"Arsenal thought they had it! They thought the ball was over the line—but now look at Paris! Kvaratskhelia's away! They've turned defence into attack in the blink of an eye!"
The Georgian's stride ate the turf like a predator hunting prey, each step a blur under the floodlights.
The Arsenal backline was in disarray, caught flat by the sudden surge for the corner.
Izan, who had taken the corner seconds earlier, was already tearing across the pitch, lungs heaving as he chased.
He had given Kvaratskhelia a forty-yard head start, yet somehow he was closing, boots drumming the grass in desperate rhythm.
The crowd roared with every heartbeat of the race, one half urging the Georgian on, the other screaming for Izan to catch him.
The duel carried an aura of inevitability; both men knew it.
Kvaratskhelia, clever as ever, sensed the shadow closing in and refused to risk being swallowed whole, so he veered slightly, shaping his body, before lashing his foot through the ball.
