The coffee in the Four Seasons lobby costs twelve dollars. It is served in a delicate porcelain cup with a saucer that rattles every time Jackson Voss picks it up. It tastes like burnt hazelnuts and pretension.
Voss hates it. He drinks it black, in three large gulps, hoping the caffeine hits his bloodstream before his eyes involuntarily close.
It is 9:00 AM.
He has slept for exactly two hours.
While the "New Blood" slept the sleep of the innocent (or the medicated), and while Robin Silver stared at the ceiling in his room, Voss was working.
Being the Captain of the US National Team isn't just about winning coin tosses and yelling at referees. That is the easy part. That is the fun part.
The hard part is the phone.
Voss checks his screen. It is cracked slightly at the corner, a souvenir from a frustrated throw after the loss to Mexico last year.
Unread Messages: 47.
He scrolls.
Agent (Adam Richards): "We need to control the narrative. 'Knock' sounds better than 'Mental Collapse.' Can you put out a quote supporting him?"
Nike Rep: "Great win, Jack. We need you in the new boots for the breakfast shoot. 9:15 sharp."
Dad: "Why did you let the kid take the corner? You're the captain."
Voss rubs his temples. The headache is a dull, rhythmic thumping behind his eyes, echoing the bass drum from the stadium last night.
He spent the hours between 2:00 AM and 5:00 AM talking Adam Richards off a ledge. The kid was sobbing in his room, convinced his career was over, threatening to fly back to France immediately. Voss had to be the therapist. He had to lie. He had to tell Richards that "everyone gets rattled" and that "Johnny still trusts you," even though Voss knows Johnny would sooner play with ten men than put Richards back on the pitch.
He managed the fallout. He ensured the leak to the press said "Rib Contusion" instead of "Panic Attack."
He saved the kid's dignity.
And now, he has to save the team's ego.
"Jackson? We're ready for you."
Voss looks up. The press officer, a woman named Sarah who looks as tired as he feels, is beckoning him toward the media zone set up in the corner of the lobby.
Voss stands up. He adjusts his tracksuit. He zips it up to the chin to hide the fact that he hasn't shaved.
He takes a deep breath.
He performs the transformation.
Shoulders back. Chest out. The frown vanishes, replaced by the "Captain's Smile," a specific expression that conveys confidence, approachability, and absolutely zero vulnerability.
He walks into the lights.
The interview setup is intimate. Just two chairs, a backdrop with the US Soccer crest, and a camera crew.
The journalist is Marcus Thorne from Global Sports Network. The anchor who did the group draw breakdown. He is sharp, ambitious, and currently smelling blood in the water.
"Jackson," Thorne says, shaking hands. "Thanks for doing this. Rough night?"
"Great night," Voss corrects him, his voice smooth, baritone, perfect. "Three points. That's all that matters."
They sit. The cameras roll.
Thorne doesn't waste time with softballs.
"Let's talk about the performance, Jack. For eighty five minutes, the team looked... disjointed. You had possession, but no penetration. The crowd turned on you. It felt like the system was failing."
Voss nods sagely. He expected this. "Tournament football is never a straight line, Marcus. Jamaica set up a low block. It's difficult to break down a team that puts ten men behind the ball. We had to be patient."
"Patient?" Thorne raises an eyebrow. "Or stagnant? It seemed like the breakthrough only came when the structure broke down. When Robin Silver abandoned his position and went rogue."
There it is. The narrative Voss needs to kill.
If the story becomes "Robin Silver Saved the Team," then the system is dead. If the story is that individual rebellion is the only way to win, then Andrew Smith, Kessel, and the tactical discipline fall apart. The locker room divides into "Heroes" and "Drones."
Voss leans forward. He looks into the camera lens.
"I don't see it that way," Voss says calmly.
"No?"
"Not at all. The system allows for creativity. That's how we designed it. Johnny gives us a framework, but within that framework, we have the freedom to solve problems."
Voss gestures with his hands, building a box in the air.
"Robin made a great run, absolutely. But look at the goal. Look at Ben Cutter."
Voss pivots. He shifts the spotlight.
"Ben ran eighty yards in the ninety third minute. That isn't luck. That isn't 'going rogue.' That is conditioning. That is the fitness team. That is the tactical discipline to overload the box at the right moment. Robin provided the spark, but the team provided the fuel. We trust the process. The goal was a result of the system working, not failing."
Thorne looks skeptical. He saw the game. He saw the chaos.
"So, you're saying Silver's run was... part of the plan?"
Voss smiles. It is a charming, lying smile.
