The stationary bike is a torture device. It doesn't go anywhere. It doesn't offer a breeze to cool the sweat. It just sits there, bolted to the floor, demanding payment in the form of watts and misery.Ben Cutter is paying his debts.11:00 AM. The recovery gym.The room smells of rubber mats and ozone. It is quiet, save for the rhythmic whir whir whir of the flywheel spinning under Cutter's legs.
His phone is resting on the console of the bike. The screen lights up every four seconds.
Ping.Ping.Ping.
Instagram: Tagged in 400 new posts.Twitter: Trending: #TheDog #USMNT #CutterClutch.Mom: I'm crying, Benny! You did it! You're a hero!
Cutter looks at the messages. He reads the headlines.
"Unlikely Hero Saves USA.""Cutter's Late Winner Sinks Jamaica.""The Dog Bites Back."
He feels a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with the physical exertion.
Hero.
He wipes sweat from his forehead with a towel that is already soaked.
He knows the truth. The cameras saw a goal. The fans saw a finish. His mom saw destiny.
Cutter saw a panicked slide.
He remembers the moment of contact. He didn't pick his spot. He didn't side foot it into the corner like Thierry Henry. He threw his body at the ball like a drunk man falling down stairs. He hit it with his shin. The contact was ugly, jarring, and completely uncontrolled. If the keeper had been six inches to the left, it would have hit him in the chest. If the ball had bounced slightly higher, it would have gone into the stands.
It wasn't skill. It was gravity and luck colliding in the sixyard box.
He is a fraud.
He looks around the gym.
The "talent" is here. Andrew Smith is on a foam roller, looking bored, scrolling through his own mentions. Adam Richards isn't here, he's probably still in his room, icing his ego. Mason Williams is doing yoga, his movements fluid and perfect.
They belong here. They were born with the touch. They were the kids who juggled the ball a thousand times in the backyard without dropping it.
Cutter?
He looks at his feet strapped into the pedals. Size 11. Wide. Flat footed.
He closes his eyes. The whir of the bike turns into the sound of rain.
Flashback. Seven years ago. Kansas City.
The majestic, sprawling complex of the Sporting KC Academy trials. Three hundred kids in oversized bibs, dreaming of a contract.
Ben Cutter is fourteen. He is smaller than the others. He is slower. And his first touch is heavy. Every time the ball comes to him, it bounces off his foot like it hit a curb.
The drill is simple. Receive, turn, pass.
The other kids make it look like water flowing downhill. Smooth. Easy.
Cutter receives the ball. It gets stuck under his feet. He stumbles. He recovers, but the timing is gone. The coach, a man with a clipboard and a sunburn, shakes his head. He makes a mark next to Cutter's number.
At the end of the day, they post the list.
Cutter walks up to the fence. He scans the names.
No Cutter.
He stands there in the rain. He doesn't cry. He just feels a heavy, crushing weight in his chest. The weight of mediocrity.
The coach walks by. He sees the kid standing there.
"Son," the coach says, not unkindly. "You're a good athlete. You got heart. But the feet? They aren't there. You're too clumsy for this level. Have you tried cross country? Or wrestling?"
Cross country. Running without a ball. Running without a purpose.
Cutter went home. His dad drove in silence. They stopped at a gas station. His dad bought him a Gatorade.
"It's okay, Ben," his dad said. "Not everyone makes it."
That night, Ben went to the local park. The grass was muddy. The goalposts were rusted.
He didn't bring a ball. The ball was the enemy. The ball was the thing that betrayed him.
He just ran.
He ran sprints until his lungs burned. He ran until he threw up in the bushes. He ran until his legs stopped working.
And he realized something.
He couldn't dribble past the rich kids. He couldn't out pass the talented kids.
But he could out suffer them.
If he couldn't be the best player on the pitch, he would be the most annoying. He would be the one who was always there. The one who chewed on their ankles. The one who made them miserable.
