Robin is sitting alone.
Well, physically, he isn't. He's sitting at a long, crowded table in a private booth at a restaurant. He is surrounded by his teammates. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meat, cheap cologne, and loud laughter. Glasses clink. Someone spills a beer.
But Robin is alone.
He's completely detached. It's like he's watching a movie with the sound turned down, observing the scene through a pane of thick glass.
He stares at his plate. He hasn't touched the food.
Distanced. That's the word. He feels distant. From what? From the joy? From the camaraderie? Or is he just distancing himself from the mediocrity?
They drew. That's all they did. They drew a game against a team they should have beaten. They dropped two points.
And yet, look at them. Laughing. Cheering. Acting like they just stormed the beaches of Normandy and won the war.
He wasn't supposed to be here. He had planned to go home, ice his legs, and watch game tape. But Doyle had insisted. No, not insisted. Forced. Doyle had practically dragged him into the cab, arm around his neck, laughing that "the hero needs to eat."
Robin looks across the table.
Aaron Doyle is holding court. He's got a drink in one hand, gesturing wildly with the other, recounting some story that has half the table in stitches.
Robin studies him. He doesn't get Doyle. He simply doesn't get him.
Doyle has talent. Real talent. Robin isn't arrogant enough to deny that. The guy can ping a pass through the eye of a needle. He has vision, touch, balance. He has more natural ability in his pinky toe than half this league has in their entire bodies.
So how can he be this carefree? How can he be this devoid of fire?
Sometimes, on the pitch, Doyle is a machine. A super-focused assassin who punishes mistakes and demands perfection. But the second the whistle blows? He turns into... this. The leader of mediocrity. The king of the clowns.
Robin wants to despise him. He needs to despise him. Doyle represents everything Robin fears becoming: a big fish in a small, stagnant pond.
If Robin had Doyle's talent, he wouldn't be here. He would have clawed his way out of Division II years ago. He would be in the Premier League, or La Liga, or the Bundesliga.
Robin knows Doyle had offers. He's heard the rumors. Division I clubs came knocking. Good clubs.
So what's stopping him?
Loyalty?
Robin scoffs internally, taking a sip of water just to do something with his hands.
Fuck that.
Loyalty is a scam. A leash people put on themselves to feel virtuous about being stagnant.
He never experienced loyalty. Not from his mother, who packed a bag and walked out the door when he was six. Not from his father, who stayed but wasn't really there, burying himself in bottles and self-pity.
Loyalty is a transaction. It's only good when it's beneficial. If it benefits you, stay. If it doesn't, you leave. That's not cruelty; that's physics. That's survival.
Maybe Doyle isn't loyal. Maybe he's just a coward.
Maybe Doyle is the king here because he knows, deep down, that he'd be a peasant somewhere else. Maybe he's afraid that if he steps up a level, he'll get exposed. That the magic won't work against world-class defenders.
Robin watches Doyle laugh, his head thrown back, eyes crinkling. A genuine, human moment.
Robin feels a spike of irritation. How pathetic he is. Sitting here, psychoanalyzing a guy just because the guy is happy and he isn't. He's trying to find a flaw in Doyle to make himself feel superior. To justify his own misery.
No, Robin corrects himself. It is superior. Misery is the price of ambition.
Beep. Beep.
The vibration in his pocket startles him. It cuts through the noise of the restaurant like a knife.
He pulls out his phone. The screen glows.
Dad.
Robin stares at the name. The noise of the restaurant fades into a dull hum. He slides out of the booth, murmuring a quiet excuse that nobody hears, and walks toward the exit.
He pushes through the heavy doors and steps out onto the balcony. The night air is cool. The street below is quiet.
He slides his thumb across the screen.
"Robin."
"Yes, Dad."
"How are you?"
"Fine."
A pause. Then, a wet, rattling sound. His father coughing. It sounds deep in his chest, the kind of cough that comes from years of neglect.
"I watched the match today."
Robin sighs, looking up at the sky.
It's a lie. He knows it's a lie. His dad doesn't have the sports package that shows Division II games. He probably just checked a score app five minutes ago, saw the result, and decided to call.
"Yeah?" Robin says, keeping his voice flat.
"You played amazing. I saw... I saw you got an assist! First assist of the season! Are you celebrating?"
The words are slightly slurred. The vowels are too long.
Drunk.
Robin closes his eyes. Of course.
"It's not a goal, Dad."
"I know, I know. But assists are cool too. You made the goal happen."
A pause. Heavy breathing on the other end.
"So... everything fine? You eating?"
His dad insists on continuing the conversation, filling the dead air with meaningless noise.
"Yes. Everything is fine."
His dad coughs again. Louder this time. A harsh, hacking sound.
"You know..." his dad starts, his voice dropping to a whisper, sentimental and sticky. "I want to see you in our national team jersey. The USA kit."
Robin's grip on the phone tightens.
A pause.
"Will it be possible, son?"
Robin bites his lip so hard he tastes iron.
He hates this talk. He hates it more than anything. It makes him feel small. It makes him feel like a project, not a person. And worse, it makes him feel like his dad is trying to claim the dream.
Playing for the National Team is Robin's dream. It's the thing that gets him up at 4 AM. It's the thing that kept him running when his legs were burning. It belongs to him. Not to the man who drank away his tuition fund. Not to the man who wasn't there.
But Robin plays along. He always plays along. It's easier than the truth.
"It is possible, Dad."
His dad laughs. A wet, proud sound. "That's my boy. That's my boy."
Robin feels a wave of exhaustion wash over him. He wants to end the call. He needs to end the call before he says something he can't take back.
"Okay. You go and celebrate. I'll go and celebrate too. Take care."
"You too, Dad. You too."
Click.
The screen goes black.
Robin lowers the phone. He stands there on the balcony, leaning against the railing. He gazes up at the stars, but they look blurry. He takes a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs, trying to scrub away the feeling of the conversation.
Beep. Beep.
The phone vibrates again.
Robin looks down, annoyed. If it's his dad again...
It's not. It's a notification from his calendar app.
Alert: Individual Practice.
Robin stares at the screen. The annoyance vanishes. The tension in his shoulders drops.
Practice. The grind. The work. The only thing that never lies to him. The only thing that is truly his.
He smiles.