Footbal: Arsenal - Chapter 62: Arteta Steals the Spotlight! (Patreon)

Mourinho had studied Kieran carefully before the match. He knew the youngster's most dangerous weapon was his ability to surge forward with the ball at extraordinary speed.

The bicycle kick and that spectacular curling free kick had caught him by surprise, of course. But no manager could plan for every piece of individual inspiration a player might produce on the pitch.

What Mourinho had expected, based on Kieran's previous performances, was a sudden driving run during the middle or closing stages.

In fact, he had been certain Kieran would attempt one sooner or later. He simply hadn't expected the boy to hold back all the way until stoppage time.

The Madrid manager had already moved toward the touchline, watching the action intently.

Kieran had called for passes several times that evening. But the instant he raised his hand this time, Mourinho recognized the difference.

He began signaling frantically while shouting instructions to his players.

“Change shape! Drop back! Shut down the space!”

Most of the Madrid players heard him.

So did Kieran.

He understood that every new appearance gave opponents more information about him. Clubs would study his habits, his strengths, and the moves he favored until they knew his game inside out.

But knowing what a player intended to do wasn't the same as being able to stop it.

Mourinho wasn't out there playing himself. There was inevitably a delay between his decision and the players hearing his orders.

Then came another delay as they processed those instructions and adjusted their positions.

For Kieran, that was ample time to accelerate.

Once he was moving at full pace with the ball, bringing him to a halt became much more difficult.

He charged forward.

Before Madrid's midfield could tighten its shape, Kieran spotted a route through the available gaps and committed to it.

His teammates did their part, pulling defenders out of position and opening space around him.

At least six red-and-white shirts, Kieran among them, were streaming forward through midfield and into attack.

Mourinho could see that his midfielders weren't going to stop the run, yet he remained relatively calm.

He had also ordered his defenders to compress the space near the penalty area. Ramos, Pepe, and the rest had begun closing the gaps immediately.

By the time Kieran approached the goal, Mourinho expected every shooting lane to have been sealed.

Tommy Smyth marveled at the contest in the commentary booth. “What reactions from both teams! Arsenal make their move and Madrid answer immediately. This is the sort of battle between attack and defense you expect from two great clubs!”

“Kieran's in danger now. Five Madrid defenders are waiting for him, and they're positioned beautifully, each covering the others. There doesn't look to be a way through. Madrid certainly don't intend to concede another goal at the death!”

Kieran knew perfectly well how difficult the task ahead looked.

On his own, he couldn't have reached the goal even if he had wings.

Fortunately, he wasn't alone. He played for a team that specialized in keeping and moving the ball.

Coordinated passes could overcome disadvantages that individual brilliance couldn't.

He could exchange quick passes with his teammates, force Madrid to spread their defenders, and then search for a chance to shoot. It was a perfectly sound idea.

But it wasn't the option he trusted most.

Instead, Kieran chose what he considered the safest route to a goal.

He cut diagonally inward from the left, racing straight toward Madrid's penalty area.

The defenders shifted with him.

He was moving so quickly that his outline seemed almost to blur. To the men facing him, the oncoming figure looked like a force of nature.

Supporters braced themselves. It seemed certain that the two sides were about to collide.

And at precisely that instant, Kieran flicked his foot.

He released the ball!

Without glancing down or noticeably breaking stride, he slipped a quick backheel toward a teammate running behind him.

He hadn't checked who was there. He simply trusted that someone in an Arsenal shirt would arrive in the right position to receive it.

The Madrid defenders didn't notice a thing.

How could they? Kieran was still flying toward the goal as though the ball were attached to his boots.

He kept up the deception, never slowing his steps. Everything about his movement suggested he was determined to dribble right through the defensive wall.

The television cameras offered a better view, although even the cameraman was fooled for a moment.

The lens stayed fixed on Kieran until a second red-and-white figure, slightly behind and to the side, brought the ball under control. Only then did the operator realize where it had gone and whip the camera across.

“Am I watching a magic trick?” Jamie cried. “How did the ball get over there? That pass was almost impossible to see!”

“Wait, who's received it? Is that... Arteta? Mikel Arteta? When did he get there? Since when could he run that fast?”

Arteta, in fact, wasn't particularly fast.

Put him in a race against Kieran, and the tortoise-and-hare comparison would stop being a fable and start looking like documentary footage.

But Arteta knew his young teammate.

Toward the end of the match, he'd pushed his position a little higher, helping circulate possession around midfield and the attacking third.

When Kieran raised his hand for the ball, Arteta was already far enough forward to supply the pass.

The moment Kieran took off, Arteta ran forward as well.

He went from being ahead of Kieran to following behind him. Admittedly, that had something to do with Kieran overtaking him at astonishing speed.

Still, Arteta had managed to stay involved!

As Arsenal's organizer on the pitch, he had an instinctive understanding of where everyone ought to be.

He'd also watched Kieran's passing habits countless times in training. Receiving that backheel was not the miracle it appeared to be.

The spectators, of course, had no way of knowing any of this.

To them, the ball had simply materialized at Arteta's feet.

When had Kieran passed? When had Arteta arrived? How could the youngster have known someone would be there? Had the television broadcast actually skipped a few frames?

There was no time to puzzle over it.

The moment Arteta collected the ball, every viewer was waiting to see what he'd do next.

“Arteta controls it!” Tommy Smyth shouted. “Will he pass... No! He's going to shoot!”

“It's a surprise strike! A low drive skimming the turf! The Madrid defenders haven't even reacted!”

“The goalkeeper can see it coming. He's reaching for it!”

“Unless his arm has suddenly grown another twenty inches, he's not getting to that one!”

Clive Tyldesley's voice rose above the noise. “GOAL! Mikel Arteta! What a clean, decisive finish along the ground! Arsenal have struck again at the very end, and now they lead by three!”

On the pitch, Kieran was the first to react.

He spun around, sprinted back toward Arteta, and launched himself straight into his teammate's arms.

The impact nearly knocked Arteta flat on his backside.

A moment later, the referee pointed and blew his whistle.

Peeeeep!

The goal counted.

In the third minute of stoppage time, Arsenal had scored again.

Arsenal 3, Real Madrid 0.

Emirates Stadium exploded.