The hallway on the fourth floor of the Four Seasons is a tunnel of beige wallpaper and silent judgment. It is 1:00 AM. The cleaning staff has vanished. The room service carts have been collected.
Robin Silver walks softly on the plush carpet. He is wearing his hoodie, the hood pulled up to create his own personal sensory deprivation tank. He holds an empty ice bucket.
He is not tired. Sleep is a luxury for people who are not obsessed.
As he approaches the vending machine alcove near the elevators, he hears voices.
Husky whispers. The conspiratorial tone of men discussing a crime or a funeral.
Robin stops. He presses his back against the wall, melting into the shadow of a potted ficus.
"It is about containment," a voice says.
Robin recognizes it. Rayden Park. The striker who scored the lucky goal against Jamaica. He sounds anxious.
"If we drop into a 5 - 4 - 1," Park continues, "we can clog the middle. Force them wide. Danilo Costa crosses well, but if we pack the box, maybe we clear it."
"And then what?" another voice asks. Kyle Maddox. The right back who got roasted by the Jamaican winger. "We clear it, and then what? Who holds the ball? We cannot out possess them, Rayden. Did you see them against Bolivia? They had seventy percent possession while doing tricks."
"We do not need possession," Park says. "We just need to keep the score down. Goal difference matters in the group stage. If we lose 5 - 0 like Bolivia, we are done. But if we lose 2 - 0? Maybe 1 - 0? We beat Bolivia next, we finish on four points, maybe we scrape through in second place."
Robin closes his eyes.
Damage limitation.
They have not even played the game yet. They have not stepped onto the pitch, have not tied their laces, have not heard the whistle. And they are already negotiating the terms of their surrender.
They are planning how to lose with dignity.
"I just do not want to get embarrassed," Maddox whispers. "I am in a contract year, man. If Ronaldo puts me on a highlight reel... if he does to me what he did to that Bolivian guy... my value tanks. I cannot afford that."
"Just do not dive in," Park advises. "Stand off him. Let him have the space. Let him shoot from distance. Better a long shot goal than a nutmeg."
Robin feels a wave of nausea rise in his throat. It tastes like bile.
Let him shoot.
They are terrified. They are so scared of looking stupid that they are willing to lose. They view the jersey not as armor, but as a liability. They are accountants trying to minimize losses in a crashing market.
Robin wants to step out. He wants to throw the ice bucket at them. He wants to scream, "Cowards! Just quit! Go home!"
But he does not. It would be a waste of energy. You cannot shame a coward into bravery; you can only scare them into compliance. And right now, their fear of Brazil is greater than their fear of Robin.
He turns around. He walks back to his room, leaving the ice bucket empty.
He does not need ice. He needs heat.
Robin sits at his desk. His laptop is open. The screen casts a blue, ghostly light on his face.
He is not watching the highlights. He is not watching the goals. He is not watching the dances.
He is watching Soaries Martin.
Most people watch the ball. When Brazil attacks, the eye is drawn to the flash. To Ronaldo José's neon boots. To Lucas Ribeiro's hair. To the movement of the striker.
But Robin forces his eyes away from the light. He looks at the shadow.
He watches the space behind the attack.
Minute 12 vs. Bolivia. Brazil is swarming forward. Both full backs are in the attacking third. The midfield is pushing up. They are exposed. A simple long ball would kill them.
But they are not scared. Why?
Robin taps the spacebar. Pause.
He points at the screen.
There he is.
Soaries Martin. The 19 year old Monster Hunter.
He is standing alone at the halfway line. He is not watching the ball. He is scanning the field like a radar dish. He is looking at the Bolivian striker, anticipating the counter before it even happens.
Robin hits play.
Bolivia wins the ball. They try to launch the counter.
Before the pass is even made, Martin is moving. He does not sprint; he glides. He cuts the angle. He arrives at the exact spot the ball is going to land before the ball gets there.
He kills the play dead. He controls the ball with his chest, turns, and recycles possession.
Robin rewinds.
He watches it again.
It is arrogance. Pure, unadulterated arrogance. But not from the attackers.
The attackers dance because they know Daddy is home. They know the bouncer is at the door. They take risks stupid, high wire risks because they trust Martin to clean up the mess if they fall.
He is the safety net.
"If I break the kid," Robin whispers to the screen, "the whole dance stops."
If Martin fails... if Martin gets rattled... then Danilo Costa cannot push up. Then the midfield has to drop back. The structure collapses. The joy turns into anxiety.
Robin studies Martin's movement. The kid is big. Strong. But is he agile?
Robin finds a clip from the 35th minute. A Bolivian winger tries to change direction quickly. Martin adjusts. He is fast.
Okay. Cannot beat him with speed.
Robin finds another clip. A physical duel. Martin shrugs off a striker like he is brushing off lint.
Cannot beat him with strength.
Robin leans back. The chair creaks.
Soaries Martin looks perfect. He looks like a laboratory experiment designed to destroy wingers.
But everyone has a flaw.
Robin watches Martin's face. The expression. It is bored. Detached. He looks like he is filing taxes. He has no emotion. He has no anger.
That is it.
He thinks he is above the game.
Martin relies on his superiority. He expects to win the ball because he always wins the ball. He has not been humbled. He has not been dragged into the mud.
He is clean.
Robin looks at his own reflection in the dark window.
