Across London, the moment Di María's header found the net, a thunderous cheer erupted, surging into the night sky.
Pubs, homes, fan zones, streets, everywhere turned into one wave of noise. Flags lifted. Chairs scraped back. People spilled into aisles without thinking.
For a second, it felt like the city itself had leaned forward.
The goal had arrived too suddenly.
The goal had come so suddenly. The joy felt almost overwhelming.
. .
On the pitch, Di María turned first, arms wide, sprinting toward the corner flag.
Ángel Di María was shouting, face lit with adrenaline, before he was swallowed by teammates.
Le Kai arrived next, momentum carrying him straight into the group. He wrapped Di María up and dragged him down in a collapsing pile of red and white.
Bodies fell together.
Grass stains, laughter, shouting.
"Hey! Buddy! Look what you've done!"
"Are you trying to kill us with excitement?!"
"Goal! That's massive!"
"Champions! We are the Champions!"
"Don't say that yet! Don't jinx it!"
The pile broke apart slowly, players still smiling, still shouting, still refusing to let the moment settle into calm.
In the stands, Arsenal supporters could not contain themselves.
Some had their hands on their heads. Others were screaming until their voices broke. A few simply stood frozen, as if saying anything might ruin it.
Champions League.
The word kept repeating in their minds without permission.
It had never felt this close.
Alan Smith: "This is a historic moment for Arsenal. A club with a giant reputation, but still searching for this trophy for over a century. The criticism, the doubts, the pressure, it has all led to this stage."
"And now they are so close they can almost feel it. Twenty-seven minutes remain. That is all that stands between Arsenal and history."
"This is a defining moment for the Gunners."
"And now, they must not switch off."
. .
In the technical area, Arsène Wenger's usual composure had vanished. His cheeks were flushed, and his hands trembled slightly as he fought to contain his emotions. He turned quickly to the bench and pulled N'Golo Kanté forward.
Wenger gripped the Frenchman's shoulder firmly, his voice tight with tension. "N'Golo, listen to me. Once you're on the pitch, you have only one job: do not let them break through easily. Clear every ball out of our half. Protect this lead."
He paused, his eyes burning with intensity. "Twenty-six minutes, N'Golo. Just hold on for twenty-six more minutes… and then we will lift that trophy together."
Kanté nodded solemnly, feeling the weight of Wenger's cold, clammy hand on his shoulder — the unmistakable sign of how much tension the manager was under.
. .
Juventus were stunned. Even experienced campaigners like Buffon and Pirlo wore grim expressions. They had come so close to glory, only to fall behind again.
Gianluigi Buffon stepped forward first, shouting, his voice carrying across his teammates.
"Wake up! All of you!"
His hands chopped through the air.
"We do not give this away!"
Then he pointed forward, eyes burning.
"Attack! We score. That is the only answer!"
Pirlo remained outwardly calm, but deep frustration burned inside him. Falling behind once more — especially in such a manner — was unacceptable.
After the celebrations, both teams made substitutions.
For Arsenal, Sánchez came off, and Kanté entered the fray.
For Juventus, Vidal and Evra were replaced by Pereira and Coman.
Martin Tyler: "Both managers reacting to the goal. Allegri is going more attacking, while Wenger is looking to shore things up with Kanté's energy and Wilshere's creativity."
Alan Smith: "This final is living up to every expectation. With just over twenty-five minutes remaining, Arsenal lead 3-2, but Juventus will throw everything at them now. The next phase of this match will be decisive."
"Allegri is being far too conservative," The Italian commentator remarked. "We must strengthen the attack. There is no retreat left to us—we should introduce Llorente to bolster our offensive options!"
"Regardless of the substitutions or tactical adjustments, the instruction remains the same: attack! Score! That is the only priority now."
The Italian commentator's frustration was palpable. Juventus trailed once more. Since AC Milan's heartbreaking defeat in the Champions League final in Istanbul, another Italian club appeared on the verge of falling to a Premier League side.
The sense of dismay extended far beyond the commentator; across Italy, Serie A supporters shared a deepening anxiety.
Had the decline of Serie A become undeniable? The league, once celebrated as the best in the world, now risked descending into embarrassment. For many, a quiet pessimism took hold.
. . .
On the pitch, Kanté, who had just entered the game, noticed Le Kai bent over, hands resting on his knees.
