On the Arsenal dugout, Sterling leaned back against the padded bench, one leg stretched lazily over the other, his training top zipped halfway as if to remind everyone he was still easing back from injury.
He caught Izan sitting forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes unblinking as they tracked the movements on the pitch like a hawk tracing prey.
The veteran shook his head, a grin tugging at his mouth.
"Mate," he said loud enough for the lads nearest to hear, "if Mikel doesn't put him on soon, I swear we'll see the gaffer's face plastered on the six o'clock news, and his mugshot right next to it. The whole country'll think you lost the plot and finished him off in the dressing room."
The nearby players erupted with Jakub Kiwior doubling over with a wheezing laugh, while Neto, who was sat two seats away, slapped his glove against his thigh with a bark of amusement.
Ethan Nwaneri, wide-eyed and always quick with the cheek, leaned closer, grinning.
