Izan darted across the training pitch, laughter bubbling in his chest as Saka, Martinelli, and Zinchenko stormed after him, their shouts ringing through the cool morning air.
"You're dead, bro!" Saka barked, pumping his arms furiously.
Martinelli, breathing hard but determined, cut across the grass, trying to intercept Izan's path. "I swear if I get my hands on you—!"
Zinchenko, despite his exhaustion, managed a grin. "You've got nowhere to run, hermano!"
Yet, every time they lunged, Izan twisted, sidestepped, or feinted, his movement almost instinctive.
He juked Zinchenko with a quick shift of his weight, then sent Martinelli stumbling with a sharp cut before spinning away from Saka like a seasoned midfielder under pressure.
The players watching from the cafeteria were in pieces. Some were laughing so hard they had to hold onto their chairs.
Ødegaard had his arms crossed, shaking his head with a small smile. "They never had a chance."
