The ball, set down by Izan, had barely stopped rolling before Ødegaard and Rice jogged over, shielding Izan slightly from the Valencia crowd buzzing just behind the advertising boards.
"Alright," Ødegaard started, crouching a little.
"Let's not take the hit. Play it short and we recycle it."
"Yeah," Rice added, pointing toward the left channel.
"Pull them wide and get Nwaneri on the switch. They're backing off, they'll collapse if we feed it in."
They were talking tactics but Izan wasn't hearing a word.
He just stood there.
Staring at the ball.
To the others, it looked normal.
Still.
Resting on the patchy green turf, waiting to be touched again.
But to Izan, it was different.
The world around him blurred slightly, crowd noise fading into a low hum.
The ball sat like a glowing core.
Lines began to form—angles, curves, invisible arcs from his boot to the top corner of the goal.
They shifted, flickered, and bent across the air like paths waiting to be chosen.
