May 2027.
The season is dead. The confetti has been swept away.
Robin sits on the hood of his dad's beat-up Ford, parked outside a chain-link fence in Ohio. He's looking at his phone. The world of football is celebrating.
Premiera League Champions: Northport United (95 Points).
His parent club. They destroyed the league. They lifted the trophy in a stadium of 60,000 people. They popped champagne. They didn't need him. They didn't even remember him. He was just a line item on their loan report: R. Silver Season-ending injury.
He scrolls down.
Liga de Oro: Baraval FC (97 Points).
Serie Maestro: San Siro FC (91 Points).
BundesKronen: Neuenfast FC (76 Points).
Championnat de Légende: Niceval FC (85 Points).
The giants feasting.
Then, he opens the app for the Second Division. He scrolls all the way to the bottom.
24. North Wall FC.
Relegated. Dead last.
They fought, apparently. But after the West Hall game, the spirit broke. They won maybe three games all season.
He clicks on the team stats.
Top Assister: Aaron Doyle (11).
Robin smirks. Of course. Doyle tried. He served up chances on a silver platter, but nobody could finish them. Doyle rotting in a relegated team is a tragedy, but Robin isn't surprised.
He scrolls to the goalscorers.
1. Hugo Mendes - 9 Goals.
2. Tobi Ajayi - 5 Goals.
3. Louis Mendez - 4 Goals.
4. Robin Silver - 3 Goals.
Robin stares at the screen.
He played one full game. One. plus a twenty-minute cameo against Oakminster.
He scored three goals in ninety minutes against West Hall. And that was enough to make him the fourth-highest scorer of the entire season.
Pathetic.
It makes him angry. It makes him realize how low the bar was. He could have owned that league. He could have dragged them to promotion single-handedly if his bone hadn't snapped.
Ping.
A notification.
USMNT COPA AMERICA SQUAD ANNOUNCED.
He taps it. He knows he won't be there. He hasn't played a professional minute in eight months. But the heart is a stupid organ; it hopes anyway.
He scans the list. Pulisic. Reyna. Weah.
No Silver.
Obviously.
He locks the phone and tosses it onto the passenger seat.
He hops off the hood of the car.
He walks to the trunk and pops it open. He pulls out a bag of balls and a pair of boots.
He looks at his right leg.
There is a scar running down his shin. A thick, jagged line where the metal rod went in. It looks ugly. It looks like a zipper on his skin.
He flexes his calf. The muscle ripples. It's hard. Rebuilt.
He puts his boots on, lacing them tight.
He hasn't told anyone.
Martin thinks he's still doing rehab. Doyle thinks he's sitting on a couch feeling sorry for himself. Northport United thinks he's a write-off.
He climbs the fence, hopping over the locked gate of the high school field.
He drops onto the turf.
He takes a ball. He nudges it forward.
Then, he explodes.
He sprints. Full tilt. The wind rushes in his ears. He cuts left. Hard. The ankle holds. He cuts right. The shin holds.
He reaches the edge of the box and lashes the ball.
Thwack.
Top corner. The metal goalpost rings out in the empty park.
He doesn't limp. He doesn't wince.
He grabs another ball.
He is faster than before. He is stronger. He spent eight months doing nothing but watching tape and lifting iron. He didn't just heal the bone; he hardened the machine.
He isn't ready to tell them yet. He wants to disappear. He wants them to forget him completely.
Because when he comes back, he doesn't want to be the "kid recovering from injury."
He wants to be a ghost that materialized out of nowhere to haunt them.
He lines up another shot.
Bang.
Robin Silver is back. And nobody has a clue.