A draw feels like a loss when you're desperate.
2-2.
The locker room was vibrating with nervous energy. The reserves—playing as makeshift defenders—looked terrified.
"They're faster," one defender mumbled. "Hassan changes direction before I even blink."
Coach Titan stood by the door, checking his watch. "Forget defense. You can't teach defense in ten minutes. We play Titan Protocol."
"Which is?" Vincent asked.
"If the ball is on their half of the field," Titan grinned, "they can't score on our half."
"Full Press," Silas translated. "Total aggression. High risk."
"Suicide," Kai corrected. "But elegant suicide."
Second Half Kickoff.
Egypt restarted.
Hassan received the ball. He prepared to dance.
"No dancing!" Vincent roared.
He didn't run to intercept. He ran to collide.
Vincent, Soccer, Kai, and even Silas sprinted forward simultaneously. A wall of American pressure.
Hassan saw the wave coming.
"Too aggressive," Hassan smirked. "One pass breaks you."
He passed wide to the winger.
The winger was open. He had acres of space.
But he didn't account for the Ghost.
Zero was not in his goal.
The white-haired keeper had sprinted out to the forty-yard line. He was acting as a sweeper-keeper on steroids.
"Mine," Zero whispered.
He intercepted the pass intended for the winger. He chested it down at the halfway line.
The crowd gasped. The goal was empty behind him. 50 yards of empty grass.
"Shoot it!" an Egyptian player screamed. "Shoot at the empty net!"
An Egyptian midfielder tackled Zero.
Zero didn't clear it. He did a Cruyff Turn.
He faked the kick, dragged the ball behind his leg, and spun around the attacker.
"Risk calculated," Zero mumbled. "Reward: High."
He passed it to Silas.
"Math Boy!" Soccer yelled.
Silas received it. He calculated the vector.
Soccer was running into the chaos. Vincent was bulldozing a path.
But the pass went to the shadow.
Kai Rivers.
Kai was standing at the edge of the box. He wasn't running. He was waiting.
The King waits for his tribute.
The pass arrived. Perfect weight.
Two Egyptian defenders closed in on Kai.
"Box him out!"
Kai didn't dribble. He didn't take a touch.
He swept his leg.
The Golden Execution.
He hit the ball first-time.
It wasn't a power shot. It was a placement shot. Low. Curving around the legs of the defenders.
Sniper.
The ball threaded the needle. It passed through a gap no wider than six inches.
It kissed the post and nestled into the net.
GOAL.
USA: 3 - Egypt: 2
Kai didn't run. He just stood there and slowly raised his arms.
"Clean," Kai said. "Next."
Minute 70.
Egypt was furious. They were losing to a team with no defense and a goalkeeper playing midfielder.
"Attack!" Hassan screamed. "Punish them!"
Egypt surged. Hassan dribbled past two reserve defenders like they were statues.
He was in the box. Empty net (Zero was scrambling back).
Hassan shot.
Vincent Drake.
The Dragon appeared. He hadn't run back to defend. He had run back to destroy.
Vincent slide-tackled the shot.
He threw his massive body in front of the ball. It hit his ribs.
THUD.
Vincent grunted but didn't collapse. He absorbed the impact.
The ball deflected into the air.
Soccer was there.
He trapped the falling ball with his chest.
"Let's go!" Soccer yelled.
He started the counter-attack from his own box.
He ran.
He sprinted past the midfield. His titanium ankle absorbed every impact, releasing energy.
Hassan chased him. "You won't escape!"
Soccer reached the final third.
He saw Kai making a run.
Decoy.
The Egyptian defense shifted to cover Kai, the Sniper.
That left a gap.
Right down the middle.
Soccer cut inside.
He entered the box.
One defender left. The big center-back.
Soccer slowed down.
The defender braced. He's going to Spring Step.
Soccer stopped.
He stood still.
The defender hesitated. Why did he stop?
Soccer looked at the goal.
Then he looked at the sky.
"Cloud Walk," Soccer whispered.
He jumped.
Not forward. Not sideways. Straight up.
He lifted the ball with his feet, pinching it.
He flicked it over the defender's head. The Rainbow Flick.
But he did it while facing forward.
The ball arc'd over the giant defender. Soccer ran around him.
The ball dropped.
Soccer met it on the volley.
BAM.
The net ripped.
GOAL.
USA: 4 - Egypt: 2
The stadium went silent. Even the French fans put down their baguettes.
That wasn't a tactic. That was playground disrespect.
Soccer ran to the corner flag. He did a backflip.
Land.
"Boing!" he shouted.
Minute 85.
Egypt clawed one back. Hassan scored a penalty after a clumsy tackle by Vincent (who treated the box like a wrestling ring).
USA: 4 - Egypt: 3.
Five minutes left.
The pressure was crushing.
"Park the bus!" Titan screamed. "Everyone back! Zero, get in the damn goal!"
"Getting in the box is confining," Zero complained, jogging back.
Northwood—sorry, Team USA—huddled in their own box. They were under siege.
Hassan had the ball. He danced. He juked. He shot.
Post.
Rebound.
Shot again.
Block. Silas took it to the face. His glasses flew off. "My data!"
Another rebound.
The ball fell to an Egyptian striker five yards out.
"GOAL!" the striker screamed.
He smashed it.
But something black and blue flew across the goal mouth.
Soccer.
He had sprinted from midfield to the goal line.
He didn't use his feet. He didn't use his head.
He Flying Kick-ed the ball off the line.
With his titanium foot.
CLANG.
Metal on leather. The ball flew into the stands, forty rows up.
"NOT TODAY!" Soccer screamed, hanging from the net mesh where his momentum carried him.
The referee checked his watch.
He blew the whistle.
FULL TIME.
USA: 4 - EGYPT: 3.
The Aftermath.
The US players collapsed. They looked like survivors of a shipwreck.
Vincent lay spread-eagled on the grass. Kai was inspecting a mud stain on his shorts with disgust. Zero was searching for Silas's glasses.
Soccer sat in the goalmouth.
Ahmed Hassan walked over. He looked exhausted. But the arrogance was gone.
"You are annoying," Hassan said, panting.
"Thanks," Soccer beamed. "Sand is annoying too. It gets everywhere."
Hassan offered a hand.
"Good luck against France," Hassan said, pulling Soccer up. "You will need more than tricks. Noel Noa isn't human."
"Neither am I," Soccer tapped his leg. "I'm a cyborg now."
The screens flashed the Group A standings.
1. USA - 3 pts
2. France - 0 pts (Yet to play)
3. Brazil - 0 pts (Yet to play)
4. Egypt - 0 pts
"We're first!" Dylan squeaked from the bench. "Stop the count!"
Titan gathered the team.
"Enjoy it for five minutes," Titan growled. "Because the real monsters play tonight."
He pointed to the tunnel.
Team France was walking out for their match against Brazil.
Noel Noa led them.
He walked past Team USA without looking. He walked past Soccer.
He didn't acknowledge them. He didn't blink.
But as he passed, Soccer heard it. A whisper.
"Enjoy the scraps, little dog."
Soccer watched Noa walk onto the field.
The cheers were deafening. NOA! NOA! NOA!
Soccer felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Vincent.
"He called you a dog," Vincent rumbled.
"Yeah."
"Dogs hunt in packs," Vincent smiled, baring his teeth.
"Yeah," Soccer agreed. "And dogs bite princes."
Soccer watched Noa touch the ball for the warm-up.
Every touch was perfect. Mechanical. Flawless.
"We have three days," Soccer said to his exhausted, battered team. "To figure out how to kill a god."