The dive bar is empty, save for a few regulars rotting on the stools. It's 11:00 PM. The air smells like Pine-Sol and stale beer.
Robin sits in the back corner. He's nursing a soda. He doesn't drink anymore. Not since he started training again. The whiskey nights are over.
He watches the door open. A man stumbles in.
He's wearing a hoodie pulled low, sunglasses at night, inside, and designer jeans that cost more than Robin's dad's car. He walks with a swagger that tries to hide a stagger.
He sits at the bar, two stools away from the only other patron. He slams a hand on the counter.
"Tequila. Bottle."
Robin squints. He knows that profile. He knows that jawline. He's seen it on TV a hundred times. He's seen it on FIFA cards.
Deion Vale.
32 years old. 80 caps for the USA. The starting left winger. The "Captain America" before Pulisic came along.
What the hell is he doing in Ohio in a dive bar two weeks before the Copa America?
The bartender slides a bottle over. Vale pours a shot, downs it, pours another. He sniffs loudly, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. He's jittery. His eyes dart around.
He spots Robin staring.
Vale spins on his stool and pulls his sunglasses down. His eyes are bloodshot, heavy bags hanging under them.
"What you looking at, kid?" Vale slurs. "You want an autograph?"
Robin shakes his head. "No."
Vale laughs. A harsh, barking sound. He grabs his glass and stumbles over to Robin's booth, sliding in opposite him without asking.
"You don't know who I am, do you?" Vale asks, pouring himself another shot on Robin's table.
"Deion Vale," Robin says calmly. "Left wing. USMNT."
Vale grins, crooked. "See? You do want an autograph. Don't lie."
"I don't."
Vale waves a hand dismissively. "Whatever. Drink with me. I hate drinking alone. Reminds me of my empty house. No wife, no kids. Just a big empty mansion and a trophy case full of dust."
He pushes the bottle toward Robin. Robin doesn't touch it.
"You're in camp," Robin says. "Copa starts in two weeks."
Vale scoffs and throws his head back. "Camp. Camp. It's a prison, kid. Curfew, diet, media training. 'Say the right thing, Deion.' 'Be a role model, Deion.' I needed a break. Jumped the fence. Needed to breathe."
He downs the shot and shudders.
"We're gonna get slaughtered anyway," Vale mutters, staring at the glass. "Argentina. Brazil. We can't touch them. This team… we got no spine. Kids. Bunch of TikTok stars and influencers. They don't know how to fight."
Robin feels a twitch in his jaw. "You're the veteran. You're supposed to lead them."
Vale laughs. It's wet. Pathetic. "Lead them? To what? A 4–0 loss instead of 5–0? I'm 32. My knees are shot. My back kills me. I'm just collecting the check, man. One last tournament. Then I'm out. Cash out, retire, disappear."
"If you don't care," Robin says, his voice dropping, "why go? Why not let someone else play?"
Vale leans in. The smell of tequila and something chemical is overpowering.
"Let who play?" Vale whispers, tapping the table. "That's the joke, kid. There is nobody else."
Robin freezes.
"Look at the depth chart," Vale sneers. "We got Pulisic on the right or central. Weah on the right. Who plays left? Me. That's it. No backup. The young guys? Trash. Or hurt. Or not ready."
Vale pours another drink, spilling half of it on the table.
"I could show up to the game ten pounds overweight and drunk," Vale says, grinning, "and the coach would still have to start me. Because I am the only left winger in this entire damn country worth a damn. I am the Savior. By default."
He laughs again, confident in his mediocrity. Secure in his lack of competition.
"No backups," Vale mumbles, eyes drooping. "Job security, baby."
Robin looks at the man.
This is the guy wearing the jersey Robin dreams of. This washed-up, substance-abusing, cynical wreck is the only thing standing in Robin's position.
No backups.
Vale thinks the spot is empty. He thinks he's safe because there's a vacuum.
He doesn't know about the ghost in Ohio.
Robin stands up.
"Where you going?" Vale asks, reaching for the bottle. "Party's just starting."
"I have to go," Robin says. He looks down at Vale. He doesn't feel awe anymore. He feels disgust. And something else.
Opportunity.
"Hey," Vale calls as Robin turns away. "You never told me your name."
Robin stops and looks back.
"You'll see it," Robin says.
He walks out of the bar, leaving Deion Vale alone with his bottle.
The night air is cold. Robin walks to his car and opens the trunk.
He looks at his boots.
No backups?
Robin smiles.
Check again.