September 3rd, 2026
The locker room is buzzing. Usually, it smells like fear and deep heat. Today, it smells like something else.
Anticipation.
Martin stands in front of the whiteboard. He uncaps a marker. Usually, he draws a flat back five. He draws arrows pointing backward. _Contain. Absorb. Survive._
Today, he draws arrows pointing forward.
"We are not sitting back," Martin says, his voice steady. "We are not waiting for them to make a mistake. We are going to force them."
He taps the board.
"High line. High press. If you lose the ball, you hunt it down. If you have the ball, you go for the throat. We are at home. Let's act like it."
The room is silent. The players look at each other. Louis Mendez, the captain, looks stunned. Hugo Mendes, the striker who is used to being isolated on an island, looks like he just won the lottery.
Robin sits in his corner, lacing his boots. He hides a smirk.
Finally. The leash is off.
"One more thing," Martin adds, his eyes hardening. "Prince. Their center-back."
A heavy silence falls. Everyone knows Prince.
"He will try to bully you," Martin says. "He will try to hurt you. Do not engage. You beat him with speed. You beat him with the ball. You do not get into a wrestling match with a pig in the mud. Understood?"
"Yes, boss."
Robin stands up. He adjusts his shin guards. Let the pig come, he thinks. I brought a knife.
---
The tunnel.
West Hall Town is lined up opposite them. They look big. Ugly. A team of brawlers.
And there he is. Prince.
He's massive. A tank of a man with a shaved head and eyes that look dead. He's staring straight ahead, chewing gum violently. He's not looking at the ball. He's looking at legs.
Robin steps into the line. He feels Prince's gaze slide over him. Predatory.
Robin doesn't look away. He winks.
Prince stops chewing.
The referee waves them out. The roar of the home crowd hits them. For the first time, it doesn't sound desperate. It sounds hungry.
"Welcome to North Wall Stadium! It's a beautiful September afternoon for football. North Wall FC looking to build on that dramatic draw last week. Martin Langford has put out a very attacking lineup today... let's see if it pays off."
Kick-off.
From the first whistle, it's different.
Usually, North Wall retreats. Today, they swarm.
Minute 4.
Doyle wins the ball in midfield. Usually, he'd pass sideways. Today, he turns and drives.
"Doyle surging through the middle... West Hall look surprised by this tempo! He finds Tobi on the left..."
Tobi sprints. He crosses. It's cleared, but only just.
The crowd roars. They aren't used to seeing their team in the opposition's box in the first five minutes.
Robin is moving constantly. He's drifting inside, pulling wide, dragging defenders. He can feel Prince watching him, tracking him like a heavy shadow.
Minute 12.
Robin gets the ball near the sideline. Prince is there instantly, closing the distance like a freight train.
Robin waits. He waits until he can smell the guy's sweat.
Then, tap.
Robin plays a quick one-two with Doyle and spins away. Prince comes flying in with a slide tackle that would have snapped an ankle, but he hits nothing but air.
"Oh, Prince goes to ground early! He misses Silver completely! That was dangerous, but Silver was too quick!"
Robin glances back at the defender on the ground. Prince glares up at him.
Too slow, old man.
Minute 23.
The pressure is building. West Hall can't get out of their own half. They're suffocating.
Doyle has the ball again. He controls the tempo like a conductor.
"North Wall are absolutely dominating possession here. This is a side of Martin Langford's team we have never seen! Doyle... spots the run..."
Robin makes a run. A sharp, diagonal slash across the face of the defense. He screams for the ball.
"Silver calling for it! He's dragging Prince out of position!"
Prince follows him. He has to. He can't let Robin go free.
But it's a decoy.
Robin drags the beast away, leaving a gaping hole in the center of the defense.
Doyle sees it. He doesn't pass to Robin. He threads a needle straight through the gap Robin just created.
Hugo Mendes.
The striker is all alone.
"It's a brilliant ball! Hugo Mendes is through! He takes a touch... slots it past the keeper!"
The net ripples.
"GOAL! NORTH WALL! It's 1-0! A well-deserved lead! Martin Langford's attacking gamble is paying off big time!"
The stadium erupts. Hugo runs to the corner flag, sliding on his knees. Doyle jumps on his back. The team piles in.
Robin stops his run. He watches the ball hit the net.
He pumps his fist. Good. A goal. We are winning. The plan works.
He jogs over to join the celebration, patting Hugo on the head.
But deep down, a little voice whispers.
I didn't touch the ball.
He dragged the defender. He created the space. He made the goal happen just as much as Doyle or Hugo. But the stat sheet won't say "Robin Silver." The fans won't chant his name for that run.
He pulls away from the huddle as they walk back to the center circle.
He looks at Prince. The big defender is screaming at his teammates, veins popping in his neck.
Robin wipes sweat from his forehead.
1-0 is nice, he thinks. But I want mine.