Chapter 799: Saka’s Conclusions.
The sun dipped gently over Munich, the Allianz Arena casting a soft glow even in the late afternoon.
On the far training pitch adjoining the stadium complex, Barcelona’s players moved through their drills, with the sharpness and intensity that only a final could conjure.
The sharp sound of boots brushing grass, the short bursts of Catalan chatter, and the whistle of an assistant cutting across the air all blended into a rhythm.
On the touchline, Hansi Flick stood, arms folded, eyes tracking a passing sequence between Pedri and Casado.
His assistant, Marcus Sorg, edged closer, a tablet in hand, before standing right beside the former Bayern Manager.
"They’ve been here for a day now," Sorg murmured, low enough that only Flick would catch it.
Flick didn’t shift his eyes from the pitch.
"That wasn’t their plan, was it?"
Sorg nodded.
"Came straight into Munich. A bit rushed. They were supposed to leave on Friday, but... well, you can guess why."
Flick allowed the faintest smile, the kind that almost disappeared before it properly appeared.
"They couldn’t let us settle without them breathing the same air."
Sorg chuckled under his breath.
"It does feel like they’re dancing to our tune. And if they are doing so off the pitch, it won’t be easy not to follow when we get them on the pitch."
Finally, Flick turned, gaze calm but sharp.
"Yeah, Marcus. It won’t be easy for them, but we also can’t get complacent. Fatigue lasts a day, maybe two. Adrenaline can carry a team through ninety minutes. What matters is how quickly they adjust here."
On the pitch, Lewandowski peeled away from his marker to meet a cross, his header smacking against the post with a thud that made even Flick’s brow crease.
Sorg scribbled a note, then said quietly, "Still, they’ve not trained properly since Wembley. That has to count for something. If we keep them chasing shadows, that recovery session they’ll squeeze in tomorrow won’t save them when we get on the pitch."
Flick’s eyes softened slightly as he watched Lamine Yamal skip past a defender, light on his feet, teasing the ball like it was an extension of himself.
"They’ll prepare a bit more. It’s very hard not to overthink when Arteta is this meticulous. He won’t let them come into this final blind. But we—" Flick raised a hand toward the players— "we can’t falter. We can beat them, but so can they. That’s how we’ve come this far. The high line, the press, the quick rotations... they’re not used to this pace, not over ninety minutes."
Sorg opened his mouth, like he wanted to say something more, but then he stopped.
Flick’s gaze flicked back to the pitch where Raphinha shouted for a ball, chesting it down before rifling a shot into the corner.
The players celebrated, but Flick’s expression remained steady.
"We have a good squad, capable of winning the final, but we will have to do more. A tad bit more, but that won’t even save us if we aren’t lucky."
"The boys will have to run. They’ll have to," he said, turning towards Sorg," because it will be very hard on them and me if we lose the finals with regrets."
Sorg looked at Flick, who turned towards the pitch as a whistle blast from the other Assistant overseeing the session cut across the pitch, the drill ending.
The players jogged toward the sideline, sweat darkening their training kits, voices bubbling with the energy of competition as Flick and Sorg stepped forward, ready to gather them, their conversation folding back into silence.
.....
"So let me get this straight," Saka’s voice carried across the dining room, pulling the attention of a few heads at the table.
His fork hovered mid-air, eyebrows arched as if he was presenting a case in front of a jury.
"We didn’t train today. Not even a light session. Just recovery, eat, sleep, repeat... and we’ve got three days until one if not the biggest match of our careers."
The players nearby glanced at him, some raising brows, others smirking, as Saka leaned back in his chair like he was onto something.
At that moment, the doors opened and Arteta stepped into the room, phone in one hand, a faint crease across his forehead as he scanned the tables.
Saka’s gaze locked on him instantly.
He stared, narrowing his eyes, until Arteta noticed and raised his own, meeting Saka’s with that unreadable calm.
For a second, the two just looked at each other.
Then Saka turned dramatically back to the group, shook his head, and dropped his voice into a mock-serious tone.
