Izan didn't sprint or throw himself into a wild celebration.
Instead, he jogged toward the corner flag with a measured calmness, every step drawing more fury from the Palace section tucked behind that side of Wembley.
When he reached the corner, he stopped, leaned casually against the flagpole like it was nothing more than a lamppost on a late-night stroll, and extended a finger straight at the Palace fans before him.
The response was instant.
Middle fingers shot into the air as voices rang out with insults and jeers, a wall of anger being hurled in his direction.
But Izan only laughed, a short shake of the head, the grin widening across his face.
He didn't need to say a word because the scoreboard behind him did all the talking.
Saka arrived first, tugging at his shirt with a laugh before throwing his arms around him.
And soon, Rice followed, clapping the back of his head, while Martinelli and Havertz piled in from the sides.
