The sun in Atlanta is a physical weight. It presses down on the shoulders, heavy and wet.
2:00 PM.
Johnny stands in the center circle. He holds a pile of mesh bibs. Orange and Blue.
He tosses the Orange bibs to the usual suspects. Jackson Voss catches one without looking. Russo. Cook. Park. The Old Guard. The men who have owned the starting XI for the last cycle. They put them on slowly, comfortable in their skin. They are big. They look like they were carved out of granite.
Then, the Blue bibs.
Johnny tosses them to the New Blood. The kids.
Andrew Smith. 20 years old. Right Winger. Plays for Ajax's B-team. Technical, fast, and soft.
Adam Richards. 21. Central Attacking Midfielder. " The Architect." Plays in France. Good vision, zero bite.
And Robin Silver.
Robin catches the blue mesh. He pulls it over his head. It smells like laundry detergent.
He looks around his team. They look like a boy band. Frosted tips. expensive boots. Tattoos that look like stickers. They are stretching, checking their GPS vests, making sure their socks are at the perfect height.
"11 v 11," Johnny barks. "Thirty minutes. Winner stays on for shooting drills. Loser runs laps."
Voss grins. He cracks his knuckles. He looks at the Blue team like a wolf looks at a petting zoo.
"Easy work, boys," Voss says.
Robin ties his laces. He doesn't say a word. He just looks at the goal at the other end.
Kick-off.
The game starts, and immediately, Robin feels the sickness.
It's the Academy Style.
The Blue team has the ball. They are technically gifted. They can trap a ball falling from space. They can pass in triangles all day long.
But they are terrified.
Richards gets the ball in the midfield. He has space to turn. He has space to drive at the defense.
But he sees Kessel.
Kessel is the starting CDM for the Orange team. A bald, angry man who plays in the Premier League. Kessel steps forward, just a feint.
Richards panics. He doesn't shield the ball. He doesn't take the hit. He taps the ball backward to the center-back.
Safe.
The Blue team recycles possession. Center-back to fullback. Fullback to Smith.
Smith is on the right wing. He is fast. He has a 1-v-1 against the backup Left Back, a guy named Miller who is slow on the turn.
Robin watches from the left wing. He raises his hand. Cross it. Beat him and cross it.
Smith squares up Miller. He does a step-over. Miller doesn't bite.
Smith calculates. Robin can practically see the percentages flashing in the kid's eyes.
Risk of losing ball: 40%. Risk of counter-attack: 30%. Success rate of dribble: 20%.
Action: Retain possession.
Smith stops. He turns his back on the defender. He passes the ball all the way back to the keeper.
"Good patience!" the assistant coach yells from the sideline. "Keep the ball!"
Robin grinds his teeth.
Patience? That's not patience. That's cowardice.
The game continues. It's a simulation. It's a training exercise designed to maximize pass completion percentage.
The Orange team is barely moving. They are shifting side to side, letting the kids pass the ball in harmless U-shapes around the perimeter. Voss is standing at the back, hands on his hips, chatting with his goalkeeper.
They aren't respecting the Blue team. Why should they? The Blue team isn't trying to score. They are trying not to make mistakes.
Minute 12.
Robin checks to the ball. He screams for it.
"Here! Adam! Here!"
Richards has the ball. He sees Robin. But there is a defender in the passing lane. A tight window.
If Richards threads the needle, Robin is through on goal. If he misses, it's an interception.
Richards hesitates. He chooses the safe option. He passes sideways to Smith.
Robin stops running. He stands there, alone on the left flank. Starving.
He looks at Richards. The kid is happy. He completed the pass. His stats are good.
They are playing a simulator, Robin thinks. They think if they pass 100 times, the game awards them a win. They think football is math.
They don't know.
They don't know that war is about killing.
They don't know that possession without penetration is just masturbation.
Minute 18.
The Blue team is still passing. Tap. Tap. Tap. It's hypnotic. It's boring. It's the sound of mediocrity.
Robin feels the familiar heat rising in his chest. The same heat he felt in the parking lot with Vale. The same heat he felt when the West Hall fans booed him.
I am wasting my time.
He looks at Johnny on the sideline. The coach is watching impassively, arms crossed. Is this what he wants? Does he want this sterilized, plastic football?
No. Johnny said Output is King.
Smith gets the ball on the right wing again.
Same situation. Miller is there. Smith has the pace. He has the angle.
But Smith slows down. He looks up. He sees Kessel drifting over to help.
Smith's eyes widen. Fear.
He winds up to pass backward. To the right-back. Again. The loop continues. The algorithm resets.
