December 3, 2022
Netherlands 3–1 USA
The television went black.
An older man set the remote on the table, adjusted his glasses, and stared at the men seated around him.
"Three to one," he said, voice low and defeated. "That's embarrassing."
One of the others shrugged. "But it was against one of the best. Be glad we even made it there. I mean… what can we really do against one of the favorites to win it all—"
"WIN. We can WIN."
His face flushed red as he shot to his feet, pacing like a furious parent. "Three to one and you're proud we just made it there? We're a joke. The world sees us as a joke. We barely scraped into the Round of Sixteen just to get blown out, and now we're not even confident for next year's World Cup?"
He ran a hand down his face. "I am so tired of the U.S.A not being a contending team. We're Olympic marvels. The greatest nation in the world. And we're sixteenth. 'Be glad we made it.' What a joke."
"Uh… Thomas?" another man said, raising a hand. "What exactly are we getting at here?"
Thomas stopped at the head of the table, sliding his glasses off. Exhaustion filled his eyes as he looked at each of them. With a sigh, he put his glasses back on.
"I'm resigning."
"What!?"
"Thomas, you can't just—"
"I can. And I did." His tone softened, but the finality in it was unmistakable. "I don't have the expertise. I only have the love. So I'm leaving the USSF in the hands of someone who knows what they're doing."
The door opened.
A man stepped in wearing an unzipped track jacket, hair slicked back like a wild mane, eyes sharp and frantic—like a mad scientist. He took his place beside Thomas.
"Gentlemen," Thomas said, "you may recognize him as former Team USA forward… Wyatt Craven. He'll be taking over."
Silence drowned the room. Thomas collected his things and left.
The directors stared at Craven—confusion mixing with intrigue—as he walked to the board.
"Last year," Craven began, voice slick and charismatic, "the Japan U-20 national team delivered a mind-blowing performance. Next year, those same young men—now adults—will compete in the World Cup."
He uncapped a marker and wrote on the board.
"Seeing this surge of talent from our eastern friends… an idea struck me."
Stepping aside, his lips curled into a grin.
"I present to you… my Striker Project."
---
Chicago, Illinois — October 2024
THWACK!
A ball slammed into the goalpost with a ringing BWONGGG.
Small hands scooped the ball off the grass. A little girl approached the young man who had kicked it—fiery red hair like a ruby, eyes the same vivid shade. His chest heaved with frustration, foot tapping the ground as he tried to steady his breathing.
"Lanny…?" she asked softly, holding out the ball.
His gaze softened. He took it from her hands. "Thanks, Maria."
Setting the ball down, he stared at it for a long second before sighing. He looked back at her—she watched him intently.
"Hey… you wanna try?"
Her smile bloomed instantly. With a nod, she stepped forward. He rolled the ball to her with the tip of his boot.
"Okay," he said gently, moving across from her. "Put your foot like mine."
He angled his foot outward. She copied him.
"Great. Now kick."
Maria swung with all her strength. THUD.
The ball bumped to Lanny's feet. A bright, genuine smile broke across his face.
"There you go! Come on—kick it again!"
Maria giggled and tried again. Thud.
Proud of herself, she hopped as Lanny flicked the ball up with the toe of his boot, juggling it into his hands.
"Great job! Now let's move on to—"
A ringtone cut him off.
He glanced at his bag, then back at Maria. "Hold on."
She watched him walk away, then tried to imitate his juggling trick. The ball rolled off. Her brow furrowed.
"Maria!" Lanny called. His voice startled her into nudging the ball forward.
"Mamãe said dinner's ready! Time to go home—grab the ball and let's go."
Maria lifted the ball, but her eyes drifted to the net. Something new stirred in her—an idea, a question, a spark.
She turned and ran back to him.
Little Maria had just tasted hunger.
---
A woman flipped her hair over her shoulder as she lifted coxinhas from the fryer onto a plate. She grabbed hot sauce from the cabinet and headed to the table.
The door unlocked. Maria scrambled in laughing.
"Mamãe!" she squealed, jumping into her mother's arms. The ball tumbled to the floor.
"Oh, meu amor," Mamãe whispered, kissing her daughter's cheek.
Then her gaze drifted to her son.
"Lanny… mail came for you. It's in your room."
