The medics were soon crouched beside Ødegaard, their hands moving quickly, voices low and tight with urgency.
One of them pressed along the side of the injured toe, while another gently rotated his ankle, as if it would help with the reopened wound.
Head on the ground, Ødegaard winced hard, breath hitching as his knuckles dug into the grass.
His face said everything the words couldn't.
"Just let me play," he muttered through gritted teeth, staring up at the medics with that stubborn fire only captains had.
"Please. We worked too hard to get here. I can play through it."
One of the staff looked toward the touchline, catching Arteta's eye, before a shake of the head followed, small, final, and heavy as Peter Drury's voice dipped, soft but threaded with sadness.
"It's the look every player fears, the one from the medical team that says, you're done."
Arteta's jaw tightened as he turned away, running a hand over his face before barking toward the bench.
"Ethan, get ready, now!"
