The game restarts. 1-0.
West Hall Town is angry. They are embarrassed. And at the center of that anger is Prince.
The big center-back isn't looking at the scoreboard. He's looking at Robin. He hikes up his shorts, spits on the turf, and points a finger.
You.
Robin sees it. He smiles.
It's on.
Minute 28.
Robin receives a pass on the wing. He barely has time to turn before a shadow blots out the sun.
Boom.
It feels like getting hit by a truck. Prince slams into Robin's back, driving a knee into his thigh and a forearm into his ribs. Robin crumples. The air leaves his lungs.
"Oh! That is a heavy challenge from Prince! He went right through the back of Silver there. The referee blows the whistle... but keeps his cards in his pocket. Unbelievable."
Robin lies on the grass, gasping. The pain radiates from his ribs.
Prince stands over him. He doesn't offer a hand. He leans down, his voice a low, gravelly growl.
"Welcome to the league, little boy. Next time, you don't get up."
Robin coughs, grimacing. He pushes himself up. His side is throbbing.
But he looks at Prince. And he laughs.
"Is that all you got, old man? My grandma hits harder."
Prince's eyes narrow. The vein in his neck pulses.
Minute 34.
Robin drifts inside. He knows Prince is tracking him. He can hear the heavy thud of the defender's boots.
Come on. Come closer.
Robin slows down. He acts like he's lost concentration. He dangles the bait.
Prince bites. He lunges, looking to snap the ball and Robin's ankle in one go.
Now.
Robin flicks the ball with his heel, a sombrero. The ball arcs perfectly over Prince's shaved head. Robin spins around the other side, collects the ball on his chest, and keeps running.
Prince is left tackling a ghost. He stumbles, clutching at thin air, looking like a drunk trying to fight gravity.
The crowd roars.
"Oh my word! Silver has just ended him! A sombrero flick over the head of the toughest defender in the league! That is disrespectful! That is filthy!"
Robin glances back. Prince is turning purple.
That's one.
Minute 41.
It's a battle of ego now. The ball is secondary.
Prince has abandoned his position. He's hunting. Every time Robin touches the ball, Prince is there, hacking, pulling shirts, leaving a foot in.
Robin loves it. He's the matador. Prince is the bull.
Robin gets the ball near the corner flag. He's trapped. Prince closes in, pinning him against the ad boards. There's nowhere to go.
Prince grins. He lowers his shoulder. He's going to smash Robin into the plywood.
Robin waits. He waits until the impact is inevitable.
Then, he stops the ball dead and sits on it.
Prince, carrying too much momentum, slides past, his studs screeching on the concrete track surrounding the pitch. He crashes into the advertising board with a loud clang.
Robin stands up, rolls the ball forward, and passes it to Doyle.
He looks at Prince, who is untangling himself from a banner.
Robin blows him a kiss.
The crowd is losing its mind. They've never seen anyone treat the Butcher like this.
Minute 45+2.
The fourth official holds up the board. Two minutes of added time.
The referee is losing control. He's warned Prince three times but hasn't booked him.
Robin has the ball in the midfield. He's driving forward. He sees the goal.
But he also sees the peripheral movement. Prince is coming across. He's not looking at the ball. He's launching himself. Two feet off the ground. Studs showing. A career-ender.
"Watch out! That is a horror tackle incoming!"
Robin's instincts scream. Jump.
He doesn't try to play the ball. He abandons it and leaps into the air, pulling his legs up.
Prince flies underneath him like a missile, his studs slicing the air where Robin's ankles had been a millisecond before.
Robin lands cat-like. Prince slides five yards, tearing up a divot of turf the size of a dinner plate.
The referee blows the whistle. Finally.
Yellow card.
It should be red. It should be jail time. But in this league? It's yellow.
Prince gets up, dusting himself off. He glares at the ref, then turns his dead eyes to Robin.
"You can't jump forever," Prince mouths.
Robin just smirks, hands on his hips. "I don't need forever. Just forty-five more minutes."
The halftime whistle blows.
1-0.
Robin walks toward the tunnel, limping slightly. His ribs ache. His shin is bruised. His thigh is burning.
He feels fantastic.