Beep. Beep. Beep.
The rhythm is slow. Artificial. It's the only sound in the room.
Robin stares at the ceiling. Counting the tiles. There are sixty-four. He's counted them a thousand times in the last forty-eight hours.
White walls. White sheets. White noise.
He doesn't look down. He knows what's there. A mound of blankets. A heavy, plaster tomb encasing his right leg from toe to hip. It feels like a block of concrete is dragging him into the mattress.
The door opens.
"Robin?"
It's Martin. The coach looks ten years older than he did on Saturday. He's holding a bottle of Lucozade and a magazine.
Robin doesn't turn his head. He keeps staring at tile number forty-two.
"I spoke to the surgeon," Martin says, his voice soft. Too soft. Pity soft. "Surgery went well. They put the rod in. It's clean."
Robin says nothing.
"Your dad called the club. He's flying in tomorrow."
Silence.
Martin stands there for a long time. He places the bottle on the bedside table.
"We missed you at training today, kid. It was... quiet."
Robin closes his eyes. He waits. Finally, he hears the door click shut.
He is alone again.
He prefers the silence. Talking requires energy. Talking requires acknowledging the reality. And the reality is that his life ended on a patch of grass in the 94th minute.
He replays it. The snap. The sound. It's on a loop in his head. Every time he closes his eyes, he hears it. Crack.
He isn't sad. Sadness is for losing a game. This is grief. He feels like he's mourning a dead person. The Robin Silver who scored a hat-trick? Dead. The Robin Silver who was going to the Premier League? Dead. The guy in the bed is a cripple. A "has-been" before he even "was."
He reaches for the remote. He doesn't want to think. He turns on the TV mounted on the wall.
Sports News. Of course.
The headline flashes in yellow and black: THE BUTCHER STRIKES AGAIN.
They are showing the tackle. Again. And again. In slow motion. The angle of the leg. The snap.
Robin flinches, but he doesn't look away. He watches his own destruction.
Then, the screen cuts to a post-match interview from yesterday.
It's Doyle.
He's standing in the mixed zone. He's not wearing his usual smirk. He looks tired. He looks dangerous. A microphone is shoved in his face.
"Aaron," the reporter asks, "there's a lot of talk about Robin's behavior leading up to the tackle. The showboating. The shirt removal. Do you think he provoked Prince? Did he bring this on himself?"
Robin holds his breath.
On screen, Doyle stops. He stares at the reporter like the man is an insect.
"Provoked?" Doyle repeats. The word drips with venom.
"Well, the taunting..." the reporter stammers.
Doyle steps closer to the camera. He isn't the lazy midfielder anymore. He isn't the guy who just wants to play for fun.
"He is nineteen years old," Doyle says. His voice is low, shaking with rage. "He is a kid. A kid with more talent in his pinky than that butcher has in his entire life. He scored a hat-trick. He had fun. Since when is having fun a crime punishable by a broken leg?"
"But the disrespect..."
"Disrespect?" Doyle snaps. "Prince tried to end his career. That's not disrespect. That's assault. That's cowardice."
Doyle looks straight into the lens. It feels like he's looking right into the hospital room.
"Robin Silver didn't provoke anything. He played beautiful football. And because he was too good, because they couldn't stop him, they broke him. Anyone who says he 'asked for it' is a coward too."
Doyle knocks the microphone away and walks out of the frame.
The screen cuts back to the studio anchors, looking stunned.
Robin stares at the black plastic of the TV frame.
Loyalty is a scam, he had told himself. Loyalty is only good when it is beneficial.
He remembers the burger joint. He remembers the training.
He feels a lump in his throat. It hurts more than the leg.
He turns off the TV.
The room goes back to white.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Robin turns his head into the pillow. He pulls the sheet up over his face.
And for the first time since the snap, he cries.