Banes scrambled backward on the turf. He looked like he'd seen a ghost.
Or a zombie.
Soccer stood frozen in place. His left foot—the one buried under three rolls of medical tape—was planted deep in the grass. He hadn't budged. He hadn't flinched.
"You're a maniac," Banes whispered, rubbing his bruised shin. "That should have snapped."
"It is snapped," Soccer said pleasantly. Sweat was pouring down his face, soaking his collar. His eyes were wide and glossy. "Or... twisted. I can't feel the toes anymore. Is that bad?"
He looked at Marcus. "Captain, I think my foot fell asleep. Forever."
Marcus looked at the ankle. It was throbbing against the tape. Visibly pulsating.
"Soccer, you need to sub," Marcus urged. "You made your point. Banes is rattled."
"No." Soccer pointed a shaking finger at the goal. "If I leave, the wolves come back. I stay."
The referee signaled play on.
Banes stood up. He spat on the ground. The shock was fading, replaced by calculation.
"Fine," Banes growled to his defense line. "He's a statue. He can't run. Don't tackle him. Just ignore him. Block the passing lanes!"
The Anti-Football Protocol.
St. Mary's Academy didn't try to win. They tried not to lose.
They dropped back. Way back.
All eleven gray jerseys formed a double line in front of their penalty box. It looked like trench warfare. They abandoned the midfield completely.
"Come and break us," Banes taunted.
Soccer stood alone at the thirty-yard line. He had the ball. Nobody pressed him. He had ten yards of space in every direction.
But he couldn't use it.
He took a step. A sharp intake of breath. Hiss.
Pain spiked up his leg like a lightning bolt.
"He's helpless," Luna whispered on the sideline, clutching the railing. "Look at him. He's stranded."
Soccer looked at the Grey Wall. It was dense. No gaps.
He looked at his teammates. They were running, trying to find space, but St. Mary's suffocated them. Every run was tracked. Every angle was closed.
It was boring. It was ugly. It was perfect defense.
Soccer stood on one leg, balancing like a crane.
They won't come to me.
I can't go to them.
He felt the vibration of the stadium. Thousands of people wanting a show. Wanting the Assassin.
But the Assassin was crippled.
So... change the class.
Soccer remembered the lighthouse. Not a real one—he'd seen a picture in an old magazine torn up for kindling. A tall tower. Standing still. A light that spins, guiding ships through the storm.
"Marcus!" Soccer yelled.
Marcus looked back.
"Don't run away from me!" Soccer screamed. "Come to me!"
Marcus hesitated. Run backward?
"Everyone!" Soccer waved his arms. "Orbit!"
Northwood looked confused. But they trusted the madman.
They stopped trying to penetrate the wall. They came back. They started running circles around Soccer.
Elijah ran past him. Soccer flicked the ball with his good foot. Tap. Elijah took it, drew a defender out, then passed it back.
Soccer trapped it. Stopped it.
Dylan ran by. Tap. Pass. Tap. Back.
Soccer became a turret. A distribution hub.
He didn't move his left foot an inch. He pivoted entirely on his right, swinging his hips to spray passes left, right, forward, backward.
The Turret System.
St. Mary's was confused. They were set up to block penetrations. They weren't set up for this weird, hypnotic merry-go-round.
The rhythm changed.
Tick-tock-tick-tock.
Soccer controlled the tempo without taking a single step. He lured them out.
Minute 20. 0-0.
Minute 30. 0-0.
"Boring!" the crowd chanted. "Attack!"
Banes laughed. He stood at the top of the box, arms crossed. "You can't hurt us from there, cripple! Keep playing catch!"
Soccer stopped the ball. He stared at Banes.
Banes was comfortable. He felt safe.
Safety makes people lazy.
Soccer looked at the position of the sun. Then at Banes's shadow.
"Elijah," Soccer said calmly.
Elijah sprinted by.
Soccer faked the pass. Banes's eyes shifted to track Elijah.
Just a flicker. A micro-adjustment.
Soccer didn't pass.
He planted his bad foot.
Pain. White, hot, blinding agony. It felt like walking on a knife blade.
But the pain was a grounding rod. It anchored him to the earth.
He swung his right leg.
Not a pass.
A shot. From thirty-five yards out.
The Standing Tomahawk.
He generated zero run-up power. All the force came from his core. His abs snapped. His hips rotated violently.
THWACK.
The ball screamed. It didn't spin. It didn't curve.
It rose like a mortar shell.
Banes realized too late. "Block it!"
He jumped.
The ball cleared his head by an inch. The wind from the ball messed up his buzz cut.
