The Madrid supporters, who had been halfway to celebrating, sank back with groans and whistles of frustration.
"Magnificent recovery from Izan Miura Hernández," Fletcher's tone carried both admiration and disbelief, "He lost the ball but he sprinted half the length of the pitch to snuff out a Real Madrid counter — that's as good as a goal at the other end."
On the pitch, Izan was already pushing back to his position, a brief raise of the hand to acknowledge the noise before his focus reset.
The night had barely begun.
....
Up in the Emirates' VIP gallery, the glass muffled the bite of the London night, but not the pulse of the stadium.
Even here, the rumble of thousands could be felt through the seats, a reminder that this wasn't some polite dinner — this was a fight.
Hori sat forward with her palms meeting in a few eager claps after Izan's sliding recovery, her grin bright and unfiltered.
"That's my brother," she whispered, half to herself, half to Komi, who sat beside her.
