The next afternoon. The sun is high and brutal.
Robin is walking across the parking lot of the local grocery store, carrying a jug of water and some protein bars. He's wearing his hoodie up, despite the heat.
"Yo! Soda kid!"
Robin stops. He sighs. He knows that voice. It sounds like gravel in a blender.
He turns. Leaning against a sleek, matte-black sports car is Deion Vale. He looks worse than he did last night. He's wearing sweatpants and a tank top, sunglasses hiding his eyes, a lit cigarette dangling from his lip.
Vale waves a hand, beckoning him over like Robin is a servant.
Robin walks over. He doesn't know why. Maybe curiosity. Maybe to see the wreck in daylight.
"You following me?" Vale asks, grinning. His teeth are yellow.
"I live here," Robin says flatly.
Vale takes a drag, blowing smoke in Robin's direction. "Ohio. The armpit of America. I'm just stocking up on mixers. Got a long night ahead."
"You have training camp in ten days," Robin says.
"So?" Vale shrugs. "I got ten days to kill my liver." He laughs and kicks the tire of his expensive car. "You still got that look in your eye, kid. That hungry look. It's cute."
"It's not cute," Robin says. "It's ambition."
Vale snorts. "Ambition. Right. You want to be a star? You want to play in the big leagues? Let me tell you something. It's a scam. You chase the dream, you catch it, and you realize it's just a job. A job where people scream at you for ninety minutes."
"It's more than a job," Robin says, his grip tightening on the water jug.
"Is it?" Vale flicks his ash. "Winning trophies? Metal cups? They collect dust. You can't spend a trophy. You can't drive a medal."
He gestures to his car.
"This is real. The money is real. The rest? Fairy tales they sell to kids like you so you'll run until your knees blow out."
"You have no respect," Robin says quietly.
"Respect doesn't pay for this car," Vale counters. "And family? Don't get me started. You look like you got daddy issues written all over your face."
Robin freezes.
Vale grins, sensing blood. "I got no wife. No kids. No baggage. That's peace, kid. I live peacefully. I do what I want, spend what I want, drink what I want. No crying brats. No nagging wife. Just me and the bag."
Robin stares at him. He sees a man who thinks he's a king but is actually a beggar in a Gucci belt.
"You don't know who I am," Robin whispers.
"I don't care who you are," Vale laughs. "You're nobody."
"And you," Robin snaps, his voice rising, "are a loser."
Vale stops laughing. He lowers his sunglasses. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." Robin steps forward. The anger he's buried for months, the anger at his injury, at the relegation, at the unfairness of it all, spills out. "You are a loser. You can't tell the difference between money and football. You think the jersey is a costume. You think the pitch is an ATM."
"Watch your mouth," Vale growls, stepping off the curb.
"You're the Savior?" Robin laughs, harsh and mocking. "You're a placeholder. A ghost. You talk about peace? You drink yourself stupid every night because you can't stand the silence in your empty mansion. You're alone because nobody can stand a narcissist who quit on his talent ten years ago."
"Shut up," Vale shouts.
"You're not a pro," Robin spits. "You're a tourist. And the second someone real shows up, you're erased."
"I said shut the fuck up!" Vale screams.
They're chest to chest now. Vale smells like tequila and stale smoke. Robin smells like sweat and iron.
"Walk away, old man," Robin says coldly. "Before you embarrass yourself more."
Robin turns. He's done. He starts toward the store entrance.
"You think you're tough?" Vale yells after him. He walks backward, away from his car, drifting into the main lane of the parking lot. "You're nothing! You're a little bitch! A broke, dreaming little bitch!"
Robin keeps walking. He doesn't look back.
Vale keeps shouting. The slurs start coming. Ugly words. Racist words. Words meant to wound.
"Go back to your daddy! Go cry in your—"
The screech is sharp. Violent.
The impact is worse.
Metal hitting flesh. A hollow, sickening thud.
Robin stops. The shouting cuts off instantly.
He turns.
Vale is gone.
In the middle of the lane, a sedan sits frozen, skid marks burning the asphalt.
Ten feet in front of the bumper, crumpled like discarded laundry, lies Deion Vale.
The driver is screaming as he stumbles out of the car. "He walked right out! He didn't look! He was walking backward!"
Robin lowers his gaze.
Vale is on his back. His sunglasses are shattered. His expensive tank top is torn.
His eyes are closed. His chest rises and falls. Shallow. Ragged.
He isn't dead.
But his left leg—
Robin looks at it. Bent at an angle that isn't human. The same angle he saw in England.
Robin stares. The universe has a vicious sense of humor.
No backups, Vale had said.
Robin looks at the twisted leg.
Well, he thinks, face unreadable. There's definitely no backup now.