Robin drops his water jug.
He sprints. He reaches the crumpled figure in seconds.
"Vale!"
Robin slides on his knees, ignoring the asphalt biting into his skin. Vale is out cold. Blood trickles from a cut on his forehead. His left leg is twisted at a sickening angle, bone pressing against skin.
Robin grabs his shoulders and shakes him hard.
"Hey! Wake up! Don't you die on me, you pathetic loser! Wake up!"
Vale groans. His eyes flutter open. Glassy. Unfocused. Shock is setting in. He tries to move and screams.
"Don't move," Robin barks, pinning his chest down.
The driver of the sedan stands nearby, useless, crying into a cell phone.
"I called 911!" the driver wails. "They said ten minutes!"
Ten minutes.
Robin looks at Vale's leg. The color is draining from his foot.
"Too long," Robin mutters.
He glances at his own car, parked twenty yards away.
He stands. Looks down at Vale. A grown man. One hundred eighty pounds of dead weight.
Robin crouches and slides his arms under Vale's knees and back.
He lifts.
He grunts, core tightening, shifting the load onto his legs.
The right leg. The titanium leg.
It holds. It doesn't even tremble. It feels like steel.
Robin carries Vale like a child, striding across the parking lot. He kicks his trunk shut, opens the back door, and shoves Vale into the backseat.
"Drive," Vale mumbles, delirium taking over. "Drive fast."
The hospital.
Chaos. Nurses. Gurneys. Harsh lights.
They take Vale away. Robin stands in the hallway, his hoodie soaked in someone else's blood.
A doctor emerges ten minutes later, looking irritated.
"We need to process the admission. Who's the emergency contact? Wife? Parents?"
"He doesn't have any," Robin says.
The doctor pauses, glances at his clipboard, then back at Robin.
"Well, someone has to be here. He's going into surgery. We need a guardian on site until he wakes up."
"Why me?" Robin asks. "I barely know him."
"Because there is no one else, son."
The words hit harder than expected.
Because there is no one else.
The Savior. The star. The man with the sports car and the mansion. And in the end, his waiting room is empty except for the kid he called a bitch in a parking lot.
Robin exhales and sinks into a plastic chair.
"Fine."
Early morning.
The hospital waiting room is cold. A muted cooking show flickers on the TV.
Robin is asleep, chin on his chest, arms crossed.
Click-clack. Click-clack.
Confident footsteps.
Robin jolts awake, rubbing grit from his eyes. He looks up.
Two people stand over him, like they walked out of a magazine and into the fluorescent misery of the ER.
The man is tall. Ruggedly handsome. Fair skin, sharp jawline, perfectly messy hair. He wears a US Soccer tracksuit that looks custom-made.
The woman beside him is white, blonde hair pulled into a severe, professional ponytail. She holds a tablet.
Johnny. Head Coach of the US National Team.Daisy. Assistant Coach.
Robin straightens.
"You the one who brought him in?" Johnny asks. His voice is deep. Commanding.
"Yeah," Robin croaks.
"What happened?" Daisy asks, pen ready.
"He walked into traffic," Robin says. He leaves out the argument. Leaves out the slurs. "Didn't look. Car hit him."
Johnny's jaw tightens. He looks toward the double doors. "Is he done?"
"His leg is snapped," Robin says flatly. "He's done."
Johnny exhales and looks at Daisy. She shakes her head, tapping the tablet.
"That's it then," she murmurs. "Zero depth on the left."
Johnny rubs his face. "Let's see him."
They pass Robin and disappear into the room.
Robin stays seated. He should leave. His job is done. But curiosity nails him to the chair.
Ten minutes later, the doors open.
Johnny steps out, grim. Daisy follows, tense.
Johnny stops in front of Robin. He studies him. The dried blood on the hoodie. The legs stretched out beneath the chair.
Then his face.
Robin meets his stare. Wonders if he should ask for a selfie. Or tell them their captain is a drunk.
Johnny steps closer, eyes narrowing.
"I know you," he says.
Robin stiffens.
"You're the Northport kid," Johnny continues. "Broke your leg in England. Robin Silver."
Robin nods. "Yeah."
"I tracked you," Johnny says. "Before the injury. You were on my shortlist."
His eyes drop to Robin's legs.
"The doctor said you carried Vale in here. Alone. One hundred eighty pounds across a parking lot."
Robin says nothing.
Johnny locks eyes with him. There's desperation there. Madness. Calculation.
"You recovered?" Johnny asks.
"Yes."
"Fit?"
"Yes."
Johnny glances at Daisy. She hesitates, starts to speak, but he lifts a hand.
He turns back to Robin.
"The Copa America starts in two weeks," Johnny says. "We just lost our starting left winger. We have no backup."
Robin's heart detonates in his chest.
Johnny extends his hand.
"You interested in starting for the USA?"
Robin blinks. Looks at the hand. Looks at the coach.
What the fuck.