The Greatest of all Time

Chapter 756: The Comeback Complete

In the 85th minute, with the stadium still buzzing, Zachary sprinted toward the corner flag, arms out wide, his face lit with joy and fire. His teammates came charging after him. Firmino got to him first, wrapping him in a hug, followed by Oxlade-Chamberlain and Robertson. Soon, the whole squad was there, piling around him in a wave of red.

All across the Liverpool end of Wembley, fans were on their feet, scarves waving, voices raised in unison. The celebration was more than just for a goal. It was relief, pride, and belief all rolled into one. With five minutes to play, they had finally carved out a big enough lead against one of the deadliest teams in Europe.

Back in the broadcast booth, the commentators could barely keep up.

"What a move. What a finish," one said, still catching his breath. "And what a performance from Zachary Bemba. He started that passage by escaping City's press with that smart dummy, and he ended it with a clinical finish inside the box."

"That whole sequence was Liverpool at their best," added the second voice. "Calm under pressure. Crisp passing. Triangles in motion. And look at how Zachary kept it all together. He didn't force it. Every touch had purpose. The pass to Oxlade-Chamberlain, the run into space, the timing…it was all spot on."

"Exactly," the first voice agreed. "It's not just the goals. It's the maturity in his game today. He's been involved in almost every dangerous Liverpool move. Two goals, countless key passes, and he's barely put a foot wrong."

"And this goal might just seal it. Five minutes left, and City now need something spectacular to turn it around."

Back on the pitch, the Liverpool players returned to their positions with a surge of energy. Zachary stood near the center circle, hands on hips, his heartbeat steady, his mind still locked into the rhythm of the match. He was ready to restart, ready to finish what he had started.

But on the touchline, Jürgen Klopp was already in motion.

The decision had been made during the goal celebration, just as Zachary had finished embracing his teammates near the corner flag. While the red section of Wembley roared and the Liverpool players jogged back toward the halfway line, Klopp turned to his bench and called out a name.

Naby Keïta was already pulling off his bib. One of the assistants waved toward the fourth official, who quickly prepared the electronic board. Klopp walked to the edge of the technical area, watching Zachary with a wide grin, nodding to himself as if confirming a plan that had been set long before the ball hit the back of the net.

Now, as the players gathered for the restart, the substitution board lit up on the sideline.

The number 8 glowed in red. A signal to the crowd. A message to the team.

Zachary looked over and saw his number. Then he saw Klopp waving, calling him over with a quick hand gesture.

He nodded once and jogged toward the touchline, his steps light, but his chest full. The crowd picked up on it almost instantly. The standing ovation began in pockets, then grew like a rising tide. The Liverpool fans in Wembley stood together, scarves lifted, voices carrying across the stadium in loud, sweeping applause.

As Zachary neared the edge of the pitch, Klopp met him just before he crossed the white line. The manager placed a firm hand on the back of his neck, pulling him in close.

"Brilliant, lad. You were smart and truly composed today," Klopp said, his voice low but intense. "Keep it up."

"Thanks, coach," Zachary smiled, still catching his breath. He reached out and clapped hands with Klopp, then turned to high-five Keïta, who was already charging onto the pitch.

He moved toward the bench slowly now, soaking in the ovation. Fans chanted his name. Some pounded the barrier boards. Others simply applauded with full hearts, as if welcoming back someone they thought they might not see again.

When he reached the bench, a staff member handed him a towel. He first high-fived hi teammates on the bench, then dropped onto the seat before draping the towel across his shoulders and letting the moment sit with him.

From there, he watched.

City pushed one final time, desperate to find a lifeline before the clock ran out.

Guardiola stood at the edge of his technical area, gesturing furiously, calling for urgency. Every City player, except Bravo, was positioned in Liverpool's half. They threw numbers forward with Stones and Walker joining the attack while Gündoğan sat just behind, ready to pick up scraps. As for De Bruyne, he roamed freely, trying to unlock one last gap.

The ball zipped from foot to foot, a flurry of passes designed to carve through the tightest of spaces. Sterling darted between defenders, looking to slip through on the inside. De Bruyne floated delicate balls into the danger zone, each one skimming the grass or dropping behind the back line like bait on a hook.

But Liverpool would not break.

Virgil van Dijk stood like a wall, reading every aerial pass, stepping in to clear anything floated his way. Joe Gomez tracked runners like a shadow, sticking to Jesus and Sterling with perfect timing. Fabinho dropped deeper and swept up every second ball that spilled loose, calmly turning chaos into control.

Robertson, still running like it was the first five minutes, chased down a long diagonal pass and booted it into the stands. On the other side, Alexander-Arnold blocked a low cross with his thigh, then cleared it high and wide before turning to shout his teammates back into position.

Time ticked down.

City earned one last corner in the 92nd minute. De Bruyne trotted over and raised his hand before delivering a vicious, curling ball into the box. Bodies collided in the air. Alisson punched it out through a crowd. It bounced toward the edge of the box where Bernardo Silva tried a first-time volley. But the strike soared harmlessly into the second tier of Wembley.