Robin snaps.
He abandons the left wing.
He doesn't jog. He sprints.
He cuts diagonally across the entire pitch. He is a blur of blue mesh and rage.
Smith doesn't see him coming. Smith is looking at his right-back, preparing the safe pass.
Robin hits him.
He doesn't slide. He shoulders him. Hard.
Thud.
Smith flies. The kid goes sprawling onto the grass, tumbling over his own feet.
"What the f—!" Smith screams, rolling over.
The whistle doesn't blow. The coaches are too shocked. The players are frozen.
Robin has the ball.
He stole it. From his own teammate.
He doesn't stop. He doesn't apologize. He turns toward the goal.
He is in the center of the pitch now, thirty yards out.
Kessel, the CDM, is standing there. He looks confused. He's staring at Smith on the ground.
"He's on your team!" Kessel yells, pointing.
Robin drives at him.
"Focus," Robin growls.
Kessel reacts late. He steps in, trying to body-check the lunatic.
Robin waits. He waits for the lunge.
Open the gate.
Robin taps the ball. A distinct, sharp nutmeg. The ball rolls through Kessel's legs.
"Oh!" someone shouts from the sideline.
Robin bursts past the veteran. Kessel grabs at Robin's jersey, but Robin is too sweaty, too fast. He tears away.
The defense is broken. Voss is scrambling, trying to close the gap, but he was flat-footed, expecting the back-pass.
Robin is at the top of the box.
Reaves, the starting goalkeeper, is off his line.
Robin doesn't look for a pass. There is no one to pass to. He is playing 1 v 21.
He draws his leg back.
He strikes the ball with everything he has. All the frustration. All the boredom. All the hate for the safety.
Boom.
The ball screams through the air. It doesn't curl. It doesn't dip. It lasers past Reaves' ear and smashes into the roof of the net.
The sound of the impact echoes across the training complex.
Silence.
Absolute, dead silence.
The ball drops from the net and rolls slowly back toward the penalty spot.
Andrew Smith is scrambling to his feet. His face is red. He is furious. He sprints over to Robin.
"Are you insane?" Smith screams, shoving Robin in the chest. "What is wrong with you? We are on the same team! You tackled me!"
Richards runs over, looking terrified and angry. "You can't do that! That's a foul!"
Robin stumbles back from the shove, but he doesn't lose his balance. He brushes his chest where Smith touched him.
He looks at the ball in the net. Then he looks at Smith.
His eyes are cold. Dead.
"We aren't on the same team," Robin says. His voice is low, but in the silence, it carries like a gunshot.
"I'm wearing the same bib, asshole!" Smith yells, pointing at his chest. "You stole the ball from me!"
"I saved the ball from you," Robin counters.
"I was cycling possession! I was keeping the shape!"
"You were hiding," Robin snaps.
He steps forward. Smith flinches.
"You had a 1-v-1. You had space. And you turned around. You looked for the exit."
Robin looks around at the rest of the Blue team. Richards. Williams. The future of US Soccer.
"You are playing a video game," Robin spits. "You think if you don't lose the ball, you played well. You think safety is a skill."
He points at the goal.
"That is the only thing that matters. The net."
"You're a psycho," Smith mutters, rubbing his shoulder. "Johnny! Did you see that? He fouled me!"
Smith turns to the sideline.
Johnny hasn't moved. He is still standing on the touchline, arms crossed. His face is unreadable. He looks at Smith. Then he looks at Robin.
Then, slowly, Johnny brings his whistle to his lips.
Tweeeet.
"Goal stands," Johnny says calmly. "Blue team, 1-0."
"What?" Voss shouts from the back. "Coach, he took out his own guy!"
"Play to the whistle, Jackson," Johnny says, not looking at the captain. "Ball is in play until I say it isn't. Robin put it in the net."
Johnny looks at Robin. There is no smile. But there is a nod. A microscopic acknowledgment.
Output.
Robin turns back to Smith. The winger is gaping, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.
Robin leans in.
"If you aren't going to shoot," Robin whispers, "get off the pitch. I don't play with cowards."
Robin turns around and jogs back to the center circle.
He feels the eyes of the Old Guard on him. Voss is staring at him, not with disdain anymore, but with wariness. Kessel is rubbing his thighs, looking embarrassed.
The Blue team stays away from him. They look at him like he's a bomb that hasn't finished exploding.
Good.
Let them be scared. Fear makes you run faster.
Robin stands in the center circle. He waits for the kickoff.
He is alone again. Just how he likes it.