Izan nodded faintly, still on his side, eyes clenched shut as his breathing began to slow.
One sharp inhale, then another—shaky but steadying.
"Just got the wind knocked out," he muttered, voice hoarse.
The other medic tapped his shoulder.
"Take your time. We've got you."
As they helped him to a seated position, the camera panned to the referee, now organizing the wall at the edge of the box.
"He's okay," Peter said.
"It looked bad at first, but Izan's sitting up. Breathing again. He'll want to take this himself if they let him."
"They won't," Marsha added. "But you get the sense he might anyway."
Declan Rice picked up the ball with both hands and looked toward the bench.
Arteta pointed at his temple and said something none of the players could hear over the rising swell of the crowd.
Rice set the ball down, then crouched to adjust his socks—but before he could step back to take the free kick, a hand gently took the ball from him.
Izan.
