3:00 PM
The stadium wasn't full, but it was unnecessary. The players are not fired up. The coach wasn't screaming orders. While the spectators already know what is going to happen.
Robin Silver sat alone in the stands, not on the bench or with the team, alone in the stands. The chair beneath him was cold, but his mind was icier.
He wasn't on the subs list. Not even on the bench. All he could do was stand there and wait.
And this waiting? Painful.
It was pandemonium from kickoff. North Wall FC seemed like a Sunday pub team inserted into a professional match. Castilla—tough, disciplined, clinical—cut their lines apart like a hot knife through butter.
1-0. 2-0. 3-0. 4-0.
By halftime, the scoreboard was cruel. The players walked off as though they were down a goal. No anger. No screaming. No fists raised. Just shoulder shrugs.
The only one fighting out there was Aaron Doyle.
Doyle floated as if the ball was stuck to his boots. The foes couldn't get their hands on him. They tried. They failed. Again. And again. Every possession was through him. He created one-twos. He created space. He became a joke of defenders. But for what? His teammates are even worse. They are not even trying to help him.
Robin rubbed his face with both hands, groaning at the abomination happened in front of him.
This was not football. This was not ambition. This was not what he had dreamed of when he signed for Northport United, let alone North Wall.
He could not stand it.
Before the second half had even begun, he stood up and left the stands and proceeded to the dressing room. He did not want to witness another half of humiliating football.
Full-Time.
7-0.
The dressing room was more cooler than it ought to have been. Not tense, ominous quiet—but unnatural, laid-back quiet. As though they'd just gone for a light run, not endured an embarrassment.
Laughter. Casual talk. Raillery.
Robin was stuck in the corner, open-mouthed.
Even Doyle—the player who did not quite manage to shame himself—was lounging, arms folded behind his head as though it were any Tuesday.
Robin had to scream. He didn't. He pulled on his bag, he exited the building, and he strolled onto the empty training ground.
7:00 PM
The sun still shone, but the flood lights dominated the natural light. The pitch was empty. No one trained after a match. Especially not after a 7-0 thrashing.
But Robin hadn't played.
He dropped his bag, set down some cones, and began to move. Dribbles. Turns. Sprint drills. Anything to burn off the frustration that was eating away at his chest.
His shirt was so sweaty that one would believe that this man bathed in a river. But he didn't quit.
Until he heard footsteps approaching behind him.
He spun around. There he was—Aaron Doyle. His smile was casual, his jersey replaced by a black tank top. His signature handkerchiefs draped over each shoulder, and he was juggling a football in one hand.
"Can I play?" Doyle asked.
Robin blinked. ".Yeah, sure."
Doyle walked over and put down the ball gingerly. He went with the easy step of a man heading for a beach bash, not with that of a player who got beaten 7-0.
"Practice what?" Doyle asked.
Robin paused. "I don't know. You tell me?"
Doyle mock-thought, raking his fingers through his hair.
Robin smiled. "You dribble. I'll see if I can pick your pocket."
Doyle arched an eyebrow. "You think you can stop my dribbling?"
Robin shrugged. "I think I can."
The logic was simple. Robin played left wing. Which meant he'd play back a lot and deal with right-wingers—dribblers, playmakers, quickeners. And in a team with a defense as weak as this one, his defensive contributions mattered more than ever before.
If he could do a better job of shutting down someones like Doyle, he could make an impact.
Doyle smiled, kicked the ball softly ahead, and said, "Let's go then."
What followed was a clinic.
Doyle smirked. Moved one way with his body, a different way with the ball. Flicks, cuts, rolls—like a stage magician performing his tricks.
Robin lunged, tracked, turned, guessed.
Out of 39 fights. he won 3.
Each time he picked up the ball, it was a victory. Each time he lost it, Doyle just smiled and tried again.
Robin sat on the ground after Doyle's relentless assault. Doyle sat beside him.
"So," Doyle panted. "How was my dribbling?"
"Magnificent," Robin panted.
Doyle grinned. "Thanks. But your defending sucked though."
Robin laughed, still outstretched.
There was a moment's quiet. A silence between two players—one exhausted, one curious.
Then Doyle stood up. "Wanna get a burger?"
Robin stood up and turned around.
"…Sure."
9:00 PM
They sat across from each other in a restaurant.
Doyle was having a burger. He is eating faster than a normal person would eat. While, Robin enjoys his shawarma.
Then Robin spoke up.
"Why is this club so… ambitionless?"
Doyle did not even cease chewing. "Because of the coach."
Robin's brow arched. "Why?"
Doyle spat out his gum, leaned forward.
"He's a tactical coward. Not that there's anything wrong with defensive football," he clarified, "but the man won't adapt. Won't even attempt it. No innovative boldness. No risk. Same old same defensive rubbish every match."
Robin remained silent.
"Last season," Doyle continued, "we were in for ninth. All we had to do was draw a bottom-half side. Coach played cautious. Dropped the bus. One moronic goal and bang—we went down to eleventh. On goal difference."
He slapped the table emphatically.
"I don't hate defensive football, man. I hate safe football. You wanna win? You gotta score."
Robin nodded slowly. "Couldn't agree more."
There was silence.
"You played well today," Robin said honestly.
Doyle smiled that night. "Thanks."
A silence.
Then Doyle leaned forward, eye locked on Robin's.
"You want to score more goals, Robin?"
Robin nodded. "Yes."
"You want to win titles with this team?"
"Yes."
Doyle's voice was dropped to near-whisper, but the tone was biting. "Then fuck the coach."
Robin froze.
Doyle did not blink. "You won't get anything out of listening to him. If you go with him, you'll become all the rest of the guys in that locker room—lost, complacent, disposable."
"But what if he cuts me?" Robin asked, voicing the fear gnawing at him.
Doyle smiled. "Then don't give him a reason."
That hit like a bullet.
Robin leaned back, absorbing it.
"Make your own identity."
"Play like a madman."
"Be unstoppable."
Robin grinned. For the first time that day, it was not a wincing attempt.
He exactly understood what Doyle meant.
MEANWHILE ON X:
@Pas108 – Why is Aaron Doyle not rated higher? He is the only player who could stand out in a 7-0 loss.
@NW18 – I really wish the coach would play Robin.
@Pas108 – Our first league game is against the defending champions lool. Pray for us, please.
@Bar10 – Paula Lopez will be greatest player in football history.
@Mozam – Stfu! Don't overrate him. No pressure on the 16 year kid. Let him grow naturally.