But then, Connor was there, standing next to him, his hand on the ball, his face a thunderous mask of defiance.
"Let me take it," he said, his voice a low, insistent demand that was audible even from the touchline. Eze, his own pride now a raw, exposed nerve, just shook his head, his refusal a silent, final declaration of war.
The argument was a brief, ugly, public spectacle, a horrifying, slow-motion car crash that the two hundred travelling Palace fans watched in stunned, disbelieving silence. In the end, Eze, as the designated taker, won the battle of wills.
Connor, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated fury, stormed away, taking up a position on the edge of the box, his body language a screaming, petulant display of dissent. Eze, his concentration shattered, his rhythm broken, took the free kick.
