Houston, Texas. NRG Stadium.
The home of NASA. Rocket City.
Team Argentina sat in their locker room. They looked relaxed. They were singing.
Their captain, **Julian "The Spider" Alvarez**, sat in the corner. He wasn't singing. He was tying his boots. Methodically.
Julian was small. Quick. Deceptive. They called him The Spider because he was everywhere. You felt him press you before you saw him.
"The Americans play chaos," his coach warned. "They use walls. They use referees."
Julian smiled. A thin, cold smile.
"Let them play chaos," Julian said. "Spiders thrive in mess. We just spin more web."
***
**Match Day 2. Group F.**
**USA vs Argentina.**
The stadium was blue and white stripes. Thousands of Argentines had traveled north.
Soccer stood in the tunnel.
Julian walked up to him. He was barely 5'7".
"So you are the Hopper," Julian said softly.
"I prefer Assassin," Soccer replied.
"Assassins are quiet," Julian pointed at the screaming fans. "You are loud."
"Loud distractions work."
Julian tapped Soccer's chest.
"In my web," Julian whispered, "the more you struggle, the tighter it gets. Don't move too much."
He walked out.
Soccer shivered.
"Creepy," he told Vincent.
"Squish him," Vincent cracked his neck. "Spiders squish easy."
***
**Kickoff.**
Argentina played differently than Portugal or France.
They swarmed.
As soon as Soccer touched the ball, three players closed in. Not charging. Just closing space. Cutting angles.
Soccer tried to pass.
Blocked.
Tried to dribble.
Blocked.
Julian stole the ball. He didn't run fast. He just knew *where* to run.
He dribbled past Kai. He nutmegged Silas.
He was in the box.
Zero came out.
Julian didn't shoot.
He stopped.
He looked at Zero.
Zero blinked. *Why did he stop?*
Julian tapped the ball sideways.
An Argentine winger—who nobody saw running—slotted it home.
**GOAL.**
**Argentina: 1 - USA: 0**
**Time: 8:00**
"He freezes us," Silas analyzed frantically. "His movement hypnotizes the peripheral vision."
"It's sticky," Soccer muttered. "We can't get loose."
***
**Minute 35.**
USA struggled to cross midfield. Every pass was intercepted. Argentina read their minds.
"We need a disruption," Soccer said to Kai.
"What? Another referee assist?"
"No. We need to leave the web."
Soccer pointed to the sidelines.
"We play wide. Hug the line. Spiders hunt in the middle."
USA adjusted.
They stopped playing central. Kai went extreme left. Vincent extreme right. Soccer dropped deep.
They stretched the web.
Argentina's swarm thinned out. Gaps appeared.
Soccer got the ball deep.
He looked up.
Kai was open on the flank. 60 yards away.
Soccer launched a cross-field diagonal.
**The Patriot Missile.**
The ball soared.
Kai trapped it. One touch.
He cut inside. One defender.
Kai did a **Golden Chop**.
He chopped the ball behind his leg, leaving the defender sliding into nothing.
He crossed it.
Vincent was arriving at the back post like a train.
"Dragon Header!"
*THUD.*
The keeper saved it!
Rebound.
Silas followed up.
Blocked on the line!
Chaos in the box. Bodies everywhere.
Soccer arrived late.
He ran *through* the crowd.
The ball popped out to the top of the box.
Julian was there to clear it.
Soccer slid.
He blocked the clearance with his chest. It hurt.
The ball dropped to his feet.
He was surrounded. Four blue shirts.
*The Web.*
He couldn't shoot. He couldn't pass.
He did a **Tornado Spin**.
He stood on the ball and spun 360 degrees, holding defenders off with his elbows.
As he spun facing the goal, he backheeled it.
Not at the goal.
At **Vincent**.
Vincent was lying on the ground from the previous attempt.
The ball hit Vincent's shoulder and deflected past the keeper.
**GOAL.**
**USA: 1 - Argentina: 1**
"Ground assist!" Vincent yelled, spitting out grass. "I am a weapon even when I'm sleeping!"
Julian frowned.
"Clumsy," he whispered. "How can clumsiness beat precision?"
***
**Minute 70.**
The heat in Houston was intense. Humid. Sticky.
Like a web.
Both teams slowed down.
Except Soccer.
His stamina was unnatural. The mountain lungs.
He kept running. Bouncing.
Argentina tried to possess the ball. *Tiki-Taka* lite.
Soccer pressed Julian.
"Gotcha, Spider!"
Julian feinted left.
Soccer didn't bite. He stomped. *Vibration.*
Julian checked his dribble.
Soccer poked the ball free.
Counter.
2 on 2. Soccer and Kai vs two defenders.
Soccer dribbled. He was fast.
Defender stepped up.
Soccer did the **Titanium Step-Over**.
Because of the spring in his leg, the step-over was violently fast. It looked like a blur.
The defender crossed his own legs and fell.
Soccer passed to Kai.
Kai was open.
"King's finish!"
Kai shot.
Curler.
Off the bar!
"No!" Kai screamed.
The ball bounced high.
Soccer chased it. He was running toward the corner flag to save it.
Julian chased him.
Soccer reached the ball right on the line.
He couldn't turn.
He hooked his leg around the ball.
**The Scorpion Cross.**
From the corner flag. Without looking.
The ball flew back into the box.
It was too high for a header.
But **Zero** was there. (Why is the goalkeeper always attacking??).
Zero jumped.
He caught the ball.
"Wait, I can't catch it here," Zero realized mid-air.
He dropped the ball.
And volleyed it.
**GOAL.**
**USA: 2 - Argentina: 1.**
***
**Minute 90.**
Argentina threw the kitchen sink. Julian danced. He wove. He almost scored.
Zero saved it with his face again. "My nose..."
Whistle blew.
**USA Wins.**
They topped the Group of Death.
Portugal and Argentina. Defeated.
The world was watching now. The jokes stopped.
"They're real," a commentator said on TV. "These American kids... they play like they don't know the rules of fear."
Julian shook Soccer's hand.
"You tore the web," Julian said softly. "But be careful. Bigger monsters live outside the web."
"Like who?"
Julian pointed to the Quarterfinal bracket on the screen.
**Netherlands.**
Wait. Netherlands lost.
Who won?
**GERMANY.**
The Machine.
**Schneider**. The Kaiser. The German U-18 superstar who played with Noa at Bayern (wait, Noa plays PSG... Bayern Senior Team).
Schneider was the only U-18 player with a higher valuation than Noa.
"Germany," Soccer looked at the flag. Black, Red, Yellow.
"Tanks," Vincent muttered. "I play in Germany. They don't dance. They crush."
Soccer bounced.
"I like crushing."
He looked at his titanium leg. It was scratched. Scuffed. But solid.
"Four more games," Soccer whispered. "To the top of the world."
The bus engine started.
Next stop: **The Knockout Stage.**
The stakes just got infinite.