Izan dragged the ball through with the inside of his boot, ghosting by him in a blur.
Lascelles was the last line, and he stepped in with intent, cleats angled to pinch the space, but Izan chopped the ball, left to right, disguised in a blink.
A blur of ankles and a body that never broke stride.
Lascelles stumbled, spun slightly, and was gone from the picture.
"Oh, stop it. That's just cruel!" the commentator yelled, voice high with disbelief.
"He sent two Premier League defenders to the shops without even looking, wait and--!"
Now it was just Pope in goal, and the ball on Izan's left boot.
The keeper narrowed the angle, trying to close the gaps.
His weight leaned towards the far post, anticipating a shot to the top corner while covering the near post.
He had done everything right, and yet, that was his mistake.
Trying to do everything.