"We have many weapons, Marcus. Sometimes it's a pass. Sometimes it's a dribble. The important thing is that when the moment came, the team was ready to capitalize. We win together."
Thorne pauses. He knows he's being spun. He knows Voss is shoveling corporate PR manure onto a burning fire.
But he also knows he won't get anything else. Voss is a fortress.
"Fair enough," Thorne says. "Brazil is next. Are you ready?"
"We will be," Voss says.
"Cut."
The lights dim.
Voss stands up immediately. The smile drops off his face like a heavy mask hitting the floor.
"Thanks, Jack," Thorne says, checking his phone.
Voss doesn't answer. He unclips the microphone and tosses it onto the chair. He walks out of the media zone without looking back.
The hallway leading to the elevators is empty. It is a relief. No cameras. No teammates. Just beige wallpaper and silence.
Voss loosens the zipper on his jacket. He feels disgusting. He feels like a salesman selling a car with no engine.
The system worked.
What a joke. The system failed. The system got bullied by a Championship right back. The only thing that worked was a nineteen year old kid with a metal leg deciding to ignore everything he was told.
Voss turns the corner.
And bumps into Johnny.
The coach is leaning against the wall, holding a tablet. He looks fresh. He's wearing a clean polo, smelling of soap. He looks like a man who slept eight hours.
"Nice interview," Johnny says, not looking up from the tablet.
Voss stops. He feels a surge of irritation.
"You were listening?"
"I'm always listening." Johnny taps the screen. "'The system allows for creativity.' Nice line. Very diplomatic."
Voss steps closer. He is taller than Johnny. He is heavier. In the hierarchy of the team, Johnny is the boss, but Voss is the landlord. He owns the locker room.
"I'm cleaning up your mess, Johnny," Voss says, his voice low and hard.
Johnny looks up. He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "My mess? I thought we won."
"You created a monster," Voss hisses. "I heard the kids at breakfast. Smith. Richards. Even the reserves. They aren't talking about the three points. They're whispering about Robin."
Voss points a finger down the hall, toward the rooms where the players are waking up.
"They think chaos works now. They think the game plan is optional. You let him get away with it. You rewarded him for breaking the structure."
"He got an assist," Johnny points out calmly.
"He got lucky!" Voss snaps. "He dribbled into a triple team in his own defensive third. If he loses that ball, we lose 2:0. We go home in disgrace."
Voss leans in, his face inches from the coach.
"This works against Jamaica. Maybe. But if he tries that shit against Brazil? If he tries to nutmeg Marquinhos or run through Casemiro? We get slaughtered. We get embarrassed."
Johnny stares at him. He doesn't back down. He doesn't flinch.
"You're scared," Johnny says.
"I'm realistic," Voss counters. "I'm the one who has to face the press when we lose 4:0. I'm the one who has to pick these kids up off the floor."
"You're scared," Johnny repeats, "because Robin proved that your 'safe' football is useless."
Johnny pushes off the wall. He stands toe to toe with his captain.
"I didn't create a monster, Jackson. I unleashed a player who actually wants to win. The rest of you? You're just trying not to lose. There is a difference."
"We need discipline," Voss argues. "We need unity."
"We need goals," Johnny says.
He tucks the tablet under his arm.
"You're right about one thing. If we play chaos against Brazil, we might lose. But if we play your way against Brazil? If we play scared? We lose 100% of the time."
Johnny starts to walk away toward the elevators.
"Johnny," Voss calls out.
Johnny stops.
"If the locker room splits," Voss warns, "if the team divides between the System and the Ghost... I can't protect you. And I won't protect him."
Johnny looks back over his shoulder.
"Then tell them to play better," Johnny says coldly. "Tell them to pass forward. Tell them to shoot. If they do their jobs, we won't need the monster to save us."
The elevator doors ping open.
Johnny steps inside.
"Breakfast is in ten minutes, Captain," Johnny says as the doors slide shut. "Put your smile back on."
Voss stands alone in the hallway.
He looks at his reflection in the polished brass of a decorative vase. He looks tired. He looks old.
He hates Robin Silver.
Not because the kid is arrogant. Not because he is reckless.
But because Johnny is right.
Voss spent ninety minutes managing the game. Robin spent five minutes winning it.
And in the brutal economy of professional football, management is worthless.
Output is King.
Voss zips his jacket back up to his chin. He practices the smile one more time in the reflection. It looks tight. It looks fake.
"Fine," Voss whispers to the empty hall. "Let's see what happens when the monster meets a real predator."
He turns and walks toward the breakfast room to lie to his teammates.