What followed were groans from the City fans and a deafening roar from the Liverpool end.

And then, at 93 minutes and 12 seconds, came the sound everyone in red was waiting for.

A sharp, high-pitched blast from the referee's whistle.

Arms shot up across the pitch. The tension snapped like a string, and the eruption followed. Red jerseys burst into celebration. Cheers thundered through the stadium, echoing off the concrete and steel.

Liverpool had won the Community Shield.

Final score: 2–0.

On the pitch, players embraced one another. Jordan Henderson dropped to his knees, fists clenched. Oxlade-Chamberlain and Alexander-Arnold hugged at the halfway line. Alisson raised both hands toward the fans, eyes closed, soaking it all in. Klopp charged onto the field and wrapped his arms around van Dijk, then Fabinho, his grin wider than ever.

On the sideline, the bench exploded in cheers. Players and coaches rose as one, clapping, shouting, fists pumping in unison. Zachary stood with them, eyes wide with pride, hands clapping slowly at first, then faster, until they stung. The feeling hit him not like a wave, but like a quiet surge rising through his chest.

He scanned the crowd, his eyes taking in the sea of red. The Liverpool end was wild. Flags waved in rhythm. Fans bounced, arm in arm, singing "You'll Never Walk Alone" with lungs full and hearts louder. Drums pounded from the corner section. Banners with player names stretched across the seats, rippling in the breeze. A thick stream of red smoke curled above them, dancing in the glow of the stadium lights.

Moments later, the official trophy ceremony began. A small team of stewards set up a temporary stage near the halfway line, just in front of the players' tunnel. The lights above Wembley shimmered against the polished panels of the platform. At the center, elevated on a clean white podium, rested the Community Shield. It gleamed under the floodlights, broad and round like a medieval knight's armor, its silver surface catching every flash of the cameras trained on it.

The Liverpool players, still buzzing from the final whistle, gathered near the touchline. They stood shoulder to shoulder, some with hands on hips, others chatting and laughing as they waited for the signal. Staff members ushered them into a line. When the announcer called them forward, they began the slow walk up the steps.

Zachary walked near the middle of the line, sandwiched between Fabinho and Alexander-Arnold. His boots clicked lightly against the wooden platform with each step. The sound was drowned out by the cheers rising from the red end of the stadium, where Liverpool supporters sang and chanted without pause, scarves raised like victory flags.

At the front, Jordan Henderson slipped the captain's armband back onto his bicep and approached the presentation table. An FA official greeted him with a handshake and a few words. Then, one by one, the players followed to receive their medals.

The air buzzed with flashes from the cameras. One by one, medals were looped around necks, each player receiving a nod, a quick word, or a smile from the officials. When Zachary's turn came, he stepped forward with quiet confidence.

The FA official smiled warmly as he hung the medal around Zachary's neck. His handshake was firm.

"Well played today," the man said. "Very well played."

Zachary offered a polite smile, thanked him, and moved along, feeling the slight weight of the medal rest against his chest. As he stepped back into the line of players, he turned toward the trophy.

A few moments later, with everyone in place, Henderson approached the stand, looked out over the sea of red and raised his hands toward his teammates. They answered with a round of applause and cheers. Then, without hesitation, he bent down, gripped the handles on either side of the shield, and raised it high above his head.

The eruption was instant.

Wembley thundered with noise. The Liverpool end exploded into celebration. Flags waved wildly. Fans leapt into the air, some wrapping themselves in scarves, others hoisting banners over their shoulders like capes. Flares burst into red smoke near the front rows. Above the stage, confetti cannons fired in perfect sync, releasing streams of red and silver that floated down like fireworks frozen in midair.

Zachary stood just behind Henderson, clapping with the rest of the squad. But his eyes were not on the trophy. Not yet. He turned his gaze toward the far side of the stadium, toward the tunnel entrance, scanning the crowd.

And then he saw them.

Kristin stood a few rows up, hands raised, a wide grin stretched across her face. Her eyes locked with his, and she waved with both hands, mouthing something he could not hear but didn't need to. Beside her, Mr. Stein stood with arms folded across his chest, nodding slowly, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. There was no cheer, no shout, but just quiet approval from a man who had seen enough football to know what mattered.

Zachary's heartbeat settled. A deep calm replaced the pulse of adrenaline. He turned back toward the trophy as Henderson lowered it slightly and invited the rest of the squad to gather around. Zachary stepped forward with the others, hands resting on the shoulders beside him. The shield was passed down, and when it came to him, he placed his hand gently against its cold surface.

It was smooth and solid beneath his fingers. Real. Earned.

He did not close his eyes. He kept them open, watching the confetti fall, hearing the cheers ring, feeling the pulse of the moment.

He was finally fully back. And he now had full confidence to take on the new season.