The media room in the Four Seasons Hotel is designed for comfort. Plush carpet, ergonomic chairs, a massive 85 inch screen mounted on the wall.
Tonight, it feels like a waiting room for a wake.
The entire USMNT squad is gathered. They are wearing their recovery gear, grey tracksuits, compression socks, slides. They look less like elite athletes and more like survivors of a natural disaster.
Adam Richards sits in the back row. He is propped up on two chairs. His right ankle is heavily taped, though the real injury is to his ribs and his pride. A pair of aluminum crutches leans against the wall next to him. He doesn't look at the screen. He stares at his lap, picking at a loose thread on his sweatpants. He is the ghost of the Jamaica game, a living reminder of what happens when you hesitate.
Ben Cutter sits in the front row. He looks like a mummy. His calves are wrapped in black compression tape. His thighs are encased in ice packs strapped down with plastic wrap. He is moving stiffly, grimacing every time he shifts his weight. The hero of Atlanta is currently moving with the grace of an eighty year old man.
Even Jackson Voss looks tired. The Captain is sitting with his arms crossed, a frown etched into his forehead, looking at the screen like it's a bomb disposal diagram.
They are all watching the feed.
Group B: Brazil vs. Bolivia.
The broadcast hasn't cut to the pitch yet. It is showing the tunnel cam.
On the left side of the screen, the Bolivian team stands. They look serious. Stoic. They are staring straight ahead, jaws set, minds focused on the grind. They look like the USA looked two nights ago. Tense.
On the right side of the screen is Brazil.
And it is a different universe.
They aren't standing in a line. They are a mob. A bright yellow, chaotic, swirling mob of joy.
There is noise coming through the speakers. Not the roar of the crowd, but a rhythmic, infectious beat.
Chk chk ching. Chk chk ching.
Ronaldo José, the left winger, the superstar of Real Madrid, the Heir to the Throne, is playing a tambourine.
He is smiling. A wide, blindingly white smile that lights up the dingy tunnel. He is bouncing on his toes, not out of nervousness, but out of rhythm. He hits the tambourine against his hip, then his palm.
Beside him, Lucas Ribeiro, the Number 10, is laughing. He has his arm around Danilo Costa, the left back. Costa is holding a phone up, filming a TikTok video. They are making faces at the camera. They are dancing. A fluid, hip swiveling samba step that looks effortless.
They look like they are at a barbecue. They look like they are about to play beach soccer with their cousins on a Sunday afternoon.
In the USA media room, the silence is deafening.
Andrew Smith, sitting next to Robin, shifts uncomfortably. The Algorithm is glitching.
"Look at them," Smith mutters, shaking his head. "Disgraceful."
Robin glances at Smith. "What is?"
"The lack of discipline," Smith says, pointing at the screen where Ronaldo José is now juggling the ball on his knee while still playing the tambourine. "This is the Copa America. This is a professional match. They're acting like children. They aren't focused."
Smith's worldview is binary. Focus means silence. Focus means staring at the wall. Focus means suffering. To him, laughter is a leak in the pressure vessel. It is inefficiency.
"They're taking it lightly," Smith continues, looking for validation. "Bolivia is going to smash them. You can't play football if you're dancing."
"Andrew."
The voice comes from the back of the room.
Johnny.
The coach is standing by the refreshment table, holding a cup of tea. He isn't looking at Smith. He is looking at the screen, watching the Brazilians dance.
"Don't mistake joy for weakness," Johnny says quietly.
Smith turns around. "Coach? They're filming TikToks in the tunnel."
"I know," Johnny says. "It offends your sense of order. It looks unprofessional."
Johnny takes a sip of tea.
"But look at their eyes, Andrew. Look closely."
On the screen, the camera zooms in on Ronaldo José. He stops playing the tambourine. He looks into the lens. He winks.
It isn't a nervous wink. It isn't a PR wink. It is the wink of a man who knows exactly what is about to happen.
"They aren't relaxed because they don't care," Johnny says. "They are relaxed because they know they are going to win. They have zero doubt. The pressure doesn't touch them because they love the ball. To them, the ball isn't a job. It's a friend."
The room goes quiet.
"Bolivia is playing for their lives," Johnny adds. "Brazil is playing for fun. And trust me... the man playing for fun is always more dangerous."
Robin Silver sits in the shadows, listening.
He looks at the screen. He looks at Ronaldo José.
The Brazilian is beautiful. Not just physically, though he has the face of a model and the build of a sprinter. He is beautiful in his movement. He wears the heavy yellow jersey like it's a silk shirt. He has bleached blond tips in his hair. He wears diamond studs in both ears.
He radiates light.