"Don’t you see? That’s not Arteta. That’s a secret agent from Barcelona, here to sabotage us before the final."
A ripple of laughter broke around the table as Zinchenko, sitting next to Saka, nearly choked on his drink.
Martinelli slapped the table, and even Raya grinned as he muttered, "You’re losing it, Bukayo."
Saka kept going, hands spread like he was revealing a great conspiracy.
"Think about it. Who tells a team, three days before the Champions League final, to... what? Rest? Nap? Take it slow? Nah, mate. That’s not Mikel. That’s a double sent from Barca HQ."
The chuckles spread wider, players shaking their heads but clearly entertained.
From across the table, Nwaneri tilted his head toward Ødegaard.
"Skip, you’ve talked with him, right? What’s going on?"
Ødegaard wiped his mouth with a napkin, then leaned back, his tone softer but with an edge of honesty.
"Yeah, I spoke to him. He told us to take things slow, trust the process. Says the sharpness will come. But..." He let out a quiet sigh, fingers drumming on the table.
"I’m itching for football. It’s strange, you know? This is my job. I’m not injured, not suspended, yet I haven’t touched a ball properly since the FA Cup final. And that’s been like what, four days ago?"
There was a murmur of agreement, a few nodding their heads.
Players didn’t hate downtime.
No, it was far from that.
But resting this much when the season hadn’t even ended felt unnatural, like their muscles forgot what they were meant to do.
Saka chuckled, leaning closer to the group.
"Well, someone here can’t say the same."
He jerked his chin toward Izan, a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"Man went out mid-afternoon today, when we were supposed to be recovering, just to sneak onto the little training pitch next to the sports science centre. Ball at his feet like nothing happened."
The table broke into fresh laughter, a few playful "oohs" rising.
Izan didn’t defend himself, just shook his head slowly, the faintest smile curling on his lips.
"That’s exactly what I mean," Saka said, pointing at him like he’d proven his case.
"Addict. Absolute addict."
Nwaneri leaned forward, trying to keep a straight face but failing as a grin spread across his face.
"You can take the man away from the ball, but you can’t take the ball away from the man. Especially if the man’s name is Izan Miura."
"Amen, brother," Saka said, adding a forced southern accent to it, causing the boys to chuckle around the table.
Izan finally leaned back, catching Nwaneri’s eye, and nodded casually toward the buffet area behind him.
"Speaking of addiction," Izan said, his voice calm but with a sharp edge of teasing, "those fish fingers you love might be gone if you don’t move now."
Nwaneri, still laughing, suddenly whipped his head around.
The staff were refilling trays, but one of the boys had already stacked a pile high on his plate.
Without hesitation, he bolted from his chair, jogging toward the buffet like a kid chasing the ice cream van.
The table erupted, laughter sounding once more as Nwaneri cleaned the tray on the table, behind them.
Munich, Germany – 6:50
Saka stretched his arms out wide, letting a loud yawn slip as he dragged his feet along the pavement.
The early chill of Munich clung to his skin, making the air feel sharper than he wanted at this hour.
He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand before glancing sideways at Izan, who looked annoyingly alert for someone who was supposed to be tired.
"Why are we even out this early, bro?" Saka muttered, his voice half-muffled by the yawn still clinging to it.
His eyes narrowed at Izan like he was hoping for a guilty admission, but Izan didn’t mind him too much.
He simply tilted his head toward Ødegaard, walking a few paces ahead of them with his usual calmness.
"Ask him, not me."
Saka frowned, shaking his head like he’d just been told a bad joke.
"Nah, don’t try to pass it off like that."
He jabbed a finger lazily toward Izan’s chest.
"You wear the armband too sometimes, at least like once or twice, but that is not the point? And let’s be real, you’re basically Arteta’s favourite son. If anyone knows why we’re up before the sun, it might as well be you."
Izan only gave the smallest shrug in reply, while Saka sighed, letting his arms flop down as his trainers scuffed the pavement, clearly not satisfied but too groggy to keep pressing.