A few club VIPs walked behind him—Edu, Per Mertesacker, even Thierry Henry, as well as the families of players.
But it wasn't them who made the noise swell again.
It was Saka.
As soon as they saw him, Martinelli turned.
Declan Rice stood up halfway from the grass.
Nwaneri pointed, his mouth dropping while Izan's head whipped toward the tunnel like something had yanked his attention.
And all at once, they started moving.
Toward him.
All of them.
Players charging like kids at the schoolyard gate, like something sacred had just entered the building.
But then—
A single arm shot out.
Martin Godleman, one of Arsenal's physios and a stern one at that.
He stepped forward from Saka's side, looked up—calm, unmoved—and extended a firm hand.
Just one gesture.
Stop.
He didn't yell. Didn't say a word.
But every Arsenal player froze.
Dead still.
Even Izan, who'd started jogging toward Saka with arms halfway lifted, caught himself mid-step.
His boots skidded faintly on the grass.
