Down on the touchline, Arteta had spun toward his bench, arms wide, shouting instructions and pulling one of his bench players in the person of Nwaneri closer.
His lips moved rapidly, eyes scanning the pitch like a man watching a dam begin to crack.
He didn't shout at the players—just barked once, short and sharp, then snapped back toward the fourth official.
On the opposite touchline, Arne Slot's face had tightened.
He stood still, but his hands were gripping the sleeves of his black jacket like he was holding onto something slipping.
The plan he had worked on for almost 2 months was starting to creak, not that it was Izan-proof since the start of the match, but he could see where it was going, and he didn't like it.
This wasn't Arsenal probing anymore.
This was Arsenal breaking through.
