The office of the Head Coach is a bunker.
It is 2:00 AM. The air conditioning in the Four Seasons has hummed into a low, steady drone that sounds suspiciously like a flatline. On the desk, three empty espresso cups sit in a sad little pyramid. A half-eaten sandwich is drying out on a napkin.
The only light comes from the projector screen on the far wall.
Johnny stands in the center of the room. He is barefoot. He loosened his tie hours ago, and his shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. He looks like a detective trying to solve a murder that hasn't happened yet.
Daisy, his assistant coach, sits at the desk. She is typing furiously on a laptop that is synced to the projector. She looks fresh, but her eyes are tight. She deals in facts. She deals in data. And the data she is looking at is a horror story.
"Play it again," Johnny says.
Daisy sighs. She hits a key.
On the screen, the footage rolls. Brazil versus Bolivia. Minute 22.
Ronaldo Jose receives the ball. He is surrounded. He laughs. He flicks the ball over a defender's head. He passes to Lucas Ribeiro. Ribeiro dissects the defense with a look. Goal.
"They are perfect, Johnny," Daisy says. Her voice is devoid of emotion. It is just a report. "I've run the simulations. I've looked for the structural weakness. There isn't one."
Johnny rubs his face with his hands. "Everyone has a weakness, Daisy. Even God rested on the seventh day."
"Brazil doesn't rest," Daisy counters. She points at the screen. "Look at their shape. When they lose the ball, the counter-press is instant. Three seconds. That is their average recovery time. Three seconds to win it back. If we try to play out from the back, they will suffocate Voss and Williams. If we try to go long, Casemiro eats the second ball."
She types a command. A spider graph appears on the screen comparing the USA and Brazil across twenty metrics. Brazil's shape engulfs the USA's like a giant amoeba swallowing a germ.
"If we press high," Daisy continues, "Ronaldo kills us in behind. He is faster than Maddox. He is faster than Williams. If we sit low if we park the bus like Voss wants Lucas Ribeiro picks the lock. He has the highest key-pass completion rate in the world right now."
Daisy turns in her swivel chair. She looks at Johnny.
"We lose this game nine times out of ten," she says. "Statistically, it is a slaughter. The smart move the career-saving move is to play for a respectable 2-0 loss. Keep the goal difference decent. Qualify in second place. Don't provoke the beast."
Johnny stares at the frozen image of Ronaldo Jose smiling at the camera.
"Nine times out of ten," Johnny repeats.
He walks to the window. He looks out at the darkness.
"What about the tenth time?"
Daisy blinks. "Excuse me?"
"The tenth time," Johnny says, turning back. "The anomaly. The glitch. What happens in that one simulation where we win? How does it happen?"
Daisy hesitates. She looks at her laptop. She clicks a folder labeled High Risk and Low Probability.
"It requires... luck," she says. "And it requires a suicidal tactical shift."
"Show me."
Daisy brings up a new clip. It isn't a highlight. It is a boring piece of transitional play from Brazil's warm-up game against Colombia.
She pauses the video. She uses the mouse to circle a player on the right side of the screen.
Rodrigo Mendes. The Brazilian Right Back.
"Rodrigo," Daisy says. "He plays for Barcelona. He is technically a defender, but his heat map is basically a winger. He attacks constantly. He overlaps. He underlaps. He spends sixty percent of the game in the opponent's final third."
Johnny steps closer to the screen. He traces the space behind Rodrigo.
"He leaves a hole," Johnny whispers.
"Massive space," Daisy agrees. "But Brazil covers it with Casemiro. They rely on their CDM to slide over and plug the gap."
"But if Casemiro slides over," Johnny says, his eyes lighting up, "then the middle is open."
"Theoretically, yes," Daisy says. "But to exploit that space behind Rodrigo, you need a player stationed high on the left. Someone who doesn't track back. Someone who cheats."
She looks at Johnny significantly.
"You need Robin Silver to stay high. You need him to stand on the halfway line while we are defending."
Johnny nods. "Exactly. We leave the Ghost upfield. The Anchor."
"Johnny," Daisy warns, her voice sharp. "Think about what that means. If Robin stays high, he isn't defending. That leaves our Left Back completely exposed."
She pulls up a tactical diagram showing the USA left flank.
Ben Cutter is at Left Back. Facing him: The Brazilian Right Winger, Antony, and Rodrigo Mendes. It is a two against one.
"You are leaving Ben Cutter alone," Daisy says. "You are leaving a guy who plays for a relegation-threatened Bundesliga team alone against two of the best attackers in the world. It is suicide. They will overload him. They will destroy him."
