Izan dropped off the front line again.
Not to drift, not to stall—but to crack Valencia's spine right where they'd built their wall.
He moved between the lines like vapour, dragging Mosquera a step too far, pulling Pietro out of shape.
Sosa, younger but seeing things players with more experience couldn't, barked an order, and Guerra tracked him tight, shoulder pressed into his back.
That's what they wanted.
Force him to face his own goal.
Force him to play with his back to theirs.
Most forwards don't survive that.
Izan wasn't most forwards.
He wasn't even a clear forward, and it showed in the way he evaded the attention of the Valencia midfield trio.
He let the ball come across his body, soft on the turn with three white shirts circling him now, almost too close.
With a second glance, Izan already knew where he wanted the ball.