It flew toward the goal. The St. Mary's keeper, who had been enjoying a nice nap against the post, scrambled.
He dove.
The ball hit the crossbar.
CLANG.
The sound reverberated through the stadium like a gunshot. The metal bar vibrated.
The ball bounced down. On the line?
"NO!" Banes roared. He bicycle-kicked the rebound away before Marcus could tap it in.
The crowd gasped.
Soccer fell over. He couldn't hold the stance anymore. He hit the grass.
Banes stood over him, breathing hard. The arrogance was cracked. Just a little.
"You're crazy," Banes hissed. "You put your whole weight on a sprain to hit the bar?"
Soccer looked up. His face was pale, almost green. But he grinned.
"Next time," Soccer wheezed, "I aim two inches lower."
Halftime.
The locker room smelled of Deep Heat cream and desperation.
"It's a fortress," Marcus said, throwing a towel. "We can't get through. They have eleven men in the box!"
Soccer sat in the corner. Luna was re-taping his ankle. Every time she tightened a strap, he winced.
"His ankle is swelling," Luna said softly to Coach Cross. "It looks like a grapefruit inside there. Circulation is... not great."
Cross nodded. He looked at the stats.
Possession: Northwood 60% - St. Mary's 40%.
Shots on Goal: Northwood 0.
Crossbar Hits: 1.
"They're daring us to shoot from distance," Cross said. "But every time we wind up, they step in and block. We're getting blocked to death."
"We need elevation," Soccer mumbled.
Cross turned. "What?"
"They are a wall," Soccer said, eyes closed. "You can't go through a wall. You go over it."
"We tried chipping. Their defenders are six feet tall."
"Not chipping," Soccer opened his eyes. "Launching."
He grabbed a water bottle. He set it on the floor. He put his fist next to it.
"Marcus," Soccer said. "Can you do a scoop pass?"
"A scoop? Yeah. Why?"
"When I signal," Soccer tapped the bottle, "you scoop the ball. Just pop it up. Knee height."
"And then what?"
"Then I volley it."
"From thirty yards out?" Marcus looked at him like he was insane. "A moving volley? On one leg?"
"The ball will be falling," Soccer said. "Gravity gives it energy. If I hit a falling ball... I don't need a run-up. I just need to connect."
The Catapult Protocol.
Coach Cross rubbed his chin. "It's risky. If you miss, you turn the ball over with our midfield exposed."
"Coach," Soccer pointed at his purple swollen ankle. "Do I look like I have a safe option left?"
Cross sighed. He looked at the clock.
"Do it."
Second Half.
The stalemate continued.
Minute 60.
Minute 70.
The crowd was getting restless. St. Mary's was loving it. They wasted time at every throw-in. The goalkeeper tied his shoes three times.
0-0. Heading for penalties.
And if it went to penalties... Soccer couldn't shoot. He couldn't even walk to the spot.
"Now," Soccer whispered.
He was at the thirty-yard line again. The Turret.
St. Mary's didn't press. They stayed in their trenches.
Soccer caught Marcus's eye.
The signal.
He stomped his good foot twice.
Marcus received a pass from Elijah. He controlled it. He looked at Soccer.
Banes saw the look. "He's not gonna pass! It's a trick! Hold the line!"
Banes expected a through-ball. He stepped back to cover the run.
Marcus didn't pass forward.
He ran to the ball and shoveled his foot under it.
Pop.
The ball floated into the air. Straight up. Just a little lob.
It hovered at knee height, right in front of Soccer.
Soccer leaned back. He trusted the Iron Root one last time.
He planted the broken left ankle.
Pain. Fire. Reality tearing at the edges.
He didn't care.
He swung his right leg. Horizontal. Like a baseball bat.
The Dragon Volley.
He struck the falling ball with the laces. Sweet spot. Perfect connection.
BOOM.
The sound was different this time. It wasn't a thud. It was a crack. Like a whip breaking the sound barrier.
The ball flew.
But it didn't fly straight. Because of the side-angle volley, it had topspin. Insane, vicious topspin.
It soared high—heading well over the crossbar.
The St. Mary's keeper laughed. "Field goal!"
He didn't even jump. He watched it sail over his head.
Then... the Dragon bit.
The topspin caught the air friction.
The ball dropped.
Violently.
It dove out of the sky like a stone dropped from a cliff.
The keeper's laugh died in his throat. His eyes bulged.
"What—"
He scrambled backward. He reached up.
The ball dipped under the bar at the last possible millisecond.
SMASH.
It hit the back of the net with so much force it lifted the entire goal frame off the ground for a second.