He didn't need talent. He needed lungs.
Present Day.
Cutter opens his eyes.
He is back in the gym. The bike is still spinning.
He isn't that fourteen year old boy anymore. He is a professional. He plays in the Bundesliga for a bottomtier team that fights relegation every year, sure, but it's the Bundesliga.
But the feeling hasn't changed. Every day, he wakes up expecting someone to tap him on the shoulder and say, "Excuse me, Mr. Cutter, there's been a mistake. You're actually a plumber."
He looks across the room.
In the far corner, near the free weights, is Robin Silver.
The Ghost.
Robin isn't on a bike. He isn't stretching.
He is doing pull ups. Weighted pull ups. A heavy chain is draped around his waist, a 45 pound plate hanging between his legs.
Robin's movement is terrifyingly controlled.
Up. Hold. Down.
He isn't looking at a phone. He isn't talking to anyone. He is wearing overear headphones, staring at the wall with a focus that looks almost psychotic.
Cutter watches the muscles in Robin's back ripple. He watches the scar on Robin's right shin flash every time he lowers himself.
Cutter thinks about the game last night.
He thinks about the pass.
Robin had three defenders on him. He had no right to see Cutter. He had no right to make that pass.
Andrew Smith would have taken the corner.
Adam Richards would have lost the ball.
Robin Silver created a miracle out of thin air.
Cutter stops pedaling for a second. The flywheel hums down.
He realizes the hierarchy.
There are the Artists. The Pulisics, the Reynas, the Silvers. They see the game in technicolor. They can bend physics.
Then there are the Mechanics. The Smiths, the Vosses. They understand the system. They keep the machine running.
And then, there are the Dogs.
That's him.
He is the janitor. He is the bodyguard. He is the guy who carries the piano so the Artist can play it.
For years, Cutter resented it. He wanted to be the one playing the melody. He wanted the glory.
But looking at Robin, looking at the sheer, terrifying burden of talent that the kid carries, Cutter feels something shift.
He doesn't want that burden.
Robin is alone. Robin is isolated. The team hates him because he exposes their mediocrity. The media doubts him because he is broken.
Robin is a gun. A highcaliber, dangerous, unstable weapon.
And a gun is useless without a bullet.
Cutter looks at his own legs. They are thick. Ugly. Covered in bruises and hair. They aren't made for dancing. They are made for marching.
I will never be him, Cutter thinks. I will never nutmeg a guy like Sterling. I will never hit the crossbar from thirty yards.
But I can make sure nobody hits him.
He remembers the promise he made in the tunnel. I'll run until I die.
That wasn't just adrenaline talking. That was a career path.
If Robin Silver is going to go rogue, if he is going to abandon the system and play chaos football, he needs an anchor. He needs someone to cover the space he leaves behind. He needs someone to win the ball back when the magic trick fails.
He needs a Dog.
Cutter looks at the "Hero" headlines on his phone again.
He swipes them away. He turns the screen off.
He doesn't need to be the hero. He doesn't need the credit.
The goal last night? That was Robin's goal. Cutter just happened to be the surface it bounced off.
Cutter reaches down to the console of the bike.
He presses the Resistance button.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He cranks it up. Level 15. The pedals become heavy. It feels like pushing a car uphill in the mud.
Cutter grips the handlebars. He grits his teeth.
He starts to pedal.
He isn't flushing out lactic acid anymore. He is building armor.
He looks at Robin in the corner. Robin finishes his set, drops to the floor, and immediately starts doing push ups. No rest.
Cutter nods to himself.
You be the monster, kid. You be the ghost.
I'll be the shadow.
He pedals harder. The sweat pours down his face, stinging his eyes.
He embraces the burn. It is the only thing that is real. It is the only thing he has to offer.
Mediocrity is a curse only if you try to hide it. If you accept it? If you sharpen it?
It becomes a weapon.
Cutter buries his head and rides into the pain.
He has a job to do.