entry barricades, fans in jerseys, scarves, some holding signs that flapped in the faint wind.

The second the Chelsea bus door hissed open, the noise hit like a wave.

"Come on, Chelsea!" someone yelled from the front, voice cracking but proud.

Another fan, a kid maybe eleven or twelve, lifted a poster that read,

The first few players stepped down: Reece James, Cole Palmer and Enzo.

Phones shot up everywhere, fans leaning forward for a glimpse or maybe a photo.

"Reece! Over here, mate! Big fan!" a man called out, waving a flag.

James grinned, walked closer, and signed the edge of it.

"You came all the way from London for this?" he asked.

"Nah, Jersey born and bred," the man laughed. "But I’ve been following you since your first game!"

"Then you’ve seen too many of my bad games, too," Reece said, laughing as he passed the marker back before moving on.

Behind him, Enzo Fernández had been stopped by a group of Argentine fans, their voices mixing Spanish and English as they called his name.

"Enzo, una foto, por favor!" one woman asked, her son clutching a Chelsea shirt.

He crouched slightly so the kid could get in the frame, flashing a small smile before patting him on the shoulder.

"Gonna need you to wear that when we win tonight, eh?"

The boy nodded so hard he nearly dropped the phone, and Enzo laughed as he walked toward the tunnel.

A cluster of reporters waited by the side barriers, voices layered over one another.

"Coach, quick word before kickoff?" one shouted as Enzo Maresca stepped off the bus.

He hesitated, straightened his jacket, then smiled faintly.

"Just a few words," he said, walking toward them.

"Big night tonight, Maresca," one reporter said. "How’s the mood in the camp?"

"Good mood. Confident. The boys understand what’s at stake. Arsenal’s a strong side, but we came prepared," Maresca fired away before walking off, with the reporters turning their attention to Reece James, who came next.

"You expecting a tactical battle or more of a scrap?".

"Maybe both," he replied, smiling slightly. "It’s a final. It’s never only tactics. It’s heart."

The reporters thanked him as he moved toward the tunnel, where a few of his staff waited.

Inside, the sound shifted, muffled by the walls and concrete.

The smell of fresh turf drifted from the pitch side.

Some of the players slapped each other on the back, loosening up.

Joao Pedro joked with Jackson about the noise outside, laughing as they tugged at their training tops.

"Bro, it feels like Wembley out there," Jackson said, shaking his head, while Joao Pedro chuckled behind him.

"And I thought their football or Basketball was the biggest," Neto muttered as he passed the duo.

"By the way, when them boys from the north going to get here?" Tosin said to no one in particular as he passed by, and so all he got were stares and no replies.

.....

Away from the pitch, the ESPN desk buzzed with that familiar energy that only comes before a big game.

Lights washed over the panel, the MetLife Stadium crowd murmuring in the background through the live feed.

The camera cut to the hosts, three pundits sitting around the curved glass desk: Dan Thomas in the middle, with Shaka Hislop and Steve Nicol on either side.

Dan began, flashing a grin,

Shaka leaned back slightly, adjusting his mic.

Steve nodded, arms crossed.

Dan tilted his head, smirking.

Steve shot back with a laugh,

Shaka chuckled.

Steve said, tapping the table.

Dan shuffled his notes.

Shaka didn’t hesitate.

Dan said with a chuckle.

Steve leaned forward, frowning in thought.

Dan raised an eyebrow.

The crew laughed, their banter light but knowing.

Behind them, the camera panned out to the stadium lights flickering on, the pitch gleaming under the drizzle.

Dan said as they wrapped up,

Shaka added with a grin.