Izan's knee dipped and buckled.
He hit the turf with a short exhale.
The whistle blew hard.
The foul was clear.
The ball was still spinning, half a yard from where Izan landed.
He got up.
Fast.
Didn't look at the referee.
Didn't wait.
Saka was already moving.
Izan's boot came under the ball, quick and quiet, and he pinged it low and clean across the pitch.
Not floated—fired.
The ball curved once, skipping just slightly off the grass.
Saka didn't stop.
He didn't settle.
He let it bounce once and struck it first time—laces through the ball, his body perfectly shaped, like the whole thing had been rehearsed a thousand times in his backyard.
The strike was devastating.
It rose just slightly, then dipped—hard and sudden—at the far post.
Kelleher dove. Konaté slid.
Neither touched it.
The ball crashed into the side netting.
The Emirates didn't cheer.
Not at first.
It burst.
A sound that came from thousands of people losing their minds at once.
