The box is ten yards wide and ten yards long.
It is marked out by four orange cones that look like melted traffic pylons baking in the Georgia heat. Inside this square, the rules of organized football do not apply. There is no offside. There is no tactical shape. There is no cover.
There is only the Attacker, the Defender, and the Ball.
It is 11:00 AM on Training Pitch B. The humidity is ninety percent. The air feels like a hot towel pressed against the face.
Johnny stands at the edge of the box, a whistle in his mouth, a stopwatch in his hand. He isn't coaching today. He is refereeing a cage match.
"Winner stays on," Johnny barks. "If you lose the ball, you get out. If you get stopped, you get out. If you cry, you go home."
Robin Silver stands inside the square. He is the current King of the Hill.
He is sweating. His grey training top is soaked black. His hair is plastered to his forehead. But his legs specifically the right one, with the metal rod humming inside feel loose. They feel dangerous.
He has already cleared the queue once.
Andrew Smith steps in. The Algorithm.
Smith tries to be clever. He tries to analyze Robin's body shape. He looks at Robin's hips, calculating the angle of the press.
Too slow.
Robin doesn't wait for Smith to make a decision. He lunges. He pokes the ball away before Smith has finished processing the data.
"Next!" Johnny yells.
Smith walks off, shaking his head, muttering about spacing.
Next is Rayden Park. The striker.
Park is big, but he turns like a cruise ship. Robin waits for him to commit to a dribble, then simply steps across his path. Park bounces off Robin's shoulder and stumbles out of the box.
"Next!"
Robin grins. He is enjoying this. It is pure output. It is a binary game win or lose and he is winning. He kicks the ball up, juggling it on his knee, waiting for the next victim.
A shadow falls over the box.
It is a long, wide shadow that blocks out the sun.
Robin stops juggling. He catches the ball on his foot and places it on the grass.
He looks up.
Mason Williams steps between the cones.
The Silencer.
The eighteen-year-old Juventus center-back is wearing a sleeveless vest that exposes arms thicker than Robin's thighs. He isn't bouncing on his toes. He isn't stretching. He is just standing there, hands hanging loosely at his sides, staring at the ball with the flat, dead eyes of a shark.
He doesn't look like a footballer. He looks like a piece of industrial machinery that has been left on the pitch by mistake.
"Go," Johnny whistles.
Round 1.
Robin decides to test the hydraulics.
He touches the ball forward. He relies on his acceleration. He knows he is faster than Williams over five yards. If he can just get his shoulder past Mason's hip, he wins.
He explodes. Zero to sixty.
He gets the step. He is past the hip.
But he forgets the reach.
Mason doesn't turn. He doesn't sprint. He simply extends his right arm. It is a rigid, iron bar. He places his hand on Robin's chest.
He pushes.
It isn't a foul. It is a redirection of mass.
Robin feels his feet leave the ground. He flies sideways. He crashes out of the box, tumbling over the orange cones, landing in a heap in the dust.
Mason hasn't moved his feet. He just stands there, watching Robin slide away.
"Defender wins," Johnny calls out. "Switch."
Robin scrambles up. He spits out a blade of grass. He glares at Mason.
"Okay. No speed."
Round 2.
Robin takes the ball again. Johnny waves Robin back in. He wants to see this match-up. He wants to see the sparks.
Robin dribbles into the center of the box.
Mason retreats. He keeps his knees bent, his center of gravity surprisingly low for a giant.
Robin starts the dance.
Step-over. Body feint. Roll.
He throws every trick in the book at the big man. He tries to dazzle him. He tries to overload Mason's sensory input, to make him cross his feet.
Mason doesn't bite. He doesn't look at Robin's feet. He stares at Robin's chest.
"The chest doesn't lie," the old Italian defenders say.
Robin fakes left. Mason stays put. Robin fakes right. Mason stays put.
Robin gets frustrated. He tries to force the nutmeg. He pushes the ball toward the gap between Mason's legs.
Clack.
Mason shuts his legs. The ball bounces off his shins.
Mason steps forward. He uses his body to shield the ball. He boxes Robin out. Robin pushes, scratches, tries to get around the mountain, but it is useless.
"Defender wins," Johnny says.
Robin is panting now. His face is red. He is losing the physical battle, and it is pissing him off.
Round 3.
Robin retrieves the ball. He places it on the line.
He looks at Mason. Mason isn't even breathing hard. He looks bored.
Tricks don't work. Speed doesn't work.
Robin realizes the problem. He is trying to play around the obstacle. He is treating Mason like a defender.
