Noel Noa stood in the center circle. He checked his wrist—though he wore no watch. His internal clock was ticking.
45 minutes to finish the cleaning. Efficiency: Sub-optimal. Irritation: Rising.
"He looks mad," Vincent Drake noted, spitting on the sideline. "Like someone scratched his car."
"We did scratch his car," Soccer bounced on his left foot. "And now we're going to slash the tires."
Coach Titan slammed his clipboard. "The 'Stop-Motion' strategy? Are you serious? The referee will card us to death."
"Not if we don't break the rules," Silas Vance adjusted his glasses. "We simply exploit the loopholes in the procedural administration of the match."
"Translation?" Vincent asked.
"We act annoying. Very, very annoying."
Second Half Kickoff.
France passed back to reset.
Normally, the opponent presses or sits back.
Team USA did neither.
Kai Rivers sat down to tie his shoe. Right in the passing lane.
"Ref! Safety issue!" Kai yelled, waving his arm.
The referee blew the whistle. Play stopped. Kai spent a full forty-five seconds tying a double knot with painstaking slowness. Noa stared at him, expressionless.
Restart.
France attacked. They built momentum. Pass, move, accelerate.
Soccer sprinted alongside the French winger. The winger was faster.
Soccer tripped.
"Oops!"
He tumbled into the winger's path. Not a tackle. An "accident."
The winger tripped over Soccer.
Whistle. Foul.
Soccer stood up, apologizing profusely to the ref. "My new ankle! It's glitchy! Sorry sir!"
No card. Just a warning.
Play stopped for set piece. 90 seconds wasted setting up the wall.
Restart.
Minute 60. France 3 - USA 1.
Noa received the ball. He was isolated with Vincent.
Noa prepared to dribble.
Vincent raised his hand. "Ref! Sub!"
The board went up. A USA reserve player was jogging off... slowly. So slowly. He high-fived everyone. He waved to the crowd. He stopped to fix his sock.
The crowd booed. The French players threw their hands up.
"It's anti-football!" a fan screamed.
"It's rhythm killing," Silas whispered on the bench. "Noa operates on flow. He needs momentum to calibrate his efficiency. We are introducing latency."
Noa stood with the ball at his feet. His rhythm was broken. The "flow state" evaporated in the awkward pauses.
When play finally resumed, Noa passed. It was a micro-fraction too hard. The winger missed it. Out for a throw-in.
Soccer grinned.
"He's getting rusty."
Minute 75.
France was frustrated. They were making mistakes. Uncharacteristic heavy touches. Bad passes.
USA countered.
Soccer got the ball at midfield.
Noa didn't wait. He sprinted back to defend personally.
"Enough games," Noa said in English. "I will end this."
Noa marked Soccer.
The Best Player in the World vs. The Anomaly.
Soccer stopped.
He looked at Noa.
"You're fast," Soccer said. "But can you wait?"
Soccer stood still. He put his foot on the ball.
Noa waited. He wouldn't bite on a feint.
Five seconds passed. Ten.
The crowd went silent. It was bizarre. Two players frozen in the center circle while the game went on around them.
"Attack me," Noa commanded.
"No thanks," Soccer smiled. "I like it here. Nice view."
Noa's eye twitched. Patience: 0%.
Noa lunged. A tackle to strip the ball.
Now.
Soccer didn't dribble away. He kicked the ball at Noa's shin.
THWACK.
The ball rebounded off Noa's leg, bouncing behind him.
Soccer used his Titanium Spring to launch past the off-balance Noa.
"Ricochet dribble!" Soccer laughed. "Thanks for the wall-pass!"
Soccer was free.
He drove toward the box. France's defense was disjointed, expecting Noa to win the duel.
Kai was open on the right. Vincent on the left.
Soccer passed to neither.
He passed backward to Zero, who had crept up to the midfield line (again).
"Why back?" Vincent screamed. "Attacking lane was open!"
"Reset!" Soccer yelled. "Disrupt!"
Zero caught the pass. He held it. The French defense, which had collapsed backward to defend the goal, now had to push back out.
This expansion/contraction tired them out.
Zero launched a long ball over the top.
To Kai Rivers.
Kai trapped it perfectly. He was onsite.
One on one with the keeper.
"Finish it, Goldilocks!"
Kai shot. A perfect curling finesse shot.
