Ten Minutes Earlier.
The hospital room smells of antiseptic and disaster.
Johnny stands over the bed, looking down at Deion Vale. The star winger is unconscious, his leg encased in a temporary splint, looking small and broken against the white sheets.
Johnny sighs. A long, heavy exhale through his nose.
"He's done," Johnny says. "Tibia and fibula. It's a mess."
Daisy stands by the window, arms crossed. She shakes her head. "That's it, then. We're screwed. We have Pulisic, Weah… and nobody on the left. We're going into the Copa America with a squad that has no width."
Johnny turns away from the bed and looks at the door.
"The kid outside," Johnny says.
Daisy frowns. "The hoodie kid? The Good Samaritan?"
"That's Robin Silver," Johnny says.
Daisy's eyes widen slightly. "The Northport loanee? The one who got snapped in England?"
"The one who scored a hat-trick in twenty minutes against West Hall," Johnny corrects. "I watched that game, Daisy. I watched the tape fifty times. The kid was electric. He was doing things I haven't seen an American do since… well, ever."
"Johnny," Daisy warns, her voice sharp. "He hasn't played in eight months. He snapped his leg in half. We don't know if he can run. We don't know if he's stable. He's a ghost."
"He carried Vale," Johnny murmurs, eyes still on the door. "I asked the nurse. He carried a 180-pound dead weight across a parking lot and through the ER doors without breaking a sweat. His leg is fine."
"Physically, maybe. But mentally? He's been rotting in Ohio. Is he the same guy?"
Johnny thinks of the eyes he saw in the hallway. Cold. Empty. Hungry.
"We don't need a saint, Daisy," Johnny says, adjusting his collar. "We need a winger."
Present.
"You interested in starting for the USA?"
The words hang in the air like smoke.
Robin sits frozen in the plastic chair. He hears the question, but his brain refuses to process it.
Start. For the National Team.
The dream. The mountaintop.
But Robin doesn't feel joy. He feels sick.
His thoughts spiral into black noise.
Did I do this?
He looks at his hands. They're still stained with Vale's blood.
He argued with him. Provoked him. Called him a loser, a tourist, a ghost. If Robin hadn't stopped, hadn't engaged, Vale would've gotten into his car and driven away. Drunk, sure. But whole.
Vale walked backward because he was shouting at Robin.
I killed him, Robin thinks. I didn't beat him on the pitch. I didn't take the spot because I was better. I took it because I pushed him into traffic.
He feels like a scammer. A thief. A sinner.
His father's voice echoes in his head. Why does God do this to us?
Maybe God didn't do this. Maybe Robin did.
He wants to scream. To run out of the hospital and never touch a ball again. Nothing he does feels clean. His hat-trick ended with a broken leg. His call-up begins with a car crash. He is cursed.
"Robin."
The voice cuts through the static.
Robin blinks. Looks up. Johnny is staring at him, intense, unwavering.
"Robin," Johnny repeats. "Focus."
Robin swallows the bile in his throat.
"Do you know who I am?" Johnny asks.
"Yes," Robin whispers. "Johnny. The coach."
"Good. Because I know who you are. I watched the tape. I saw the West Hall game. I saw the hat-trick."
Robin flinches, recoiling into the chair.
"Don't remind me," he snaps.
Johnny raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"
"Because it reminds me of my failure."
"Failure?" Johnny steps closer, looming. "You call three goals and a masterclass a failure?"
"I broke my leg," Robin says hollowly. "I lost everything. I ended up here, in Ohio, watching everyone else win. That game ruined me."
"You didn't fail," Johnny says, voice sharp, stripping away the self-pity. "If you failed, I wouldn't be standing here offering a starting spot on the US National Team to a guy who's never played a minute above Division II."
Robin goes quiet.
"Think about that," Johnny continues. "That doesn't happen. That's impossible. Unless you're something else. Unless you're special."
Johnny extends his hand again.
"Vale is done. That's a tragedy. But football doesn't stop for tragedy. The spot is open. Empty. You can leave it empty and we lose. Or you take it, and we fight."
Robin stares at the hand.
He thinks of Vale in the other room. The guilt. The weight.
Then he thinks of the training. The 5 a.m. sprints. The push-ups on carpet. The scar on his shin.
Loyalty is a scam.Guilt is useless.The spot is open.
Robin stands. He wipes his bloody hand on his jeans.
He reaches out.
He shakes Johnny's hand.
"I'm in."