Johnny stares at the diagram. He sees the math. Daisy is right. Asking Cutter to defend a two versus one against Brazil is asking a golden retriever to fight two jaguars.
But he also sees the other side of the equation.
If Cutter survives... if he holds... and if they win the ball...
Robin Silver has forty yards of empty green grass to run into. No Rodrigo. Just a center-back sliding over in panic.
"It is a trade," Johnny murmurs. "We trade defensive stability for a loaded gun."
"It is reckless," Daisy says. "Voss won't like it. He wants a double bank of four. He wants Robin tracking back to make it a 5-4-1."
"Voss wants to lose 2-0," Johnny snaps. "I don't want to lose 2-0."
Knock. Knock.
The sound is soft, but in the silence of the office, it sounds like a gavel.
Johnny and Daisy turn.
The door to the office is open.
Standing in the frame, bathed in the hallway light, is Robin Silver.
He is wearing his recovery gear. Compression pants. Hoodie. He looks like a shadow that detached itself from the wall. His face is pale, his eyes dark circles of insomnia.
He doesn't apologize for interrupting. He doesn't ask if they are busy.
"Are we parking the bus?" Robin asks.
His voice is flat. Dead.
Johnny turns fully around. He leans against the desk. "Daisy thinks we should. She thinks it is the only way to keep the score down."
Robin steps into the room. He walks with a slight limp, the ghost of the Bolivia game still haunting his shin.
He stops in front of the projector screen. The image of the smiling Ronaldo Jose is projected onto his chest.
"Ronaldo smiles when he plays," Robin says quietly.
He looks at the image. He traces the smile with his eyes.
"He dances," Robin continues. "He laughs. He thinks football is a game. He thinks it is a party."
Robin turns to Johnny. His eyes are not the eyes of a nineteen-year-old boy. They are the eyes of something ancient and hungry.
"If we park the bus," Robin says, "we let him dance. We give him the ball. We give him the stage. We stand back and watch him perform."
Robin shakes his head.
"I don't want to watch him perform."
He takes a step closer to Johnny.
"I want to press him. I want to hit him. I want to make him miserable. I want to take that smile and wipe it off his face until he remembers that this is a job."
Daisy looks at Robin. She sees the hate. It radiates off him like cold air.
"Robin," Daisy says gently. "If we press high, we leave gaps. We expose Ben."
"Ben will run," Robin says instantly. "He promised."
"It's a two against one," Daisy argues. "He will die out there."
"Then he dies," Robin says. "And I'll score three goals to make up for it."
Silence.
It is a statement of such profound arrogance that it sucks the oxygen out of the room.
But Johnny smiles.
It isn't a nice smile. It is the smile of a man who has just found the missing component of a bomb.
He looks at Daisy.
"The tenth time," Johnny says.
Daisy sighs. She closes her laptop. She knows when she has lost. She knows that logic has no place in this room anymore.
Johnny looks back at Robin.
"You want to press?" Johnny asks.
"Yes."
"You want to leave Ben alone to fight for his life while you cheat upfield?"
"Yes."
"You understand that if you miss... if you don't convert those chances... we lose 6-0? You understand that it will be your fault?"
Robin doesn't flinch.
"Output is King," Robin says.
Johnny nods.
He walks over to the whiteboard on the wall. He picks up a red marker.
He draws a circle around the Brazilian Right Back position. He draws a massive arrow pointing into the empty space behind it.
Then, he writes one word in huge, jagged letters.
SHOOTOUT.
He caps the marker.
"Get some sleep, Silver," Johnny says.
Robin nods. He turns to leave.
"Robin," Johnny calls out.
Robin stops at the door.
"We aren't parking anything," Johnny says. "We aren't going out there to survive. We are going out there to get into a gunfight."
Robin's face doesn't change. But a glint appears in his eyes. A spark.
"Good," Robin says. "I brought bullets."
He walks out.
The room is quiet again. The hum of the AC returns.
Daisy looks at the whiteboard.
"You realize," she says softly, "that if this goes wrong, we are all fired. You, me, the staff. We will be exiled."
Johnny looks at the word SHOOTOUT.
"Maybe," Johnny says. "But did you see his eyes, Daisy?"
"I saw them," she says. "He looks like a psychopath."
"Exactly," Johnny says. "And Brazil? Brazil has artists. They have dancers. They have poets."
Johnny turns off the projector. The room plunges into darkness.
"They don't have a psychopath."
"Now they do," Daisy whispers.
Johnny picks up his cold coffee. He toasts the dark room.
"To the tenth time."