The locker room door slams shut.
Boom.
The players jump. They were smiling. They were high-fiving. They are up 1-0 against a team of butchers. They played well.
But Martin Langford? He looks like he's about to kill someone.
He kicks a laundry bin. It skids across the floor, crashing into the lockers.
"Sit down!" he roars.
The smiles vanish.
"You think this is funny? You think this is a game?" Martin paces the room, his face red. "1-0. One. Nil. We have eighty percent possession. We have twelve shots. And we are winning by one goal."
He turns to the whiteboard and smacks it with his open hand.
"This is bullshit! We should be leading by three! We should have buried them twenty minutes ago!"
He spins around, pointing a shaking finger at Doyle, then at Robin.
"And you two. What the hell is that out there? The sombreros? Sitting on the ball? Kissing the crowd? You think you're the Harlem Globetrotters? You think you're playing exhibition football?"
"We're entertaining the fans, boss," Doyle says, leaning back, not looking bothered.
"Entertain me by winning!" Martin screams. "Prince is a thug, but he's disciplined. You are playing with fire. You are disrespecting the game, and when you disrespect the game, it bites you in the ass. Stop the showboating. Kill the game. Score goals. Be efficient."
He storms into his office, slamming the door.
Robin looks at Doyle. Doyle raises an eyebrow and smirks.
Efficient? Robin thinks. Boring.
Second half.
The referee blows the whistle.
Martin's speech didn't work. If anything, it had the opposite effect. Robin and Doyle don't dial it back. They crank it up.
They enter Peak Mode.
It's telepathic. Doyle gets the ball, looks left, passes right, straight into Robin's path. Robin doesn't take a touch; he flicks it around a defender, spins, and finds Doyle again.
They are dancing.
Minute 55.
"Oh, it is simply magical football from North Wall! Doyle to Silver... Silver backheels it to Doyle... Doyle scoops it over the midfielder... they are toying with West Hall! The opposition can't get near them!"
The crowd is delirious. Every pass gets a cheer. Every trick gets an "Olè!"
Prince is fuming. He's chasing shadows. He tries to smash Robin, but Robin is already gone. He tries to catch Doyle, but Doyle has already passed it.
They are embarrassing the opposition. They are breaking ankles and spirits.
Minute 62.
Robin receives the ball in his own half. Prince is nowhere near him. The midfielder, a guy named Jones, closes in.
Robin could pass it back to Louis. That's the safe play. That's the efficient play.
But the crowd is chanting his name. The adrenaline is pumping.
He sees Jones coming. He decides to end him.
Nutmeg.
Robin rolls the ball through Jones's legs. Jones stumbles. The crowd roars.
Robin collects it on the other side. He laughs.
But he held onto it too long.
He didn't see the second man.
While Robin was busy laughing at Jones, the West Hall winger, Kane, had tracked back. He blindsides Robin.
Crunch.
A clean tackle. The ball pops loose.
Robin hits the deck, shocked.
"Silver is dispossessed! He tried one trick too many in a dangerous area! And now West Hall are away! They have numbers!"
The stadium goes quiet.
It's a 3-on-2. North Wall's defenders, Louis and Tyron, are backpedaling, terrified. They had pushed up, expecting Robin to keep the ball.
Kane drives forward. He passes to the striker.
"Kane... to the striker... he slips it through to the right!"
Nobody is marking the right winger. Why? Because the right winger is usually Robin's man to track. But Robin is on the ground, forty yards away, watching his mistake unfold.
The winger takes a touch. Dean Brooker comes out to narrow the angle.
Too late.
A hard, low shot into the bottom corner.
1-1.
"GOAL! WEST HALL TOWN! Against the run of play! They have been battered for sixty minutes, but they catch North Wall napping! A turnover in midfield, a lightning counter, and we are level!"
The West Hall players scream, piling onto the scorer. Prince runs past Robin, who is just getting to his knees.
Prince doesn't say a word. He just points at the scoreboard.
Robin stares at the goal. The net is still shaking.
He looks to the sideline. Martin isn't screaming. He isn't kicking anything.
He's just standing there, arms folded, staring right at Robin. The "I told you so" is loud enough to hear from across the pitch.
Robin swallows hard. The taste of bile rises in his throat.
He danced. He played.
And he got burned.