And Robin hates him.
A deep, acidic hatred curls in Robin's stomach.
It isn't a competitive rivalry. It is an ideological war.
Robin looks at his own hands. They are scarred. He looks at his leg. It is metal.
Robin plays football because he has to. Because it is the only way to escape the garage in Ohio. Because it is the only way to silence the voice of his father. Because it is the only way to prove he exists.
Robin summons his power from the dark places. From the trauma. From the Snap. From the anger of being told no. He needs to be miserable to be great. He needs to feel like the world is against him so he can fight back.
His fuel is hate.
But Ronaldo José?
Ronaldo José plays because he loves it. He plays because the grass smells good and the ball feels nice. He plays because his mother kissed him on the forehead and told him he was special.
Ronaldo's fuel is joy.
It feels unfair. It feels like a cheat code.
How dare you, Robin thinks, staring at the smiling Brazilian. How dare you be this good and not suffer? How dare you dance while I bleed?
The broadcast cuts to the pitch. The whistle blows.
Kick off.
Smith leans forward. "Watch. Bolivia will hit them. They'll shut that dancing down."
Minute 4.
Bolivia tries to hit them. Their defensive midfielder, a brute named Gutierrez, lunges at Ronaldo José.
Ronaldo doesn't even look down. He feels the pressure.
Flick.
He lifts the ball over Gutierrez's sliding tackle. A rainbow flick. In the fourth minute.
The crowd gasps.
Ronaldo collects the ball on his chest. He doesn't stop. He drives forward. He is laughing. He is actually laughing as he runs.
He passes to Ribeiro. Ribeiro backheels it.
Ronaldo shoots.
GOAL.
Brazil 1 0 Bolivia.
Four minutes.
Ronaldo runs to the corner flag. He doesn't scream. He doesn't slide. He does a choreographed dance with three teammates. They shake their hips. They point at the camera.
In the USA media room, nobody speaks.
Andrew Smith's mouth is slightly open. He looks like he just watched someone solve a math equation by throwing paint at a canvas.
"Discipline," Robin whispers, mocking Smith.
Minute 22.
It gets worse.
Brazil isn't just winning; they are performing. They are putting on a show.
Danilo Costa, the left back, is playing like a winger. He nutmegs the Bolivian captain.
Lucas Ribeiro is passing the ball without looking.
And Ronaldo José is untouchable. He drifts past defenders like smoke. He doesn't use force. He doesn't use the Gravity Well or the brute strength that Robin had to summon. He uses guile. He uses rhythm.
Every time a Bolivian player tries to foul him, Ronaldo is already gone.
By halftime, it is 3 0.
Bolivia looks destroyed. Not just beaten, but humiliated. They are demoralized. They look like they want to go home and apologize to their families.
The USA team watches in silence.
They are realizing the scale of the mountain.
They struggled to draw with Jamaica. They scraped a win in the dying seconds against a team that parked the bus.
Brazil is destroying a team that plays the same way, and they are doing it while smiling.
"We play them next week," Ben Cutter whispers. His voice trembles slightly. "Who marks him? Who marks Ronaldo?"
Nobody answers. The right back, Kyle Maddox, looks pale. He knows it's him.
Robin stands up.
The chair scrapes loudly against the floor.
He can't watch anymore.
He can't watch the joy. It makes him sick. It makes him feel small. It makes him feel like his entire philosophy, Output is King, Hate is Fuel, is a lie.
If you can win by dancing, why is Robin suffering?
He walks to the door.
"Where are you going?" Johnny asks.
Robin stops. He doesn't look back at the screen.
"To the gym," Robin says.
"The game isn't over," Smith says. "We need to analyze their shape."
"I've seen enough," Robin snaps.
He looks at Johnny.
"They play with joy," Robin says, his voice cold and hard. "They play because they love it."
He opens the door.
"I'm going to make them hate it."
He walks out.
The door closes, shutting out the sound of the samba beat, shutting out the laughter of the commentators.
Robin walks down the hallway. He walks fast.
He needs weights. He needs iron. He needs to feel the strain in his muscles.
He can't be them. He can never be the boy who plays the tambourine. That boy died a long time ago.
He has to be the other thing.
The thing that stops the music.
He enters the elevator and punches the button for the gym.
Trauma vs. Joy.
He looks at his reflection in the steel doors. He looks tired. He looks angry.
Good.
Let Ronaldo dance. Let him smile.
Robin is going to break his legs. Not literally, he isn't Prince. But spiritually.
He is going to take that joy, that beautiful, carefree Brazilian joy, and he is going to strangle it until the only thing left on the pitch is silence.
And in the silence, the Ghost wins.