Six minutes into extra time, and for the first time all evening, Georgia Stanway had room to breathe. It had been a taut and suffocating night, in many ways a horrible night, a night when the tension knots itself in the stomach like a tumour. But finally, a little after 10pm, the angst and the doubt and the foul throws and the blur of substitutions had sharpened to a single moment of clarity.
All game, Stanway had found her way blocked and thwarted by a forest of legs, by a barbed‑wire fence of red shirts. All game, Aitana Bonmatí in midfield had clung to her like a catsuit. One touch was a luxury. Two pretty much guaranteed you a bruise on the ankle. But now, as a Spanish move broke down and the ball slipped into her stride 40 yards from goal, there was only pure air in front of her.
