Izan lowered his head slightly, finally allowing a breath of a smile.
But even as they laughed around him, even as the trophy awaited them on the podium, his fingers kept touching the medal hanging from his chest, tracing the rim.
He'd earned it.
It wasn't as prestigious as the league trophy, the Champions League or the Euros, which he had won, but he had worked hard for it.
Through kicks. Through screams. Through suffocating triangles of defenders. Through chaos.
He had earned it.
And now, beneath the Wembley lights, beneath the ribbons of red and silver confetti starting to drift from the rafters above, the boy stood crowned.
Then Saka, of course, muttered, "Right, someone carry me. I'm not missing this photo."
The boys laughed—and the final act was about to begin.
The moment had arrived.
And as the captain placed both hands on the silver handles of the Carabao Cup, hoisting it to the night sky, the stadium erupted again—
