Arteta, after shaking hands with Xabi Alonso, had something else on his mind.
He spun towards Albert Stuivenberg, who was huddled beside the staff screen, checking updates from the other group match.
"Albert, what's the score?" Arteta asked, his voice quick, almost clipped from the adrenaline.
Stuivenberg glanced up, headset half-off, the faintest hint of a grin breaking across his usually composed face.
"Al Hilal drew. Two–two with Pachuca."
Arteta froze for a heartbeat.
Then, as realisation sank in, he let out a low breath, a smile tugging at his lips as he turned toward the pitch again.
"We're through," he murmured, mostly to himself, though the words carried in the noise.
On the pitch, Izan stood near the centre circle, hands on his hips, his chest still rising and falling from the last sprint of the match.