Mason isn't a defender. He is a wall.
And you don't run around a wall in a ten-yard box. You have to go through it.
Robin touches the ball.
He doesn't accelerate fully. He stays low. He drops his hips until he is almost crouching.
He drives at Mason.
Mason prepares to use his arm again. To shove the kid away.
But Robin gets under the arm.
He drives his shoulder into Mason's sternum.
THUD.
It is a violent collision. Bone on bone.
Mason grunts. The impact knocks the wind out of him. He stumbles backward, his balance compromised by the low leverage.
Robin bounces off, but he expects the recoil. He uses the rebound to spin.
He accelerates into the space Mason just vacated.
He reaches the other side of the box.
"Attacker wins," Johnny says.
Robin stops. He puts his hands on his knees. He is gasping. His shoulder feels like he just ran into a doorframe.
Mason straightens up. He rubs his chest. He looks at Robin.
There is a flicker of something in his eyes. Respect.
"Again," Mason rumbles.
Round 4.
Mason wins. He steps on Robin's toe accidentally on purpose and clears the ball while Robin is hopping.
Round 5.
Robin wins. He uses a Cruyff turn to bait Mason into a lunge, then slips past the heavy leg.
Johnny blows the whistle.
"Time," Johnny calls. "Water."
The drill ends. The rest of the team is staring. They watched the violence. They watched the collision of two completely different philosophies of movement.
Robin and Mason don't walk back to the group. They collapse right where they are, sitting on the sun-baked grass near the edge of the pitch.
They grab water bottles from the cooler.
Robin chugs half the bottle in one go. He pours the rest over his head. The water mixes with the sweat and dirt running down his face.
He looks at his shoulder. It is already bruising.
He looks at Mason.
The Silencer is sitting with his legs stretched out. He is wiping his face with his shirt.
"You're annoying," Mason says.
It isn't an insult. It is a statement of fact.
"You turn too fast," Mason adds. "Like a fly."
Robin laughs. It hurts his ribs to laugh. "A fly? Thanks."
"Hard to catch," Mason clarifies.
"You're heavy," Robin says. He leans back on his elbows. "Hitting you is like running into a fridge."
Mason pauses. He considers the comparison. A fridge. Large. Cold. Full of sustenance. Immovable.
A small smirk touches the corner of his mouth.
"Fridge is good," Mason says. "Fridge doesn't move. Fridge protects the food."
Robin smiles. "Yeah. Fridge is good."
They sit in silence for a moment. The rest of the team is doing passing drills, the rhythmic thump of the ball providing a backdrop to their exhaustion.
Robin looks at the horizon.
"Tomorrow," Robin says.
"Brazil," Mason nods.
"Their striker," Robin says. "Matheus Ventura."
"I know him," Mason says. "Plays for Inter Milan. Scored twenty goals last season."
"He's good," Robin admits. "Technically, he's brilliant. But he's soft."
Robin turns to look at Mason.
"He likes space. He likes to drift away from defenders. He hates physical contact. If you touch him, he complains to the ref. If you hit him, he disappears."
Robin points at Mason's chest.
"We need the Fridge tomorrow, Mason."
Mason looks at the goal at the far end of the pitch. He imagines Ventura standing there. He imagines the Brazilian striker's pristine kit, his styled hair, his elegant movement.
Mason hates elegance. Elegance is just weakness in a tuxedo.
"He wants space?" Mason asks.
"Yes."
Mason cracks his knuckles again. The sound is like a pistol shot.
"I will remove his space," Mason says.
"And if he tries to run?"
"I will put him in the fridge," Mason says deadpan.
Robin laughs again. It is a dark, gritty laugh.
He looks at the big defender. He sees the bruises on Mason's arms. He sees the dirt on his knees.
This isn't the friendship of the Euro Kids, bonding over fashion and fame. This isn't the camaraderie of the Old Guard, bonding over shared history.
This is a working relationship.
They are two men who work in a slaughterhouse. One holds the cattle; the other swings the hammer.
"Good," Robin says. He stands up. He offers a hand to Mason.
Mason looks at the hand. He takes it. He pulls himself up. The grip is iron.
"We stop the dance," Mason says.
"We break the floor," Robin corrects.
They walk back toward the group.
Johnny watches them from the sideline. He sees the way they walk. They aren't chatting. They aren't joking. They are marching.
The Blade and the Shield.
Johnny closes his notebook. He doesn't need to write anything down. The strategy is set.
The Americans aren't going to out-play Brazil.
They are going to beat them up.