Los Angeles International Airport (LAX).
It didn't smell like mountains. It smelled of jet fuel and hysteria.
Soccer stepped out of the sliding glass doors. He wore sunglasses (Noa gave them to him) and his PSG Champions League medal hanging casually over a t-shirt that said "I LOVE ROCKS."
*Click-flash-flash-flash.*
A wall of light hit him. Hundreds of cameras. Thousands of screaming fans.
**"SOCCER! LOOK HERE!"**
**"CHAMPIONS LEAGUE WINNER!"**
**"CAN USA WIN THE WORLD CUP?!"**
Soccer blinked behind the shades.
"Loud," he whispered to the bodyguard. "Are they angry?"
"They're hungry, kid," the bodyguard grunted, pushing through the mob. "You're the first American to win the big one. You're a national hero."
"Hero?" Soccer tilted his head. "I just kicked a ball into a net. It's not like I saved a baby from a bear."
"To them? It's the same thing."
A black SUV waited at the curb. The door slid open.
Sitting inside was **Kai Rivers**.
The King wore a tailored suit (Real Madrid crest on the lapel) and was sipping sparkling water.
"You're late, Savage," Kai didn't look up from his phone. "The paparazzi love you. Disgusting."
Soccer hopped in. "Hello Goldilocks! Did you miss me?"
"I enjoyed the silence," Kai lied. "Vincent is in the back seat eating a whole chicken. Don't touch him."
Soccer looked back.
**Vincent Drake**, the Dragon of Bayern Munich, was indeed tearing apart a rotisserie chicken with his bare hands. He looked wider. Bigger. Bavarian sausages had been kind to him.
"More protein," Vincent growled, tossing a bone into a bucket. "The National Camp serves salads. I need to stock up."
"Is everyone back?" Soccer asked, buckling up.
"The calculator landed an hour ago," Kai swiped his screen. "And Zero... nobody knows. He probably materialized in the locker room."
The SUV pulled away, escorted by police motorcycles.
"Where are we going?" Soccer asked.
"Nevada," Vincent burped. "Area 51."
"What?"
"Not literally," Kai sighed. "Coach Ryan Steele set up the camp in the desert. Isolation. Heat training. No media."
"Coach Steele," Soccer tasted the name. "Is he metal?"
"He's worse," Kai put his phone down. "He's a patriot. He thinks 'Hustle and Heart' wins games. He hates egos."
Kai adjusted his collar.
"Which means he's going to hate us."
***
**The Bunker. Nevada Desert.**
The heat was oppressive. Dry, baking heat that sucked the moisture right out of your skin.
The USA National Training Facility looked like a military compound. Barbed wire. Concrete blocks. American flags everywhere.
The SUV stopped.
Coach Ryan Steele stood by the gate. Buzz cut. Camouflage hat. Whistle around a neck thicker than Soccer's thigh.
He didn't look happy to see the Champions League stars.
"Out," Steele barked.
The monsters stepped out.
Steele walked up to Kai. "Nice suit. You think you're going to a fashion show?"
"I think I represent excellence," Kai replied coolly.
Steele turned to Vincent. "Wipe that grease off your face, soldier. You aren't in Munich anymore."
Then he looked at Soccer.
He stared at the medal hanging around Soccer's neck.
"Take it off," Steele ordered.
"Why?" Soccer asked. "It's heavy. Good for neck muscles."
"Because here, your past doesn't matter," Steele shouted, getting inches from Soccer's face. "I don't care if you play for PSG. I don't care if you kissed Noel Noa's ring. In this camp, you are recruits. You start at zero."
Soccer smiled.
"Zero is here?" he looked around. "Where?"
Steele's vein throbbed. "On the line! Now!"
They walked to the main pitch.
Waiting there were twenty men.
The **Veterans**.
The Senior National Team players who had been holding the fort for the last four years. Men in their late 20s. Experienced. Solid.
And resentful.
They looked at the "kids" arriving from Europe. The "Golden Generation."
The Captain of the Veterans, **"Cap" Rogers**, stepped forward. He was a defensive midfielder. Solid build. Honest face.
"So these are the saviors?" Rogers spat on the ground. "A fashion model, a caveman, and a cripple?"
Soccer looked at his titanium leg. "I'm the cripple?"
"We qualified this country for the World Cup," Rogers said, crossing his arms. "We bled in the qualifiers while you guys were eating croissants in Paris. You think you can just walk in and take our spots?"
"Yes," Kai said simply.
"Ooh," Vincent cracked his knuckles. "Conflict. I missed this."
Coach Steele blew his whistle.
"Enough measuring contests! We settle this on the grass."
Steele pointed to the field.
"11 vs 5."
The Veterans blinked. "Coach?"
"You heard me," Steele grilled the Veterans. "You have 11 men. Full squad. Formation 4-4-2."
He pointed to the Monster Five (Silas and Zero had appeared from the locker room like ninjas).
"You five. No subs. No goalkeeper backups. Play until one team scores 3 goals."
"Disrespectful," Rogers growled. "You want us to massacre these kids?"
Soccer walked onto the field. He inhaled the dry desert air.
It felt like the lower slopes of Eagle's Peak.
"Hey Calculator," Soccer said to Silas.
Silas Vance adjusted his glasses. He was wearing a new knee brace. Sleek. Robotic.
"Yes, Anomaly?"
"Is your knee fixed?"
"Knee operational capacity: 110%. Reaction speed enhanced."
"Good."
Soccer looked at Rogers and the eleven angry men.
"Hey old man!" Soccer shouted.
Rogers glared. "What?"
"Do you know why we were eating croissants?"
Soccer bounced. *Boing-Click.* The sound of the titanium spring echoed in the silent desert.
"Because we were hungry."
Soccer passed the ball to Kai.
"And we still are."