Then came another moment.
Kiwior, tucked in behind the halfway line on the left, scanned the field and called Izan's name.
The latter was already moving, shoulders low, body angled in anticipation.
Kiwior took the risk and launched a long, arcing pass, not clean or easy, rising too high, hanging in the air like it had been misjudged.
But Izan didn't hesitate.
He sprinted into the channel, and just as the ball seemed to float past reachable height, he exploded off the ground.
For a second, time stretched.
His body lifted, legs tucked slightly, arms flaring for balance—not awkward, not forced, but effortless.
And then, with his right foot angled just enough, he met the ball mid-flight and brought it down in stride with the outside of his boot, killing its momentum like it had been waiting for him all along.
Rice, who had been tracking back to meet the ball as well, craned his neck and slowed his step, eyes widening as he watched Izan in the air.