The keeper got a fingertip to it. It hit the post.
The rebound came out.
Vincent Drake was there. The Dragon.
He didn't shoot. He simply ran into the ball with his chest, carrying it into the net along with the defender trying to clear it.
GOAL.
USA: 2 - France: 3
Time: 82:00
"One more!" Soccer screamed, grabbing the ball. "The machine is overheating!"
Noel Noa stared at the scoreboard.
For the first time in his career, he looked sweaty. A single drop ran down his temple.
"They play without logic," Noa whispered to his teammate. "They play like viruses."
Minute 88.
3-2 France.
France was possessing the ball, trying to kill the clock. They had learned from the Americans.
"Get it back!" Titan roared. "High press!"
Soccer, Vincent, Kai, and even Silas chased the ball like rabid dogs.
They cornered the French defender near the corner flag.
He tried to clear it.
Soccer jumped. He blocked the clearance with his face.
SMACK.
It hurt. His nose bled. But the ball dropped in play.
"Mine!" Soccer yelled through the blood.
He dribbled along the goal line. Zero angle.
He couldn't shoot.
Noa was closing in. The final boss.
"You will not pass," Noa said, cutting off the lane.
Soccer looked at Noa.
"I won't pass," Soccer agreed.
Soccer flicked the ball up.
He juggled it. Once. Twice.
Then he kicked it high into the air, toward the penalty spot.
But it wasn't a normal cross. He put insane backspin on it.
The ball flew high.
It dropped.
But as it dropped, the spin caught. It curved away from the goal, toward the edge of the box.
Where nobody was standing.
Except...
Zero.
The lunatic goalkeeper had sprinted the length of the field.
Zero met the ball on the volley.
A 30-yard screamer.
"VOID CANNON!" Zero yelled (uncharacteristically loud).
He struck it pure.
The ball didn't spin. It didn't curve. It teleported.
It smashed into the top corner of the net before the French keeper even saw it.
GOAL.
USA: 3 - France: 3
Time: 90:00+2
The stadium shook. The American players tackled Zero. The reserves stormed the field (and were chased back by refs).
Noel Noa stood in the box. He watched the ball drop from the net.
The final whistle blew.
DRAW.
The Aftermath.
The crowd was stunned silent. The powerhouse France, held to a draw by the American misfits.
Soccer lay on the grass, holding his bleeding nose.
A shadow fell over him.
Noel Noa.
Soccer looked up. "Hi Dustbuster."
Noa looked down at him. The cold eyes were searching.
"You destroyed the rhythm," Noa said. "You destroyed the beauty. You played ugly."
"Yeah."
"Why?"
Soccer sat up. He wiped blood on his sleeve.
"Because the mountain is ugly, Noa. It's sharp. It's cold. It kills you if you don't respect it."
Soccer stood up. He wobbled on his titanium ankle.
"You play in a studio. I play in the wild."
Noa stared at him. Then, for the first time, he extended a hand.
"In the knockouts," Noa said quietly, "there are no draws. There is no stopping the clock. If we meet again... I will disassemble you piece by piece."
"Can't wait," Soccer shook the hand. "I love puzzles."
Noa walked away.
The screens flashed the Group A final standings.
1. USA - 5 pts (One win, two draws - assuming a Brazil draw off-screen).
2. France - 5 pts
3. Brazil - 4 pts
4. Egypt - 1 pt
USA won the group on goal differential (thanks to Vincent's bulldozing).
"We did it," Silas stared at his tablet. "Probability of topping the group was 0.04%."
"We broke the math," Vincent laughed, throwing an arm around Silas.
Kai fixed his hair in the reflection of the camera lens. "We survived. Barely."
"Barely is enough," Soccer said. He looked at the tunnel where Noa vanished.
"Now," Soccer bounced. "The real mountain climb starts. Knockout stages. One loss, and we die."
Titan walked over. He handed Soccer a towel.
"Good job, anomaly. You annoyed the best player in the world into a draw."
"Next time I'll annoy him into a loss," Soccer grinned.
He looked at the Jumbotron. The bracket for the Round of 16 was populating.
USA vs...
ENGLAND.
"England," Silas gulped. "The Inventors of the Game. Their defense is called The Iron Wall."
"Another wall?" Soccer sighed.
He picked up his bag.
"Pass me the sledgehammer."