At first, it was subtle, Odegaard overhitting a ball into space, Rice curling one just a fraction too far ahead.
But then it became deliberate.
The ball was being sent in ways that demanded something abnormal, as though they were testing him, trying to coax the same strange burst out again.
Izan felt it, knew exactly what they were doing.
But he wasn't interested in chasing after every exaggerated pass.
Instead, he let most roll harmlessly away, his expression unreadable.
If they wanted to play games, he wasn't going to indulge them.
Then came another moment.
Riccardo Calafiori collected the ball near the halfway line, and with a quick glance up, he tipped it forward into Izan's path.
It wasn't an overhit one this time, just the kind of ball that begged to be fought for.
Saliba was right there, pressing in from behind, his arm brushing Izan's shoulder, body leaning in to choke the younger forward's space.
