Minute 36.
The game has stopped being a contest of skill. It has become a contest of structural integrity.
Bolivia is frustrated. They are tired of chasing shadows. They are tired of the nutmegs, the spins, the arrogant flicks that bypass their midfield like it isn't even there. They are tired of being the Washington Generals to Robin Silver's Harlem Globetrotters.
And when a team like Bolivia gets tired, they get mean.
Carlos Roca is their defensive midfielder. He is thirty-four years old. He has played in the Copa Libertadores for fifteen years. He has a face that looks like a topographical map of bad decisions scars on his eyebrows, a nose that has been broken three times, and eyes that are flat and lifeless.
He is not a footballer. He is a disposal unit.
He watches Robin Silver receive the ball near the center circle.
Roca grinds his teeth. He hates this kid. He hates the neon boots. He hates the haircut. He hates the way the crowd gasps every time the kid touches the ball, as if he's about to perform a miracle.
But mostly, Roca hates the disrespect.
Robin isn't playing the game Roca knows. Robin is playing a game of humiliation.
Roca looks down at Robin's legs.
He sees the right sock. It is pulled up high, but the outline is there. The scar tissue. The history.
Roca knows the story. Everyone knows the story. The kid snapped his leg in England less than a year ago. He walked into a hospital on a stretcher and walked out with a rod in his shin.
Metal, Roca thinks. But metal bends.
He makes a decision.
He isn't going to win the ball. He isn't going to intercept the pass.
He is going to test the surgery.
Minute 38.
Robin Silver stands with the ball at his feet. He is scanning the field. He sees Rayden Park making another useless run into a blind alley. He sees Russo drifting too wide.
He sighs.
"I have to do it all."
He pushes the ball forward. A heavy touch. A bait touch.
He knows someone is coming. He can feel the malice in the air. It radiates from the Bolivian midfield like heat from an open oven.
He waits.
Roca takes the bait.
The veteran launches himself. He doesn't slide from the side. He doesn't jockey. He comes in straight, studs raised, aiming directly for the shin.
It is a "reducer." A tackle designed to send a message. A tackle designed to make the opponent think about their career every time they receive a pass for the rest of the game.
The crowd sees it coming.
"NO!" a woman screams in the front row.
Johnny, on the sideline, takes a step onto the pitch, his hand raising in a futile gesture to the referee.
But physics does not listen to coaches.
CRUNCH.
The sound is sickening. It is distinct. It is not the soft thud of leather on leather. It is the hard, sharp crack of a boot slamming into a solid object.
Roca hits Robin's right leg. Dead center.
The impact echoes through the stadium.
For a split second, the world stops.
Rayden Park freezes. Andrew Smith flinches, turning his head away, expecting the scream. Jackson Voss closes his eyes, already imagining the press conference, the tragedy, the end of the tournament.
Everyone expects Robin Silver to fall.
They expect him to crumple. To roll on the grass, clutching his shin, screaming for morphine. They expect the bone to snap again. They expect the dream to end right here, in the 39th minute of a 0-0 draw.
But Robin Silver does not fall.
He stumbles. His upper body jerks forward from the force of the impact. His head snaps down.
But his leg?
His leg stays planted.
It is immovable. It is an oak tree rooted in concrete.
The titanium rod inside the tibia absorbs the shock. It takes the force of a 180-pound man moving at full speed and disperses it. It doesn't bend. It doesn't break. It rings like a bell, a deep, internal vibration that shoots up Robin's thigh and into his hip, but it holds.
Instead of breaking the leg, the force rebounds.
Roca is the one who reacts.
The Bolivian's foot hits the unyielding surface of Robin's shin. His ankle twists violently. The shockwave travels back up his leg.
"ARGH!"
Roca screams.
He bounces off Robin. He rolls onto his back, clutching his own foot, his face twisted in agony. It is like he kicked a lamp post. It is like he kicked a vault door.
The stadium goes silent. They are trying to process the visual data.
The victim is standing. The aggressor is down.
Robin stands over him.
He is breathing hard. The pain is there a dull, hot throb around the impact site where the flesh is bruised but the structure is intact.
He looks down at Roca.
The veteran is writhing, holding his instep. He looks up at Robin with wide, terrified eyes. He expected the kid to break. He expected a scream.
Instead, he sees a monster looking down at him with cold curiosity.
Robin doesn't look at the referee. He doesn't wave an imaginary card. He doesn't complain.
He adjusts his sock. He pulls the fabric up over the shin guard, covering the scar, covering the metal.
He looks Roca in the eye.
"Is that all?" Robin asks.
His voice is calm. It is bored. It is the voice of a man who has been hit by a car and found the car wanting.
Roca blinks. He forgets his pain for a second. A chill runs down his spine.
"What are you?"
Robin turns around.
The ball has rolled a few yards away.
Robin jogs over to it. He doesn't limp. He puts his weight on the right leg, testing it, proving to the world and to himself that he is still functional.
He puts his foot on the ball. He looks at the referee, who is standing there with his whistle halfway to his mouth, stunned.
"Play on," Robin says.
The referee shakes his head, coming out of the trance. He blows the whistle. Foul. Yellow card for Roca.
But the card doesn't matter.
The message has been sent.
The Bolivian players are watching. The center-back, Castillo, looks at Roca on the ground. He looks at Robin.
They are spooked.
They realized something terrifying.
They can't hurt him.
They tried to intimidate him with physicality. They tried to break him with violence. But they just found out that he is harder than they are. He is made of sterner stuff. Literally.
The fear shifts.
Before, they were afraid of his skill. They were afraid of the nutmeg.
Now? They are afraid of him.
They look at him like he is the Terminator. A machine wrapped in skin that will not stop, will not break, and will not die until the mission is complete.
Minute 40.
The game restarts.
The atmosphere has changed. The "Trap Game" feel is gone. The Bolivians aren't stepping up anymore. They are backing off. When Robin gets the ball, they don't dive in. They stand two yards away. They give him space.
They don't want to kick the iron bone again.
Robin receives the ball on the left. He has room.
He looks at the goal.
He feels the throb in his shin. It hurts. Of course it hurts. He isn't a robot. He feels every bruise.
But he uses it.
He feeds the pain into the engine.
"You tried to break me," Robin thinks, staring at the retreating red shirts. "You tried to finish the job."
Big mistake.
He drives forward.
And for the first time all night, the path is clear.