Le Kai's hair was soaked with sweat, which streamed down his face in steady rivulets. His jersey clung tightly to his body, and his chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. Kanté could sense that his teammate was approaching his physical limit.
It was difficult to comprehend how Le Kai had just engaged in intense, close-quarters duels with Juventus forwards such as Morata in such a depleted state. Kanté doubted he himself could have endured the same.
"I need to conserve energy, so I'll be brief," Le Kai said, still leaning forward to maximise his recovery time. "You know what to do?"
Kanté nodded quickly. "Wenger briefed me."
Le Kai straightened slowly, wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, exhaled deliberately, and spoke with solemn intensity: "From now on, I won't be able to cover for you. You cannot afford mistakes. If problems arise, solve them yourself. We need teammates who fight alongside us, okay?"
Kanté's heart tightened at the words.
"Yes," he replied.
Kai managed a brief grin and gestured to himself. "As you can see, I'm nearly spent. The extra running will fall to you now."
"Don't worry, Captain," Kanté responded immediately.
Le Kai nodded. "Go. For the next twenty-six minutes, defend with everything you have—for the Champions League."
Kanté's expression grew profoundly serious. Though tension coursed through him, he felt resolute. Only a season earlier, he had been playing in Ligue 2. In a single year, he had made an extraordinary leap to the Premier League and now stood on the threshold of a Champions League final.
He was ready. Every player on the field was fighting for the same prize. Having rested for half the match, his role was clear: to support his teammates, not burden them.
"And Arsène Wenger has reinforced the defence," noted Martin Tyler, his voice tinged with nervous anticipation.
"It may appear conservative, yet it is the correct decision. Provided Arsenal avoid conceding, they will preserve their advantage. N'Golo Kanté's performances this season have been outstanding. Let us hope the young midfielder can solidify Arsenal's defensive structure."
Once the substitutions were complete, the match resumed. Juventus launched an immediate offensive from the restart. Setting aside their customary measured build-up, the Italian side pressed forward with urgency. Attack was now their only option.
Pirlo advanced repeatedly into the opposition half, seeking to unlock the Arsenal defence. Yet a young French midfielder suddenly dominated the centre of the pitch, covering vast distances and repeatedly disrupting Juventus's rhythm.
Where Le Kai had previously been the primary obstacle, Ngolo Kanté now fulfilled that role with relentless energy.
Pirlo grew increasingly exasperated. The attack advanced too slowly, heightening his anxiety, while his teammates' physical condition visibly deteriorated as the minutes ticked by. Beyond the eightieth minute, recovery would become even more difficult.
Desperate to accelerate the tempo, Pirlo shifted to more direct, long-range passes. However, the Arsenal defensive midfield pairing—Le Kai sweeping the backfield and Kanté pressing higher—intercepted or disrupted almost every dangerous delivery.
The gaps were tightly controlled. Slow, patient build-up was no longer viable; Juventus's urgency prevented any calm organisation of play.
. . .
. .
.
"They're starting to lose organisation! Hold your positions!" Le Kai shouted across the pitch.
Anxiety has a way of eroding discipline. Once it takes root, it rapidly manifests in tactics, decision-making, and even technical execution.
Juventus were now succumbing to this very emotion. Trailing in the scoreline, their desire to equalise had intensified into desperation. Arsenal's disciplined and stable defensive shape only amplified their frustration, driving them into increasingly frantic forward passes.
The once-fluid cooperation in Juventus's attacking third had collapsed. Tactical combinations and measured midfield interchanges had all but vanished.
Both Pirlo and Pogba repeatedly launched direct, telegraphed passes forward, their intentions glaringly obvious. This allowed Le Kai and Ngolo Kanté to anticipate trajectories with ease, positioning themselves for interceptions and tackles.
Under this rushed tempo, Juventus's attacks grew chaotic, while Arsenal steadily regained control and composure.
"Too anxious! Far too anxious!" the Italian commentator cried out. "They must stabilise and rediscover their rhythm!"
He could see the disintegration clearly. Tactical structure had dissolved into blind forward surges. Long-range shots sailed harmlessly over the bar, posing no threat to Arsenal's goal.
Without coordinated build-up play, even reaching the penalty area had become a formidable challenge. What Juventus needed most was calm. Yet under the pressure of a deficit, their focus remained fixed solely on Arsenal's net.
