"Arsenal lead at the break. One goal to nil. But something tells me there's more to come, and Marco Silva and his men are in for a ride here at the Emirates"
Behind that voice, the screen replayed it again: Izan gliding past one, two, three shirts, dragging the ball onto his right boot with the lightest touch, before sliding it across to Martinelli on his left — the Brazilian thumping the shot low.
A deflection, a keeper's outstretched leg, and then Cuenca scrambling it away just in time. No second goal. Just another gasp.
As the players disappeared down the tunnel, and the crowd thinned toward the food stalls and staircases, there was still a kind of charge in the air — like the stadium hadn't quite exhaled from what it had seen.
A match not decided, but it looked all but certain.
........
[Away dressing room]
"Okay, guys… listen up."
Marco Silva's voice cut through the low murmurs and the hiss of boots being unlaced.
