The locker room does not smell like relief. It smells like citrus, adrenaline, and fear.
Halftime. 1 1.
The players are slumped on the benches. Staff members rush around handing out energy gels, wet towels, and orange slices. It looks like a MASH unit.
Adam Richards has his shirt off. His chest is a map of violence, red welts turning purple where the Jamaican midfield has been using him as a punching bag.
Andrew Smith is sitting upright, looking at a tablet held by an analyst. He is nodding. He looks satisfied.
Johnny enters the room.
He doesn't walk to the tactical board. He doesn't pick up a marker. He kicks a plastic water bottle so hard it explodes against the far wall.
CRACK.
The room freezes. The analyst with the tablet jumps.
Johnny isn't calm. He isn't the cool, collected manager from the press conference. He is vibrating with a cold, controlled rage. He paces the center of the room like a tiger circling a cage that is too small.
He stops.
He turns slowly toward Andrew Smith.
"Andrew," Johnny says. His voice is deceptively soft.
Smith looks up. He puts on his best media trained face. "Coach."
"I was looking at the halftime stats," Johnny says, stepping closer. "You have completed forty one passes out of forty two attempts. That is a ninety eight percent completion rate."
Smith nods. A small, smug smile touches his lips. He glances at Robin, as if to say, See? This is how professionals play.
"I'm retaining possession, coach," Smith says smoothly. "We're controlling the tempo. Making them chase."
"Ninety eight percent," Johnny repeats.
He leans down. He gets right in Smith's face. The smile vanishes from the winger.
"And we have one shot on goal," Johnny hisses. "And that shot came from a rebound off the crossbar because the other winger decided to actually play football."
Smith flinches. "I... I didn't want to force it."
"Your ninety eight percent is killing us," Johnny snaps, straightening up. "You are playing terrified. You are playing like an accountant. I don't care about your pass completion graph. I don't care about your heat map."
Johnny points to the door.
"If I see you pass backward one more time when a lane is forward... if I see you choose safety over glory one more time... you sit. I will drag you off that pitch so fast your head will spin. Do you understand?"
Smith swallows hard. He looks at the tablet, then at the floor. The math has failed him. "Yes, coach."
Johnny turns. He stalks over to Adam Richards.
The Glass Cannon is holding an ice pack to his ribs. He looks small. He looks like a boy who wandered into a biker bar.
"Adam," Johnny says.
Richards looks up, eyes wide. "They're fouling me every time, coach. The ref isn't calling it. Lowe is targeting me."
"Of course he is targeting you," Johnny says. "Because he knows you are soft."
Richards opens his mouth to protest, but Johnny cuts him off.
"You receive the ball, and you look for the foul. You brace for the impact. You are playing the victim."
Johnny grabs the ice pack and pulls it away from Richards' chest. He points at the bruise.
"That is the price of admission. This is Copa America. They are going to hit you. They are going to hurt you. If you wait for the referee to save you, we lose."
Johnny tosses the ice pack back to him.
"Hit them back," Johnny says. "Or get out. I have midfielders on the bench who have less talent than you but ten times the heart. Decide which one you want to be in the next forty five minutes."
Richards nods, wincing as he presses the ice back to his skin.
Finally, Johnny turns to the corner.
Robin is sitting there, retaping his shin guard. He feels the gaze. He looks up.
He expects praise. He sparked the goal. He nutmegged Sterling. He woke the stadium up.
Johnny looks at him. His expression is unreadable.
"You hit the bar," Johnny says.
Robin blinks. "I created the goal."
"You hit the bar," Johnny repeats. "Cute dribble. Nice turn. But the shot? You missed."
Robin's jaw tightens.
"The difference between a highlight reel and a winner is three inches," Johnny says. "Stop playing with your food, Robin. Put it on the plate. I don't want almost. I want output."
Johnny turns away.
Robin stares at the coach's back. He isn't mad. He smiles.
Output is King. Johnny isn't letting him settle for good enough. Johnny demands perfection.
"Alright, listen up!"
Jackson Voss stands up. The Captain. The Shield. He claps his hands together, trying to regain control of the room, trying to lower the temperature.
"We weathered the storm," Voss says, his voice projecting. "We got the equalizer. Now, we keep our heads cool. We stick to the structure. We stay calm, and the chances will come. Cool heads win games."
"No," Johnny interrupts.
Voss freezes mid clap. He looks at the manager.
Johnny stands by the door.
"Cool gets us killed," Johnny says. "We played cool for thirty minutes and got battered. I don't want calm. I want fire."
He looks at the team. At Smith's shocked face. At Richards' bruised chest. At Robin's burning eyes.
"They think you are soft," Johnny says. "They think you are a bankable win. Go out there and burn their house down."
"Tunnel!" the official screams from the hallway.
Johnny kicks the door open.
"Let's go."
The team stands up. The energy has shifted. It's not calculated anymore. It's jagged. It's dangerous.
Smith looks shaken. Richards looks desperate.
Robin stands up. He adjusts his Captain America armband, no, that's Voss. Robin adjusts his mindset.
Burn the house down.
He walks toward the tunnel.
He likes this game.