The Mercedes-Benz Stadium has been colonized.
It is technically American soil. It is technically a home game for the United States. But as Robin Silver walks out onto the pitch for the pre-match inspection, he feels like a tourist in Rio de Janeiro.
The stadium is a sea of yellow.
It isn't just a few pockets of fans. It is a tsunami. Seventy thousand people are packed into the stands, and sixty-five thousand of them are wearing the Canarinho jersey.
The noise is different, too. It isn't the chaotic, angry roar of the Bolivia match. It is a rhythmic, pulsating beat. Drums are banging in the upper decks big, heavy samba drums that vibrate in the chest cavity. Trumpets are blaring. People are dancing in the aisles.
The air smells of popcorn, stale beer, and an overwhelming sense of destiny.
Robin stands near the dugout. He is wearing his oversized noise-canceling headphones, but they are useless against this. The frequency of Brazilian joy penetrates everything.
He looks at his teammates.
Ben Cutter is staring at the stands, his mouth slightly open. The Dog looks like he has just realized how big the yard actually is.
Mason Williams is scowling at a group of Brazilian fans near the tunnel who are blowing kisses at him. The Silencer doesn't like affection.
Andrew Smith is checking his phone, probably looking at the betting odds which have swung violently against them in the last hour.
Then, the music stops.
Not the drums the drums never stop but the stadium PA system cuts the pre-match playlist.
A low, expectant hush falls over the crowd. A murmur of anticipation.
Heads turn toward the giant, halo-shaped screen that hangs from the roof of the stadium. The Jumbotron.
The camera feed cuts away from the players warming up on the grass. It cuts away from the celebrities on the sideline.
It zooms in on a luxury suite.
The glass-fronted box is filled with dignitaries. Men in suits. Women in evening gowns.
But the camera ignores them. It focuses on a boy sitting in the front row, his feet propped up on the railing.
He is small. Slight. Maybe five feet six inches tall if he stretches.
He is fourteen years old.
His hair is a masterpiece of modern architecture a high fade on the sides, bleached platinum blonde on top, with a geometric design shaved into the temple. Diamond studs the size of grapes glitter in both ears. He is wearing a heavy gold chain that looks like it weighs more than his head.
And he is wearing a custom Brazil jersey. It is yellow, signed by the entire squad. On the back, in bold green letters: Zampa, number ten.
The crowd sees him.
And they lose their minds.
"ZAMPA! ZAMPA! ZAMPA!"
The chant starts low and builds into a roar that rivals the goal celebration from the other night. It is a sound of pure, unadulterated adoration.
The boy on the screen sees himself.
Most fourteen-year-olds would shrink. They would hide. They would look at their parents for reassurance.
Zampa Silva does not hide.
He smiles.
It is a blinding, charismatic, million-watt smile. It is the smile of a kid who has never been told no. A kid who has never had to wait in line. A kid who believes, truly and deeply, that the sun rises just to light his path.
He stands up. He walks to the glass.
He raises his hands. He forms a heart shape with his fingers and presses it against the window.
The stadium melts. Grown men are weeping. Women are screaming. It is Beatlemania wrapped in a soccer jersey.
Zampa blows a kiss. He winks. Then he sits back down, sipping a Guarana soda from a crystal glass, looking bored again.
On the pitch, the USA players are frozen. They are watching the screen.
Andrew Smith walks over to Robin. The Algorithm looks glitchy. He is frowning, trying to process the data.
"He's fourteen," Smith says. "I checked the roster. He isn't on the bench. He isn't in the reserves. He plays for Santos' U-15s. He hasn't played a single minute of senior football."
Smith gestures at the screaming crowd.
"Why is the camera on him? Why are they cheering for a child?"
"Because he represents the future," Johnny says.
The coach has appeared behind them. He is looking up at the screen with a strange expression. It isn't admiration. It is wary respect.
"In America, football is a sport," Johnny says. "We win, we lose, we move on. In Brazil? It's a mythology."
Johnny points at the boy in the box.
"They need a King. Right now, that's Ronaldo Jose. But Kings get old. Kings get injured. So they need a Prince. A prophecy."
"Zampa Silva," Johnny continues. "The Next Pele. He signed a ten-million-dollar contract with Nike when he was eleven. He has twelve million followers on Instagram. He is the anointed one."
"He's a mascot," Smith scoffs. "He's a marketing stunt."
"He's a belief system," Johnny corrects. "Look at him, Andrew. He radiates it. The joy. The certainty. He knows he's going to be the best player in the world. He doesn't hope for it. He expects it."
Robin Silver stands there, silent.
He looks at Zampa Silva.
He looks at the diamonds. The bleached hair. The casual, arrogant slouch.
He thinks about his own fourteen-year-old self.
At fourteen, Robin was in a garage in Ohio. He was doing push-ups until his arms shook because his dad told him he was too weak. He was waking up at 4:00 AM to run in the snow because he didn't have a ride to practice. He was fighting for scraps.
At fourteen, Robin learned that the world is a cold, hard place that wants to break you.
At fourteen, Zampa Silva learned that the world is a stage built for his amusement.
Robin looks at the boy's smile. It is perfect. Untouched by trauma. Untouched by doubt.
Zampa has never had a coach tell him he wasn't good enough. He has never been benched. He has never had to carry a drunk parent to bed. He has never heard the sound of his own bone snapping in a foreign country.
He is pure, uncut sugar.
And Robin feels a wave of disgust so potent it almost makes him gag.
It isn't jealousy. Robin doesn't want to be Zampa. He doesn't want the love. He doesn't want the heart hands.
He hates the softness of it.
"Too much sugar," Robin whispers.
"What?" Smith asks.
"They feed them sugar," Robin says, his eyes locked on the screen. "From the moment they can walk. They tell them they are gods. They tell them the game is a dance. They tell them that suffering is for other people."
Robin looks at the Brazilian players warming up on the pitch. Ronaldo Jose. Lucas Ribeiro. They are all versions of Zampa. Just older. Richer. But still running on that same high-octane fuel of joy and entitlement.
They think they are the protagonists of the universe.
"They need a reality check," Robin says.
He looks at Johnny.
"Does he play?" Robin asks, pointing at the box.
"Zampa? No. He's just here for the vibes."
"Too bad," Robin says.
He turns away from the screen. He looks at his boots. Black. Unbranded. Scuffed.
He adjusts his shin guard. He feels the metal rod.
The crowd is still chanting Zampa's name. They are worshipping a false idol. They are worshipping potential that hasn't been tested by pain.
Robin hates potential. He hates "Next Pele." He hates the mythology.
Mythology is just a story people tell themselves to feel safe. It is a story where the hero always wins because he is destined to.
Robin isn't a hero. He is a villain. And villains don't care about destiny.
"Let's go inside," Robin says to Smith. "I'm tired of watching cartoons."
He walks toward the tunnel.
He walks with a limp. It is slight, barely noticeable, but it is there. A reminder of the price he paid.
Up in the box, Zampa Silva is taking a selfie with a supermodel.
Down in the dark, Robin Silver is clenching his fists.
The Prince is watching. The King is waiting.
But the Monster is coming.
And monsters don't eat sugar. They eat Kings.