The ball sits in the center circle. 1-1.
The stadium is groaning. That nervous, heavy sound of a crowd that knows their team just threw it away.
Robin stands on the halfway line, hands on his hips. He feels the eyes. Louis Mendez is glaring at him. Tyron is shaking his head. Even Hugo looks annoyed. They did the work, they dominated, and one moment of arrogance from the kid cost them everything.
Robin grinds his teeth. He is mad. Not at Kane for the tackle. Not at the ref. At himself.
He hears Martin's voice in his head. Efficiency. Kill the game.
Fine, Robin thinks. You want efficient? Watch this.
Kick-off.
West Hall sits back now. They have their point. They are going to park the bus and waste time. Prince is laughing at the back, high-fiving his keeper.
Minute 68.
The ball is circulated slowly at the back. Louis to Tyron. Tyron to Kurtis. The crowd whistles. They want urgency.
Kurtis looks up. He sees Robin dropping deep, demanding the ball. Kurtis passes it.
Robin takes it on the turn. He is forty yards from goal. There are six defenders between him and the net.
He doesn't look for a pass. He doesn't look for a trick.
He just drops his shoulder and goes.
"Silver picks it up deep... and he has turned on the jets! He is flying through the midfield!"
The first defender, Jones, steps in. The same guy Robin nutmegged earlier. Jones wants revenge. He lunges. Robin doesn't even slow down. He pushes the ball five yards ahead and simply outruns him. Jones grabs at his shirt, but Robin tears away like paper.
"He's beaten Jones! He's driving at the back line! He's got space!"
The second defender comes across, the left-back, tucking in. He goes low, trying to block the path. Robin feints right, shifts his weight left, and explodes through the gap. The defender is left twisting in the wind.
The crowd rises. The noise swells. This isn't showboating. This is violence. This is raw speed and anger.
"He's past two! He's past three! Robin Silver is on a mission! He is unstoppable right now!"
He reaches the edge of the box.
And there he is.
Prince.
The Butcher. The final boss.
Prince isn't lunging this time. He isn't falling for a trick. He stands his ground, knees bent, body massive. He is a wall. A brick wall with studs. He is waiting for Robin to try to act cute. He is ready to smash him.
Robin sprints toward him.
The old Robin, the Robin from ten minutes ago, would have tried a rainbow flick. Or a step-over. He would have tried to humiliate the beast.
Prince braces for the impact. He steps forward to kill the run.
Robin's eyes flick to the side.
Doyle.
Doyle has made a run into the box, unnoticed, while everyone watched Robin.
Robin sees the open lane.
Efficiency.
Robin draws Prince in. He waits until the monster commits to the tackle.
And then, soft as a whisper, Robin slides the ball to the left.
"Silver... passes!"
Prince is stranded. He's stepped up to tackle a player who no longer has the ball. He looks stupid. Again.
Doyle collects it. He doesn't shoot. He sees Robin continuing his run. He sees Robin sprint past the flat-footed Prince.
One touch. A return pass. A perfectly weighted wall pass into the space behind the defense.
"Doyle slips it back! It's a one-two!"
Robin doesn't break stride. He meets the ball six yards out. The keeper is scrambling. Prince is screaming.
Robin opens his foot. No power. No blast. Just a tap.
The ball rolls into the empty net.
"GOAL! NORTH WALL! IT IS REDEMPTION FOR ROBIN SILVER!"
2-1.
The stadium explodes.
Robin doesn't run to the corner. He doesn't kiss the crowd. He doesn't dance.
He runs straight into the net, picks up the ball, and runs it back to the center circle.
He passes Prince, who is staring at the ground, defeated.
Robin doesn't say a word. He just puts the ball down on the center spot and waits for the whistle.
Business.