The ball hits the net. The stadium goes dead silent.
Only one corner of the ground is alive—the away end. Tobi Ajayi is screaming, sprinting toward the traveling North Wall fans. He slides on his knees, fists pumping. The rest of the team piles on top of him. Hugging. Cheering. Louis Mendez is there, applauding, shouting Tobi's name.
Tobi scrambles up, adrenaline surging. He's happy—it's been months since he found the net—but he's looking for someone. The architect. The guy who created the goal out of thin air.
He looks around. Robin isn't in the pile.
Tobi looks back toward the halfway line. Then further back.
He spots him.
Robin is standing alone. He's all the way back in North Wall's half, near his own penalty box, standing right next to the goalie, Dean Brooker.
He is standing directly in front of the main stand. The home crowd. The same crowd that booed him. The same crowd that cheered when Kane humiliated him.
He just stares at them.
"And look at this scene! While his teammates are celebrating in the corner, Robin Silver has stayed back... and he is having a word with the Oakminster faithful! He is standing right in front of the home support, just staring them down!"
The crowd is livid. They aren't just unhappy; they are venomous. They are screaming at him, cursing him. Racist slurs and vitriol rain down from the stands.
Robin doesn't flinch. Not a millimeter.
He just smiles. A small, cold, satisfied smile.
Then, he moves. He slowly raises both arms high into the air, palms open, chest out. He holds the pose. Basking in the hate.
Absolute Cinema.
He bursts into laughter, watching their faces turn purple with rage.
"Oh, he is winding them up! Silver is absolutely loving it! He's struck a pose right in front of the angry mob! And here come the Oakminster players—they have taken exception to that!"
Suddenly, Robin is surrounded. Three Oakminster players sprint over, shoving him, screaming in his face. He doesn't back down. He just smirks at them, which only makes them angrier.
Then, a massive pair of gloves shoves the attackers back. Dean Brooker. The North Wall keeper steps in front of Robin, pushing the Oakminster captain away.
"It's kicking off! Handbags at dawn here! Brooker is in there defending his winger, the referee is sprinting over, blowing his whistle like a madman! The North Wall fans in the corner are absolutely loving this chaos!"
The referee separates them, lecturing the players, restoring order just as the clock ticks over to 90+4.
On the sideline, Martin looks goddamn pissed. He's fuming, pacing the technical area, but he's holding it together. Keeping that fake, calm persona intact.
Robin glances over. He makes eye contact with the coach.
Martin doesn't look away.
It's a look that says everything without saying a word. Try benching me now.
Robin breaks the gaze first as the referee blows the whistle for the restart.
"We are back underway for the final seconds. Oakminster just want this over. They tap it back... pass to the center-back... back to the keeper..."
The referee checks his watch.
Peep! Peep! PEEEEEP!
"And that is it! The full-time whistle goes! North Wall FC snatch a draw from the jaws of defeat! It finishes 2-2, and the away end is delirious!"
Every North Wall player throws their hands up. They're hugging, high-fiving. A 2-2 draw away from home against a top team feels like a win.
Robin doesn't celebrate. He watches them, a flicker of disgust crossing his face. He hides it quickly, but the thought burns.
Who the fuck celebrates a draw?
Doyle is laughing, hugging Tobi. Robin just turns and walks straight down the tunnel, disappearing into the dark.
The locker room is buzzing, but Robin sits alone in his spot, unlacing his boots.
"Silver."
Robin looks up. Martin stands over him. He doesn't look happy.
Robin braces himself. Here comes the lecture.
"You could have gotten a yellow card," Martin yells, his voice cutting through the noise.
"What's wrong with that?" Robin shoots back, not breaking eye contact.
"You could've gotten a suspension! Missed the next game!" Martin reasons, pointing a finger. "We can't afford stupid suspensions."
"Doesn't matter," Robin shrugs, pulling off a sock. "I am just a sub."
"Not anymore," Martin replies. Calmly.
Robin stops. He freezes, sock halfway off his foot. He looks up, stunned.
He didn't expect that. At all.
No matter how much he hates Martin, no matter how much he despises the tactics, he can't help it. A wave of gratefulness hits him.
Martin pats him on the shoulder, a heavy, firm grip. "Well played, by the way."
Martin walks away.
Robin just sits there. He clenches his jaw. He shouldn't be feeling happy. He shouldn't feel grateful. He hates him. He hates this team. He just wants to prove himself and go back to Northport United.
But he can't help it.
It's football.
A moment later, Doyle walks in, towel around his neck, still buzzing. He sees Robin sitting there alone, lost in thought.
"You weren't celebrating?" Doyle asks, leaning against the lockers.
Robin snaps back to reality. The mask slams back into place. The cold, I-am-against-the-world expression returns.
"Celebrate for a draw?" Robin scoffs, throwing his boots into his bag. "Fuck no."
Doyle laughs. "No, idiot. For your first goal contribution."
Robin scoffs again. "Goal contribution? I don't believe in that shit. It's just stats."
Doyle laughs harder. "You are a winger, man. You need to believe in that shit. It pays the bills."
"Fuck off," Robin laughs, shaking his head.
"Just like you fucked Carlos?"
Robin lets out a real laugh this time. "Dude was slower than a tortoise."
Silence settles between them. Comfortable silence.
Doyle smirks. "Nah. You were faster."
A pause.
Robin pauses. He replays the run in his head. The burst of speed. The wind in his ears.
He rolls his eyes, looking away. "Stop making me blush."
Doyle laughs, slapping the locker. "Alright then."
Just like that, Doyle leaves, joining the noise of the teammates in the showers.
Robin sits there in the silence. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"I was indeed faster."