Izan turned, catching Bellingham's gaze as the England midfielder strolled toward him with an easy grin.
The warmth of the smile didn't quite mask the intensity behind his eyes—sharp, assessing.
"Crazy, innit?" Bellingham repeated, gesturing toward the stadium around them.
The Olympiastadion in Berlin was alive, a roaring cauldron of red and white, flags waving, chants echoing, a war cry in two tongues.
The sheer weight of history pressed down on them both. These nights were carved into football's soul, moments that would be told and retold long after they left the pitch.
Izan exhaled, nodding. "Yeah. Feels different when it's the last one, doesn't it?"
Bellingham chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "Biggest night of our lives." His gaze didn't waver. "Best man wins."
Izan met his stare, expression unreadable. "Yeah. Best man wins."
For a second, neither spoke, the words hanging between them.
Friendly enough. Respectful. But beneath it—an unspoken challenge.