"I need to make him dirty," Robin mutters.
He closes the laptop.
He needs to lift. He needs to feel heavy things moving against gravity. The anxiety of the Damage Limitation talk in the hallway is itching under his skin.
He grabs his room key.
The hotel gym is located in the basement. It is 2:15 AM.
Robin expects it to be empty. He expects silence.
But as he pushes the heavy glass door open, he hears a sound.
CLANG.
Hiss.
CLANG.
Someone is there.
Robin walks in. The lights are dimmed, set to mood mode, but the squat rack is illuminated.
A man is under the bar.
He is huge. Not just tall, but thick. Broad shoulders, tree trunk thighs. He is wearing a grey sleeveless hoodie, soaked through with sweat.
Mason Williams.
"The Silencer." The 18 year old starting center back. The kid who plays for Juventus. The kid who replaced Elias Gordon and did not even blink when the veteran screamed at him.
There are four plates on each side of the bar. 405 pounds.
Williams descends. His form is perfect. Slow. Controlled. He hits the bottom of the squat, pauses, and then explodes up.
BOOM.
He racks the weight. The metal bar shudders.
Williams stands there for a moment, breathing heavily through his nose. He grabs a towel and wipes his face.
He turns around. He sees Robin standing by the dumbbell rack.
Williams does not jump. He does not smile. He just looks at Robin with heavy lidded, dark eyes.
"Silver," Williams says. His voice is deep, accented with a strange mix of New Jersey and Italian.
"Williams," Robin replies.
Robin walks over to the pull up bar. He grabs it. He starts to lift himself.
"Could not sleep?" Robin asks, staring at the ceiling.
"No," Williams says. He starts stripping the plates off the bar. "Too quiet."
"Thinking about Bolivia?"
"No."
Williams drops a 45 pound plate onto the stack. Clang.
"Thinking about the Samba," Williams says. The word drips with disdain.
Robin drops from the bar. He lands softly on the rubber mat. He looks at the big defender.
"You watched the game," Robin says.
"I watched," Williams says. He leans against the squat rack, crossing his massive arms. "They are strong. Technically... very high level."
"They are the favorites," Robin says.
"They are humans," Williams corrects him.
It is a simple sentence. But the way Williams says it flat, factual, devoid of awe makes Robin pause.
"The Number 10," Williams says. "Ronaldo. The one with the hair."
"Yeah. The Heir."
"He laughs when he plays," Williams says. He frowns. It is a genuine expression of confusion and disgust. "He misses a chance, he laughs. He scores, he dances. He gets tackled, he smiles."
Williams looks at Robin.
"I do not like it."
Robin feels a connection snap into place. It is the click of two magnets finding the right polarity.
"Why not?" Robin asks, though he knows the answer.
"Because it is disrespectful," Williams says. "Football is hard. Defending is suffering. To laugh at the suffering? To treat the pitch like a playground?"
Williams shakes his head.
"It insults the work."
Robin nods slowly. He steps closer.
"It makes you feel small," Robin says quietly. "Like your pain does not matter to them. Like they are playing a different sport."
"Yes," Williams agrees. "Me neither. I do not like it."
There is a silence between them. It is not awkward. It is heavy with shared intent.
They are the outcasts.
Robin, the cripple who runs on hate.
Williams, the stoic who runs on duty.
They both look at the carefree, joyful brilliance of Brazil as a personal affront. They hate the Samba because they do not know the steps. They hate the party because they were not invited.
So they want to burn the house down.
"Ronaldo jumps tackles," Williams says. "He hops."
"He sees them coming," Robin says. "He predicts the slide."
"I know," Williams says.
He pushes himself off the rack. He picks up his water bottle. He looks down at Robin. He towers over the winger.
"I will not slide," Williams says.
"No?"
"No. I will wait. When he jumps... he has to land."
Williams mimics a catching motion with his hands. But it is not gentle. It looks like he is catching a fly to crush it.
"I will hit him," Williams says. "When he lands. When he is heavy."
It is a promise of violence. Calculated, Italian defensive school violence. Not a reckless tackle, but a physical imposition of will.
"Good," Robin says. A small, cold smile touches his lips.
"If you hit him," Robin adds, "he stops laughing. And if he stops laughing..."
"...he becomes just a player," Williams finishes.
"Exactly."
Williams nods. He throws his towel over his shoulder.
"Bolivia first," Williams says. "Must win."
"Bolivia is just a speed bump," Robin says dismissively. "I am already looking at the Kings."
Williams pauses at the door. He looks back at Robin.
"You are arrogant, Silver."
"I know."
"Good," Williams says. "We need arrogance. The others..." He gestures vaguely toward the ceiling, toward the rooms where Park and Maddox are planning their surrender. "The others are small."
Williams walks out. The glass door swings shut.
Robin is alone in the gym.
He looks at the weights.
He feels lighter.
He is not the only monster in the hotel.
He walks over to the squat rack. He puts the plates back on.
Clang.
Clang.
Bolivia is in three days. They are a physical, nasty team. They will try to drag the USA down.
But Robin is not worried about Bolivia.
He is thinking about Soaries Martin. He is thinking about the safety net.
He puts the bar on his shoulders. The weight presses down, compressing his spine, compressing his leg.
It feels good.
He squats.
One.
Two.
He is not training to play football. He is training to stop the music.