Minute 88.
3-3.
The game is dissolving into chaos. Legs are heavy. Lungs are burning. The West Hall players are time-wasting, taking thirty seconds for a throw-in, faking cramps, kicking the ball away. They want the draw. They want to get on the bus and leave this nightmare.
Robin is standing on the halfway line. He is vibrating. He isn't tired. He is electric.
He has two goals. A tap-in. A header.
He looks at the scoreboard. He looks at the clock.
One minute left.
Doyle has the ball in the midfield. He is surrounded. He twists, turns, and looks for an outlet.
Robin raises his hand. Not a wave. A command.
Give it to me.
Doyle pings it. A driven pass to feet.
Robin controls it dead. He is thirty yards out. He is isolated.
And standing between him and the goal is Prince.
The Butcher is tired. He's sweating. He's been humiliated once, he's been beaten for pace, he's given up a goal. But he is still dangerous. He steps up, planting his feet wide, crouching like a wrestler. He is the final gatekeeper.
Robin starts dribbling. Slow. Taunting.
He walks the ball toward Prince.
The stadium holds its breath. It's the duel everyone wanted. The Matador vs. The Bull. Round Two.
Prince growls, low and guttural. "Come on then, little boy. Try it."
Robin stops. The ball is motionless under his boot.
He looks Prince in the eye. He glances down at Prince's legs. They are spread wide, bracing for a tackle.
Robin smiles. A cold, terrifying smile.
"Close your legs," Robin whispers. "You'll catch a cold."
Prince blinks.
In that split second, Robin strikes.
He doesn't go around. He doesn't chip it over.
He punches the ball. Hard. Flat.
It zips across the grass. Straight through the open gate.
Nutmeg.
The ball slides between Prince's legs. Prince realizes it a microsecond too late. He clamps his knees together, but he catches nothing but air. He trips over his own feet, tangling in a mess of limbs, and collapses face-first into the turf.
The Butcher falls.
Robin glides past him. He collects the ball on the other side.
He is one-on-one with the keeper.
"OH MY GOODNESS! HE'S DONE HIM! HE'S ENDED HIM! PRINCE IS ON THE FLOOR! SILVER IS THROUGH!"
The keeper rushes out, arms spread, screaming.
Robin doesn't panic. He doesn't rush.
He waits for the keeper to commit. The keeper drops to his knees.
Robin calmly lifts the ball. A delicate, arrogant chip.
It floats over the keeper's gloves. It hangs in the air for an eternity.
And then... it drops.
Softly into the net.
4-3.
"GOAL! GOAL! GOAL! HATTRICK! ROBIN SILVER HAS WON IT! A HATTRICK ON HIS HOME DEBUT! ABSOLUTE SCENES!"
The stadium explodes. It's not a cheer; it's a shockwave.
Robin watches the ball hit the net.
And then... he snaps.
He doesn't run to his teammates. He doesn't run to the corner flag.
He grabs the hem of his jersey.
He rips it off.
He spins it around his head like a lasso, his bare chest heaving, sweat gleaming under the floodlights. He sprints toward the sideline, not to the home fans.
He sprints toward the West Hall bench.
He stops right in front of the opposition manager and the reserves. He slams the jersey onto the ground. Then, he flexes. A primal, arrogant pose, screaming at the top of his lungs right in their faces.
"LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME!"
It is pure disrespect. It is ugly. It is beautiful.
"And the shirt is off! The shirt is on the ground! Robin Silver has lost his mind! He is taunting the opposition bench! The referee is running over!"
Doyle tackles him. Then Hugo. Then Louis. They pile onto him, screaming, burying him under a mountain of bodies.
Robin is laughing maniacally at the bottom of the pile.
The referee stands there, yellow card in hand, waiting for the pile to clear.
Minute 89.
The hattrick is complete. The Butcher is dead. And Robin Silver is the King of North Wall.