There were only nine players sitting on the benches. Isaiah King was gone, crying in the shower. Shaun Higgins was gone, probably breaking a door in the hallway.
The remaining nine looked like soldiers who had been asked to fight a tank with a spoon.
Benjamin Pavard stood in the center of the room. The World Cup winner did not look panicked. He looked annoyed. He was wiping mud off his knees with a towel.
"Nine men," Pavard said. His voice was calm. "I have played in the World Cup Final. I have played in the Champions League. But I have never played nine against eleven."
He looked at Michael Sterling.
"Boss. We need a plan. A crazy plan."
Michael took a deep breath. He looked at his team.
Kenji Sato was vibrating. The Japanese Engine had already run seven kilometers in the first half.
Kai Sora was sitting with his head back, eyes closed. He looked like he was meditating. Or sleeping.
"The plan is simple," Michael said. "We do not attack. We do not shoot. We survive."