GOAL.
Northwood: 1 - St. Mary's: 0
The stadium went nuclear.
Soccer collapsed. He fell face-first into the turf. He didn't even see it go in.
Banes stood there, staring at the wobbly goalpost.
"That's not physics," Banes whispered. "That's witchcraft."
Marcus screamed, sliding on his knees to where Soccer lay.
"You did it! You actually did it!"
Soccer rolled over. His face was covered in grass and tears. He was crying. Not from joy. From pure, unfiltered agony.
But he was smiling.
"The Catapult..." Soccer choked out. "Works."
Minute 88.
Northwood was bunkering now. They were the ones parking the bus.
Soccer was lying near the center circle. He refused to be subbed off. "I'm a scarecrow," he told the ref. "I just stand here and look dangerous."
St. Mary's panicked. Their entire game plan was "Don't concede." They had no Plan B for "Score a goal."
Banes ran forward. "Launch it into the mixer!"
It was clumsy. Desperate.
Northwood defended with their lives. Dylan punched away a cross. Elijah blocked a shot with his stomach.
The whistle blew.
Regional Champions.
Northwood High. The joke school. The losers.
They were Kings of the Region.
The team erupted. They stormed the field.
But nobody jumped on Soccer this time. They formed a circle around him. A protective ring.
Marcus knelt down. "Can you walk?"
"Nope."
"Can you stand?"
"Nope."
"Okay." Marcus turned his back. "Climb on."
The Captain piggybacked the Assassin.
Marcus carried Soccer toward the stands, where the trophy table waited.
The crowd was chanting.
SOC-CER! SOC-CER! SOC-CER!
For a boy who spent eleven years listening to nothing but wind and eagles, the sound was overwhelming. It was heavy. It was love.
"Is this what a pack sounds like?" Soccer whispered into Marcus's ear.
"Yeah buddy," Marcus grinned, tears streaming. "This is your pack."
The Ceremony.
A man in a suit handed Marcus the trophy. A big silver plate.
Marcus held it up. Then he handed it to Soccer, who was sitting on a folding chair, his leg propped up on a cooler.
Soccer held the cold metal. He looked at his reflection in it. Scars, dirt, sweat.
"It's shiny," Soccer said. "Can we eat off it?"
The team laughed. A release of tension that shook the stage.
But amidst the celebration, Luna wasn't laughing. She was standing with the medic.
"He played on a Grade 3 tear," the medic said, looking at the tablet. "He destroyed the tissue."
"Will he heal?" Luna asked.
"For Nationals? In two weeks?" The medic shook his head. "Impossible. He needs a month, minimum. Maybe two."
Luna looked at the celebrating boy. He looked so happy. He didn't know yet.
Nationals. The biggest stage. The best players in the country.
And the Assassin was grounded.
The Afterparty (Parking Lot)
The bus was loading up.
A shadow stepped out from behind a pillar.
It was Kai Rivers.
He wasn't wearing his uniform. He was in a black hoodie.
He walked up to Soccer, who was being wheeled in a wheelchair by Dylan.
"Hey!" Soccer waved. "Did you see? I used a Catapult!"
Kai didn't smile. He looked at the giant boot on Soccer's leg.
"You broke yourself," Kai said flatly. "To beat a trash team like St. Mary's."
"I won," Soccer said.
"You survived Regionals," Kai corrected. "But Nationals? The players there... they aren't like us. We are big fish in a small pond. They are sharks."
Kai leaned down.
"Vincent Drake is waiting there."
Marcus froze. "Vincent Drake? The U-18 National Captain?"
"Yes," Kai nodded. "The Dragon. He plays for the Southern Academy."
Kai looked at Soccer's leg.
"You can't fight a Dragon on one leg, Savage. You'll be eaten alive."
Soccer looked at his boot. Then he looked at Kai.
"Do Dragons bleed?" Soccer asked.
Kai paused. "Everyone bleeds."
"Good." Soccer leaned back in the wheelchair. "Then I'll just have to find a sharp rock."
Kai stood up. He almost smiled. Almost.
"Fix your leg, Assassin. Because if Vincent kills you before I do... I'll never forgive you."
Kai turned and walked into the night.
Soccer watched him go.
"Vincent Drake," Soccer tasted the name. "The Dragon."
He patted his cast.
"Coach!" Soccer yelled.
Cross stuck his head out of the bus. "Yeah?"
"How much milk do I have to drink to heal bone in two weeks?"
Cross laughed. A weary, hopeful sound.
"Gallons, kid. Gallons."
"Okay." Soccer settled in. "Start the engine. We're going hunting."