Even Pogba and Pirlo increased their long-shot attempts, though the quality had deteriorated markedly. Allegri, unable to tolerate the escalating disorder, bellowed from the touchline:
"Calm down! Slow it down!"
His instructions went unheeded. Every Juventus player had eyes only for the Arsenal goal. For a moment, Allegri considered substituting a player to deliver a direct warning, but the game continued without pause, leaving him powerless to intervene.
. .
In the stands, Arsenal supporters watched the pitch with unwavering focus—most eyes fixed on Le Kai. He could barely run anymore. Every movement was now timed with surgical precision, beginning a split second before the opponent released the ball.
His predictive positioning proved astonishingly accurate, bordering on prescient. Time after time, he arrived at the exact landing point to intercept or tackle.
"Kai is terrifying," Billy remarked, visibly awed.
Previously, many had attributed his dominance to sheer athleticism and tireless running. Only now, with reduced mobility, did the true extent of his reading of the game become apparent. It was less anticipation than prophecy.
Despite his laboured breathing and depleting stamina, Le Kai's reduced running allowed him to focus on critical interventions, supported ably by Ngolo Kanté.
His foresight reached its peak as he locked onto Pogba and Pirlo—the primary sources of distribution. The instant Pogba lifted his head, Le Kai made an instantaneous judgment.
Left side.
He surged toward Morata and occupied the landing spot before the striker could react.
"What's wrong with this guy?!" Morata muttered in frustration, shoving Le Kai aside. No matter how quickly he moved, Le Kai was always one step ahead.
Pogba wore a similar expression of annoyance. He wished to vary his passes, but the key zones were tightly patrolled by Arsenal's midfield duo.
Forced into predictable deliveries aimed at the forwards' strongest positions, he watched helplessly as Le Kai arrived first each time. The growing number of fouls reflected the rising physical tension between the sides.
.
Juventus fans watched in nervous agony, knowing an equaliser was essential to keep extra time alive. Arsenal supporters, by contrast, urged their team to hold firm. They needed only to protect this slender lead to claim the Champions League—a trophy that had long eluded them. The desire was overwhelming.
Once, Chelsea had paraded the trophy through London streets bathed in blue. Arsenal fans had watched with bitterness and envy.
That night, they lacked the quality to compete. Their previous best opportunity had slipped away through their own failings. Now, standing on the cusp of glory once more, they refused to let it escape.
Arsenal—a club renowned for attacking flair and aesthetic football—had always believed that a victory without beauty held little meaning. Yet here they were, thousands of voices united in a thunderous, rhythmic chant:
"Defend!"
"Defend!"
"Defend!"
They wanted this Champions League more than anything. For it, they would set aside their principles. Ugly football? Defensive posture? Accusations of "parking the bus"? None of it mattered.
The Champions League trophy had to belong to Arsenal!
That was enough.
. .
Thump!
In Juventus's half, Santi Cazorla collapsed after a challenge and remained on the ground, clutching his leg in agony. His face contorted in pain as he signalled desperately for a substitution.
Le Kai's expression shifted immediately. He rushed over. "How is it?"
"My leg… substitution!" Cazorla gasped.
The knee appeared structurally intact at first glance, yet Cazorla was not one to feign injury. The team doctor arrived swiftly, conducted a rapid assessment, and gave the referee a subtle shake of the head after several grim expressions crossed his face. Cazorla could not continue.
Le Kai gestured urgently toward the bench. "Substitution!"
Arsène Wenger, receiving the signal, promptly instructed Ramsey to warm up while also preparing Monreal. All three of Arsenal's substitutions would now serve defensive purposes. Wenger's intention was clear: protect the one-goal advantage at all costs.
Covering his face in visible distress, Cazorla accepted the inevitable. Le Kai placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
"Don't worry. Just wait to collect your Champions League medal at the end."
Cazorla nodded faintly, still shielding his face.
As Cazorla was helped from the field, Wenger asked the team doctor quietly, "How serious is it?"
The doctor paused. "We'll discuss it after the match."
Wenger frowned but nodded in understanding.
To maximise time, Arsenal delayed the restart. Ramsey and Monreal walked slowly to their positions.
The formation shifted to a compact 4-4-1-1.
With Cazorla, Di Maria, and Sanchez all withdrawn, only Wilshere and Suarez remained in advanced roles. The rest of the team committed fully to defence.
. . .
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