God Of football

The dining hall had thinned out, but not by much.

Plates were empty, cups were half-filled with orange juice or coffee that had long gone cold, and the players, still buzzing from the energy and vibes Saka's return had brought, lingered around in groups.

Some leaned against tables, others slouched in their chairs, laughter and low chatter weaving through the space like background music.

Nwaneri was telling a story about the last time he tried to cook for himself, and the table erupted again when Martinelli mimed the smoke alarm going off.

Even Arteta, watching from the far end of the room with his arms folded, couldn't help but shake his head and smile.

But then, as the laughter softened, his tone shifted.

"Alright, boys," he said, his voice calm but clear enough to cut through the noise.

"Fun's good, but we've got something important to do before training."

Arteta set his cup down, glancing briefly at the clock on the wall, which showed the time at 12:42.

"Chelsea–Palmeiras kicks off in less than twenty minutes," he said.

"We're going to watch it together. Both are possible opponents, and I want you to see what they do when they're under pressure, how they move, how they switch, how they adapt. You'll pick up things on your own, but as a team, we'll talk through what we notice."

"Chelsea, we know them, but Palmeiras is a whole team from another continent playing another brand of football from ours."

The players nodded, some scraping to finish whatever was still left of their breakfast.

And then, within minutes, chairs scraped back as the player got up and then made their way towards the conference room that had been turned into their tactical retreat centre, their footsteps echoing softly against the marbled floor.

When they reached the conference room, the lights were dimmed and the massive screen at the front was already glowing with the pre-match broadcast.

"Welcome, everyone, to the Lincoln Financial Field Stadium, here in Philadelphia," one of them was saying.

"It's a beautiful afternoon here, and we've got a massive semifinal on our hands, Chelsea of England taking on Palmeiras of Brazil, two sides with everything to prove."

The players began finding their seats.

Some sank into the couches lining the back of the room while others sat forward, elbows on knees, watching closely.

Arteta stood near the screen, remote in hand, arms crossed as he took in the early shots of the two teams warming up.

Chelsea in blue.

Palmeiras in their traditional green, while the roar of the crowd came through the speakers like a tide.

As the camera panned across the stadium, Arteta turned slightly, scanning his players.

"Pay attention," he said simply.

"This could be key to how you guys see things and approach them when you get on the pitch with either team."

Then he stepped aside, letting the broadcast take over.

The commentary rolled on, "You can feel the tension already… Palmeiras love playing against big European teams, and it has already been shown by their ability to turn up against top-tier clubs. Let's hope they can do more or the same here and just do enough to knock Chelsea out, while the latter team tries to do the same."

A few minutes of pre-match pleasantries saw the game start only after some time had passed, while Arteta stood on the side, letting what he wanted his men to see known.

"Watch their buildup," he said, voice calm but cutting through the quiet as Victor Roque slipped the ball behind to Facundo Torres.

"See how quickly they switch once they break the first press? Palmeiras will test that space in behind if we're not careful."

The players nodded, some leaning forward, others lazily sipping from water bottles.

Izan sat two rows back beside Rice and Gabriel, his gaze darting between the screen and the manager's gestures.

The match began to open up after ten minutes, Chelsea slowly findingtheir rhythm, their midfield pushing with the kind of purpose Arsenal knew too well.

Then, in the sixteenth minute, it happened.

A loose ball near the box saw the quick and shifty Cole Palmer, who had been mostly silent for the first 15 minutes of the game, slot home with that unbothered calm that's become his trademark.

"Ah, my guy," Saka muttered with a half-smile, tapping his chest as the room broke into light murmurs.

"That's my dude."

A few laughs followed, mostly good-natured, while on-screen, Palmer stood frozen in his "cold" celebration, arms crossed, face still.

Arteta turned slightly, the faintest grin flickering before he spoke again.

"You see the positioning? That's instinct, but also repetition. They've drilled that run a hundred times. Be aware of those half spaces. Chelsea have mostly Cole Palmer as their creative hub, so disrupt that and we have bank."

The players' focus tightened again, and for the next stretch, Palmeiras responded, pushing harder, quicker, direct, dangerous on the break.

One curling shot brushed just over the bar while another forced a strong save, but Chelsea held firm until the end.

By the time the referee blew for halftime, the score stayed 1–0.

The screen dimmed into commercials, and the mood loosened.

Some players stretched, while others, like Martinelli, stood and headed out into the hallway, arms raised above his head as he yawned.

Saka followed a moment later, joking about needing "something sweet" to survive another half of watching Chelsea.

Others lingered, talking, scrolling, or just leaning against the wall, minds half on the game, half on what awaited them later.

Outside, the corridor carried the muffled buzz of conversation, but slowly, one by one, they drifted back in as the second-half feed flickered back onto the big screen, where the commentary swelled again, the Lincoln Field crowd roaring faintly through the speakers, and by the time the referee lifted his whistle to his lips, everyone had found their seats.

The second half, though, picked up with a different kind of energy, sharper, quicker, heavier.

Palmeiras came out like a team that had been stung, pressing higher, snapping into challenges, their forwards moving with real intent.

They kept causing several troubles for Chelsea, hoping one would materialise into something bigger, and then just eight minutes in, they found their moment.

Estevao, the Palmeiras player playing against his future club, was hoping to impress before joining.

With a burst down the right, riddled with pace, control, and purpose, the Palmeiras winger cut past Cucurella with a slick feint before driving into the box, sticky a hand out to keep Colwill at arm's length while the latter stuck his leg out for the challenge a couple of times.

The ball bobbled, just slightly, but Estevao didn't hesitate.

With his right foot, he smashed the ball hard and high, the kind of strike that doesn't give keepers a chance.

It tore into the roof of the net at the near post, squeezing through the tightest of gaps past Roberto Sánchez, who barely flinched before the ball was already behind him.

Back in the conference room, the place erupted in a low chorus of whistles at the power of the shot they had just seen.

"Damn," Saka muttered, shaking his head.

"That was a rocket," Rice said, grinning a little in disbelief.

Even Arteta gave a slow nod, watching the replay as the ball hit the net again in slow motion, with the sound of it seemingly echoing louder than the original none.

"Near post," Raya said under his breath, arms crossed. "He's not saving that even if he guessed right."

On the screen, the Palmeiras players celebrated wildly near the corner flag, their bench on its feet.

It was 1–1, and the energy in the room had shifted.

The calm focus was replaced by a hum of interest, the players leaning forward now, genuinely drawn in.

As the restart whistle blew, the game opened up completely.

It was chaos, in the best way.

End-to-end.

Chelsea hit back with their wide play, moving the ball quickly through the lines, while Palmeiras stayed dangerous on the counter, their forwards darting between spaces.

"Now this," Jesus said with a grin, tapping his knee. "Now it's proper football."

For a while, it looked like Palmeiras might turn it around entirely.

But then, one wild sequence flipped it the other way.

Chelsea pushed forward, with Neto whipping a cross in low from the left, bodies flying everywhere in the box, and as Weverton slid to cut it out, the ball ricocheted awkwardly off his knee and spun backwards into his own net to make it 2 for Chelsea on the night as a moment of silence enveloped the grounds after that.

Then groans from the Palmeiras defenders, while the Chelsea bench exploding in disbelief.

"Ah, that's tough," Saka muttered, running a hand through his hair.

Arteta exhaled quietly.

"That's pressure," he said, almost to himself.

The scoreboard flickered, Chelsea 2, Palmeiras 1, and the game carried on, but that was all the events of the game as Chelsea held on in the remaining moments while Palmeiras failed to capitalise on their chances at the end.