Minute 31.
The sound of sixty thousand Americans booing is a heavy, ugly thing. It isn't sharp like a whistle; it's a low, rumbling frequency that vibrates in the chest.
0-1.
The "Horseshoe of Death" has collapsed. The safe passing lanes are gone. The crowd doesn't want patience anymore; they want blood.
Panic sets in. You can smell it on the pitch.
Jackson Voss is clapping his hands, shouting generic nonsense. "Heads up! We go again! Stick to the plan!"
But his eyes betray him. He's looking at the scoreboard. He's looking at his legacy crumbling against an island nation with a fraction of the budget.
Adam Richards, the Glass Cannon, is hiding. He's jogging in the shadow of the Jamaican CDM, purposely standing where he can't receive a pass. If he doesn't touch the ball, he can't make a mistake. If he doesn't touch the ball, he can't get hit.
Robin stands on the left touchline. He watches Kessel receive the ball in the center circle. Kessel looks left. He sees Robin. He looks right. He sees Smith.
Kessel passes backward to Voss.
The booing gets louder.
Robin snaps.
Screw the system. Screw the position. Screw the chalk on my boots.
He abandons the left wing. He walks into the center of the pitch. He invades the midfield.
He walks right past a trembling Adam Richards.
"Move," Robin growls.
Richards blinks, startled, and drifts away, happy to vacate the hot seat.
Minute 38.
Kessel has the ball again. He is looking for a safe option.
"Here!"
It's not a request. It's a demand.
Kessel looks up. Robin is standing ten yards away, in the central pocket, surrounded by three yellow shirts. It is a suicide pass. It breaks every rule of the safety algorithm.
But Kessel is desperate. He passes it.
The ball rolls to Robin.
Immediately, the shadow arrives.
Marcus Sterling. The Millwall Hitman. The Right Back has followed Robin inside. He sees the "Ghost" with his back to the goal. He smells a kill.
Sterling doesn't slow down. He comes in steamrolling, studs thumping the turf, ready to plant his shoulder into Robin's spine and welcome him to the game.
Kill him.
Robin feels the vibration of the approaching train.
He doesn't trap the ball. He doesn't pass it back.
He waits.
He waits until he can hear Sterling's breath. Until the collision is milliseconds away.
Touch. Roll.
Robin flicks the ball with the outside of his left boot. He spins his body 180 degrees.
Nutmeg.
The ball slides through Sterling's open legs. The defender's momentum carries him forward, crashing into empty space where Robin used to be. Sterling stumbles, his legs tangling, looking like a drunk trying to fight gravity.
The crowd erupts. A sudden, sharp roar of shock.
Robin is free.
He is in the center of the pitch. He is driving.
"Go!" Ben Cutter screams from somewhere behind him.
Robin accelerates. He isn't the fastest player on the pitch, but with the ball, he is fluid. He glides past Lowe, the CDM who bullied Richards earlier. Lowe swipes at him, but Robin drops a shoulder and vanishes.
Twenty-five yards out.
The goal is opening up. The Jamaican center-backs are backing off, terrified of the dribble.
Robin sees the gap.
Output.
He doesn't look for a pass. He doesn't look for Rayden Park making a run.
He draws his right leg back. The titanium leg.
He strikes it.
It's a rocket. Pure, unadulterated violence. The ball screams through the humid air, knuckles, and dips.
The keeper, Blake, is beaten. He dives, but it's a token gesture.
Robin watches. He waits for the net to ripple. He waits for the redemption.
CLANG.
The sound is deafening.
Metal on metal. The ball smashes into the crossbar. The entire goal frame shakes.
The sound rings through the stadium like a church bell announcing a funeral.
"OHHHHH!" The crowd groans, hands on heads.
Robin freezes. He stares at the vibrating bar.
No.
But the play isn't over.
The ball ricochets off the bar, bouncing high into the air, spinning wildly back into the six-yard box.
Chaos.
The Jamaican defenders are scrambling, looking at the sky. The keeper is on the ground.
Robin doesn't stand there lamenting his luck. He reacts.
He sprints. He chases his own rebound.
He throws his body into the box. He isn't a striker. He isn't big. But he is desperate.
He jumps for the header against a massive center-back. He doesn't win the ball, but he causes a collision. Bodies hit the floor. The ball spills loose.
It rolls three feet to the right.
Right to Rayden Park.
The striker, who hasn't touched the ball in forty minutes, is standing there. He looks surprised.
He sticks out a foot. A toe-poke.
The ball trundles over the line. Ugly. Slow. Scrappy.
It hits the net.
GOAL.
USA 1 - 1 JAMAICA
The stadium explodes. Relief washes over the stands. Beer flies into the air.
Rayden Park wheels away, arms spread, screaming like he just scored a bicycle kick in the World Cup Final.
Richards runs to him. Smith runs to him. Even Voss runs up from the back, fist-pumping, acting like this was the plan all along.
Robin stands up. He brushes grass off his knees.
He looks at the net.
He looks at the crossbar. It's still vibrating slightly.
He didn't score. He didn't get the assist—the rebound came off the bar, so statistically, it's unassisted.
He created the moment. He humiliated Sterling. He broke the line. He caused the chaos.
But the stat sheet?
Robin Silver: 0 Goals, 0 Assists.
He feels a hollow ache in his chest.
The referee blows the whistle.
HALFTIME.
The noise dies down as the adrenaline fades. The players walk toward the tunnel.
Rayden Park is high-fiving everyone. "Right place, right time, baby!" he shouts.
Robin walks alone. Head down.
He feels a presence beside him.
Andrew Smith. The Algorithm.
Smith is walking with his chest out, relieved that the score is tied. He looks at Robin. He doesn't say "Good job." He doesn't say "Great run."
He shakes his head.
"Too risky," Smith says, his voice smug. "You got lucky the rebound fell to Rayden. Keep playing like that, and you'll lose us the game."
Smith jogs ahead to join the others.
Robin stops. He clenches his fist so hard his fingernails bite into his palm.
Lucky?
Luck didn't nutmeg a 200-pound defender. Luck didn't drive thirty yards through traffic.
Robin looks up at the luxury box where the VIPs sit. He imagines Johnny up there, looking at the stats.
Output is King.
And Robin has no crown.
He turns and walks into the darkness of the tunnel.
He isn't happy. He isn't relieved.
He is absolutely furious.