Izan stayed still as the wall was set.
Four City players stood firm—Stones, Dias, Gvardiol, Nunes—all just over six feet but trying to make themselves ten.
Ederson shouted final adjustments, waving his left arm as he stepped half a yard off-center, crouched low, hands twitching at his sides.
Izan stood still, eyes alternating between the net and the ball on the grass.
The Emirates didn't cheer now; it waited, silently hoping that their expectations would be met as the quiet tension inside the stadium sharpened.
The whistle soon blew, and Izan moved.
One step.
Two steps.
Three, then the strike—right foot through the valve, textbook clean.
The ball climbed.
Not high.
Just enough to ghost the edge of the wall as Gvardiol's hair fluttered in the slipstream.
Then it dropped.
Sudden, sharp with a violent curve.
The dip caught the air wrong.
Or right.
Depending on who you asked.
Ederson reacted with a quick switch and lunge, left hand extended, body parallel to the grass.
