"Quick throw here," McManaman noted, almost talking over Fletcher's words. "They want to keep Valverde thinking—"
Nwaneri had already released it, and Izan met the ball in stride without even trapping it.
He let it drop just enough before flicking it high over the Uruguayan's head — a samba twist so sharp the crowd's noise pitched upward like a sudden gust.
"Ohhh, that's cheeky!" Fletcher laughed, voice breaking with it. "That's just—"
"That's why I'm still here," McManaman finished, half under his breath.
But even before the ball began to fall again, Izan's frame stilled.
His head tilted, a faint pause in his motion — not hesitation, but something else entirely.
The real move was brewing somewhere deeper, not in his feet but in that space between instinct and invention, the kind of pause where the air itself seemed to tighten because an idea was about to take shape.
"Ah, fuck," Odegaard muttered behind him, the words slipping out like he'd just seen a storm cloud forming.
