Kroenke and Lewis turned their attention back to the training ground below, Wenger standing beside them in silent observation.
Just as they refocused, Izan received the ball at the edge of the box.
Odegaard, ever the orchestrator, had set him up with a precise layoff.
The pass rolled smoothly into Izan's stride, and without breaking momentum, he shifted his body weight—a subtle feint, a calculated angle.
Then, the shot.
A curler.
The ball left his boot with exquisite precision, bending with a controlled arc toward the far post.
Ramsdale reacted, stretching out, but the trajectory was untouchable.
The net rippled.
A sharp whistle cut through the air, followed by a collective murmur of admiration.
But Izan wasn't done.
Grinning, he took off toward the corner flag, his body shifting into a playful sprint.
Saka, already laughing, bolted after him, mock-chasing as if trying to stop him from celebrating.
