It came down with frost still clinging to its leather.
Rice's pass floated, spun, and dropped like it had been caught in a gravity that only Izan understood.
He didn't break stride.
He let it fall onto his chest like it belonged there, soft and controlled.
The ball kissed his torso and rolled into space, just ahead of him before he shifted—sharp, clean—hips turning, arms flaring slightly for balance, and then—
Izan's boot rose and sliced through the air with a sharp crack, something in between a missile and a knuckleball.
The ball lifted off his boot like it had teeth, zooming straight toward the far post, too late for all who blinked and everyone did.
Even the commentators stuttered for a half-second, voices caught between breath and disbelief.
"Wait—wait, he's hit that—"
"OH MY—what a strike!"
And just as the Emirates began to rise—
A hand.
Not just a hand—a stretch.
Pope's arm flung across the space like it had no joint, no limit.
