Yamal had twisted onto his left, twenty yards out, slicing a vicious shot toward goal, but Raya punched it away, hard, over the bar.
"Ooooh, and Raya with a strong hand! Keeps Arsenal alive for another few seconds!" Martin Tyler called, voice rising over the din.
Barcelona took their time again, of course, as Pedri and Raphinha jogged to the corner flag, exchanging glances that reeked of cynicism.
The corner came short, a game of keep-away disguised as football.
Pedri shielded it near the flag, leaning into the ball, his back turned toward the field while Izan closed in, eyes narrowed, one step, then another.
Pedri smirked faintly, waiting for contact.
He'd done this a hundred times, bait the foul, win the whistle, kill the seconds.
But Izan didn't crash into him.
He slipped around him.
Like water through fingers.
His right foot stretched, almost impossibly far, looping around Pedri's leg with a subtle poke, so clean it startled even the Barcelona bench.
