The wall was up now.
Four men wide — white shirts clinging to red bodies, locked in place by barked instructions.
Gabriel. Saliba. Ødegaard.
And Izan — standing furthest to the right.
Raya barked again, waving his right hand in a low gesture, adjusting the angle of the wall by inches.
Inches could mean everything.
The noise inside Wembley dulled.
Phones had been pulled up in anticipation of the shot.
Every pair of eyes locked on that tiny stretch of grass 24 yards from goal.
"For all the talk about Salah," Alan Smith murmured, "I've got a feeling it's Trent…"
For Raya…, that was the nightmare.
"They've done this before," Jim Beglin added. "It's a disguise — a sleight of foot."
The referee stepped back, whistle in mouth as Trent glanced once to his left where Salah nodded and then— the sharp shriek of the whistle followed.
The shot was coming.
But from who?
Trent and Salah moved in perfect sync.
Same foot forward, same calculated arc towards the ball, just opposite.
