The locker room smells of Deep Heat, nervous sweat, and the sharp, chemical scent of hairspray.
One hour to kick-off.
The door opens. Johnny walks in. He doesn't look at anyone. He doesn't give a "Remember the Alamo" speech. He doesn't talk about pride or the flag.
He holds a single sheet of A4 paper.
He walks to the corkboard near the door. He pins the paper up. He walks out.
That's it.
The room is silent for a second. Then, the scramble.
The players crowd around the board. Not pushing, but pressing. Necks craning. They aren't looking for the tactics. They are looking for their names. They are checking if they still have a job.
Robin sits in his corner. He doesn't get up. He knows.
He watches the backs of his teammates. He sees the shoulders slump. He sees the fists clench.
USA STARTING XI vs. BOLIVIA
GK: Donovan ReavesLB: Ben CutterCB: Jackson Voss (C)CB: Mason WilliamsRB: Kyle MaddoxCDM: Brandon KesselCM: Dominic RussoCAM: Adam RichardsLW: Robin SilverRW: Andrew SmithST: Rayden Park
A gasp. A curse word.
Then, a sound like a gunshot.
BANG.
Elias Gordon, the 31-year-old veteran center-back, kicks his locker. The metal door dents inward, vibrating with the force of the impact.
"Are you kidding me?" Gordon screams. He spins around, eyes wild. "A kid? You're benching me for a kid who hasn't shaved yet?"
He glares at the corner of the room.
Mason Williams.
The 18-year-old dual-national. He plays for Juventus's Primavera squad. They call him "The Silencer."
Williams is sitting on his bench, headphones around his neck. He is methodically taping his socks. He heard the kick. He heard the scream.
He doesn't blink. He doesn't look up. He doesn't acknowledge Gordon's existence. He just smoothes the tape over his ankle, his face completely blank. Ice cold.
Gordon realizes he's screaming at a wall. He storms off to the showers to cool down, muttering about "respect" and "Serie A divas."
Robin watches Williams. He likes him.
Williams isn't here to make friends. He's here to take a spot. Just like Robin.
Robin turns his attention to his own kit.
He pulls on his socks. Black. Tight.
He slides the shin guard into place on his right leg. It sits over the scar. The plastic presses against the skin where the titanium rod lies underneath.
It doesn't hurt. But he can feel it. A constant reminder. You are breakable.
He laces his boots. Double knot. Tight enough to cut off circulation.
A shadow falls over him.
Robin doesn't look up. He knows the smell. Expensive pomade and fear.
"Silver."
Robin finishes the knot. He leans back.
Andrew Smith is standing over him. The starting Right Winger. "The Algorithm."
Smith looks perfect. His kit is immaculate. His hair is styled into a hard part that won't move in a hurricane. He looks like he was generated by an AI to sell sports drinks.
"What do you want, Andrew?" Robin asks.
Smith crosses his arms. "I saw the lineup. We're on opposite flanks."
"Observant."
"Listen to me," Smith says, his voice low, clipped. "Bolivia is going to play dirty. They are going to sit deep and hack us. We need to keep the ball. We need to cycle possession."
Smith leans in closer.
"Don't lose the ball, Silver. I know you like your tricks. I know you think you're Neymar. But if you try to dribble three guys and fail? I'm not tracking back for you. I'm not running sixty yards to cover your mess."
Robin stares at him.
He sees it clearly now.
Smith isn't thinking about winning. He's thinking about his heat map. He's thinking about his pass completion stats. He's thinking about his transfer value.
If Robin loses the ball, Smith looks bad. If Smith has to defend, Smith gets tired.
It's not a team. It's a group of independent contractors sharing a workspace.
Robin stands up. He is shorter than Smith, but in this moment, he feels ten feet tall.
"Don't worry about tracking back," Robin says softly.
"What?"
Robin smiles. It's the smile he gave Prince before the nutmeg.
"If I dribble three guys," Robin says, "you won't have to."
Smith blinks. He opens his mouth to argue, to cite some statistic about turnover rates, but the words die in his throat.
Robin brushes past him.
He walks to the center of the room.
The vibe is toxic.
Voss is in the corner, whispering to Russo—probably complaining about the lineup.
Gordon is sulking on the bench.
Richards, the "Glass Cannon," is taping his knees like they are made of porcelain, looking terrified of the Bolivian midfield.
Ben Cutter, "The Dog," is hyperventilating in the corner, slapping his own face to get psyched up. He knows he's the weak link at Left Back. He knows they are going to target him.
And Mason Williams is still staring at the wall, lost in his own world.
There is no unity. There is no "One Nation, One Team."
They are eleven strangers wearing the same shirt, all trying to survive the night without getting fired.
"Tunnel!" the official shouts from the door. "Five minutes!"
The sound of studs on concrete. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Robin joins the line. He stands behind Richards.
He closes his eyes.
He takes a deep breath.
The silence of the locker room is heavy. It's the silence of a funeral home before the service starts.
But outside?
He can hear it. A low, distant roar.
The crowd.
Fifty thousand people.
The noise is waiting. The judgment is waiting.
Robin opens his eyes.
Let them be disjointed. Let them be scared. Let them protect their careers.
He isn't here for a career.
He is here for a war.