"Here! Here!" Rice's voice cut through the din, sharp and clear above the rolling chants.
Martinelli had the ball in his hands near the touchline, eyes flicking between the moving shadows in Arsenal's black away kits.
He rocked back and forth on his heels, shuffling momentarily, weighing his options.
Then, with a quick whip of his arms, he hurled it toward Rice, who took a touch, but that was all it was, a touch, before he swung his boot through the ball, sending it arcing high into the Madrid box.
It dropped into chaos.
Like a pinball machine, the ball ricocheted straight back out, Rudiger rising like a wall of muscle to thump it away with a thunderous header.
Below him, the drop zone erupted into a mess of limbs and jostling bodies, black and white shirts all clawing for the falling ball.
Izan braced himself, eyes on the descending ball.
His legs coiled, ready to leap, to meet it with the crown of his head.
But then—something caught his eye.