"For me?"
"Mhm. But later. Come eat—your favorite."
Lanny slipped off his shoes, nudged the ball toward his bag, and joined them at the table. Mamãe passed him the hot sauce and helped Maria into her seat.
For a while, the only sounds were crunches, small breaths, and the soft clink of dishes.
Then Mamãe spoke.
"I got a call from your coach."
Lanny didn't look up.
"He told me you stormed off the bench."
"He subbed me."
"Lanny, that's not—"
"I was doing good. I was helping us close the gap. And he subbed me out for his kid."
"I get why that upset you, but you left your team—"
"He put me out JUST so his untalented son gets minutes!"
"Logan," she warned, voice sharp. "Watch your tone."
He clenched his jaw, stood abruptly, and stormed off to his room.
Mamãe sighed as his door slammed shut. Maria kept eating, oblivious.
---
Logan dropped into his chair, pulling up the day's match. He bit into a coxinha as the screen lit up.
"Morris intercepts the pass from Reo to Nagi!"
His eyes widened.
Williams received the ball—chestnut-skinned, calm under pressure. He scanned once, then hooked the ball into an aerial elastico, shifting defenders with effortless control. Before Reo could close him down, he fired a topspin through-pass.
"Unreal…" Logan whispered.
The ball dropped perfectly to the forward—dirty-blonde hair, number 17. EICHNER.
A quick left tap, a right feint, a burst of movement. Eichner used his heel to back-pass to Jaxon, then sprinted into the box.
Jaxon curved a wicked ball into the space.
Eichner leapt—sandwiched between defenders—and hammered a scissor volley into the net.
Logan leaned back in awe.
As he set his plate aside, his eyes caught an envelope on his desk.
From: United States Soccer Federation
To: Logan De Santa
His heartbeat quickened.
He tore it open.
You have been chosen for our special training program.
Logan ran to the kitchen.
"Mamãe!"
She took the letter, reading quickly. Her eyes widened.
"Are you… going to accept?" she asked, voice trembling.
"I'm not sure. It's—"
"Do it." The tremble vanished. This wasn't a suggestion. "It's once in a lifetime. You need to accept."
Logan swallowed, then nodded.
"Good. Go rest. You'll need it tomorrow."
---
The Next Morning
Logan packed his cleats, grabbed his phone, and rushed out the door. Maria slept in the backseat during the drive. His foot tapped anxiously.
I was selected… does this mean I'll be part of the U-20 team?
When they arrived, his breath caught. The facility was massive.
Maria ran to him—he hugged her tight.
"Bye, Maria."
"Bye, Lanny."
His mother approached. She held him like she was afraid to let go.
"I'm so proud of you," she whispered. "Just promise you'll call me. Please."
He nodded, voice stuck in his throat.
"You'll do great. Go follow your dreams."
"Bye, Mamãe."
"Bye, my little anjinho."
Logan wiped his tears, squared his shoulders, and walked inside.
A sign greeted him:
Those invited for the program
Please continue to the screening room.
The room was packed.
"Yo, Logan!" called a familiar voice.
Garrett Haust. Forward.
"You got invited too?"
"Yeah," Logan murmured, scanning the crowd.
"I'm surprised, though," Garrett smirked.
"…Surprised about what?"
"Well, tryouts always pull big numbers. But if that's the case, you should head home."
"What?"
"Better for your pride. There's a reason your coach subbed you out."
Logan froze.
"What the hell are you implying?"
"Relax, man. I'm helping you save face."
Static burst from the speakers, cutting him off.
Wyatt Craven appeared on-screen.
"Good morning, you unrefined souls."
The room fell silent.
"All of you here today are the top 300 strikers in the nation. This program exists to save American soccer—and to find the one forward capable of becoming the best in the world."
Logan felt his heartbeat rising.
"This isn't just a U-20 tryout. It's a forge. A crucible. Only one of you will stand at the top."
Craven pointed.
"To the left—enter, and you commit to this path. To the right—leave, and you lose the right to represent your country in the World Cup. Live with that."
Ripples spread through the room.
Then—
Footsteps.
A single young man sprinted toward the left door—ruby-pink hair blazing.
Logan De Santa.
A striker who dared to decide his own destiny.