The media room is a shark tank.
It's too small for the number of bodies packed inside. The air conditioning is fighting a losing battle against the heat of fifty laptops, ten cameras, and the collective body heat of the American sports media.
It smells like coffee and bad cologne.
Robin stands at the very back, leaning against the grey soundproofing foam of the wall. He has his hood up. He is invisible.
At the front of the room, on a raised dais behind a table draped in US Soccer branding, sit two men.
Johnny. He looks bored. He's wearing a polo shirt that is slightly too tight, spinning a pen between his fingers.
And Jackson Voss. The Captain.
Voss looks like he was 3D printed for this exact moment. His hair is perfect. His jawline is square. He is wearing the team tracksuit zipped all the way up, sitting with perfect posture. He looks like a statue of a patriot.
Click. Flash. Click.
The cameras go off like strobe lights every time Voss moves his head.
"Jackson," a reporter from ESPN calls out. "Over here."
Voss nods. A practiced, polite nod.
"With Deion Vale out, the team has lost its primary offensive outlet," the reporter says. "Vale had eighty caps. He was the experience on the left. Do you trust the replacements to fill those boots?"
Robin watches Voss.
He expects the captain to flinch. He expects him to look nervous. The truth is, the squad is thin. The truth is, the replacements are a bunch of kids who play safe passes and a ghost with a metal rod in his leg.
But Voss doesn't blink. He leans into the microphone. His voice is smooth, calm, and utterly empty.
"Deion is a great player, and we wish him a speedy recovery," Voss says. "But this is the National Team. We have a deep squad. Every player sitting in that locker room has earned their spot. We trust the system. We trust the coaching staff. It's next man up."
Robin snorts softly.
Liar.
You don't trust the system. You don't trust the kids. You definitely don't trust me.
But the reporters type it down furiously. They nod. They eat it up. Voss just fed them a headline: USA Ready to Move On.
Another hand goes up. A guy from a tabloid. He looks sweaty. He smells blood.
"Johnny," the reporter barks. "Question for the coach."
Johnny stops spinning the pen. He looks up.
"You finalized the roster yesterday. You included Robin Silver."
A murmur goes through the room. Heads turn. Robin shrinks slightly into his hoodie, though nobody spots him.
"Silver is a nineteen-year-old loanee," the reporter continues, checking his notes. "He played for a relegated second-division side in England. He suffered a catastrophic leg break eight months ago. He hasn't played a professional minute since. Is this a publicity stunt? Or is this a sign of desperation?"
The room goes quiet. It's a brutal question. It's the question everyone is thinking.
Robin feels his stomach tighten. He waits for Johnny to defend him. He waits for the speech about talent, about the monster.
Johnny leans forward. He stares at the reporter until the guy looks away.
"It's about output," Johnny says.
"Output?" the reporter asks.
"Silver scores goals," Johnny says flatly. "Next question."
Short. Dismissive. Arrogant.
Robin smiles. Output is King.
The questions turn back to Voss. They ask about Brazil. They ask about the pressure. They ask about his contract extension.
Voss handles them all. He smiles when he needs to smile. He gets serious when he needs to be serious. He speaks in paragraphs that sound good but mean absolutely nothing.
"We respect the opponent.""We focus on ourselves.""The fans deserve our best."
Robin watches him. He watches the way Voss absorbs the questions.
Suddenly, it clicks.
He had looked at Voss in the locker room and seen a politician. A bureaucrat protecting his territory.
But looking at him now, under the glare of the lights, Robin sees something else.
Voss is a shield.
He isn't the best player on the team. He's slow. His passing range is limited. But he sits there, taking the bullets. He sits there and lets the media chew on his generic answers so that the kids—Smith, Richards, Williams—can sleep in their hotel rooms without worrying about headlines.
He is the boredom that protects the talent.
Robin looks at Voss's hands. They are gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles are white.
He is terrified, Robin realizes. He knows we aren't ready. He knows Brazil is going to come for our throats. But he is holding the line.
Robin feels a strange sensation in his chest. It's not friendship. It's definitely not affection.
It's respect.
Not for the player. But for the utility. Every war needs a tank that can take a hit. Voss is the tank.
"Thank you, everyone," the press officer says. "That's all for today."
The chairs scrape. The reporters rush to file their stories.
Johnny stands up and disappears through the side door immediately. He hates this part of the job.
Voss stands up. He unzips his jacket slightly. He wipes sweat from his forehead. The statue crumbles for a second, revealing the tired man underneath.
He walks toward the side exit, passing the spot where Robin is standing.
Robin straightens up. He expects Voss to walk past him. He expects the Invisible Treatment.
But Voss stops.
He stands right in front of Robin. He is a head taller. He smells like nervous sweat and deodorant.
Voss checks the room. The reporters are busy. Nobody is looking.
The smile vanishes. The politician is gone. The Captain is here.
"You," Voss says. His voice is a low rumble, barely audible over the noise of the room.
Robin looks up. "Me."
Voss steps in closer. He leans down, putting his face inches from Robin's ear.
"I saw what you did in training," Voss whispers. "Tackling Smith. Taking the ball."
Robin smirks. "It was a goal."
"It was a betrayal," Voss hisses.
The big hand comes up. Voss points a finger at Robin's chest. It's heavy. Solid.
"I don't care how talented you are. I don't care what Johnny thinks. You are a loose cannon."
Voss's eyes are cold. There is no PR in them now. This is the man who has survived ten years in the national team.
"You steal the ball from a teammate again," Voss says, enunciating every syllable, "and I will break your other leg myself. We are a team. Act like it."
Robin freezes.
He looks into Voss's eyes. He looks for the bluff.
He doesn't find one.
Voss means it. He would do it. He would snap Robin in half to save the locker room.
Voss pulls back. He adjusts his collar. He gives Robin one last, warning look, and then walks out the door, back into the light.
Robin stands there in the shadows.
He touches his chest where Voss poked him.
A slow smile spreads across his face.
Finally.
The Captain has teeth.
He can work with that.
Robin pulls his hood tighter. He turns and follows Voss out the door.
Outside, the bus is waiting.
The engine is idling, a deep, mechanical growl. The windows are tinted black. It looks like a hearse or a war machine, depending on how you look at it.
The team is boarding. Smith, Richards, Weah. They are wearing headphones, looking nervous. They are boys going to a man's game.
Robin walks to the bus. He climbs the steps.
He walks down the aisle.
He sees Voss sitting in the front row, looking at a tablet. Voss doesn't look up.
Robin keeps walking. He goes to the back. The dead spot. The place for ghosts.
He sits down. He looks out the window.
The training camp is over. The press conference is over. The talking is done.
Tomorrow, the stadium will be full. Tomorrow, the world will be watching.
The prologue is finished.
The war begins.