“Alex, you sure—?” Stone said.
Hopper managed a nod and forced a wry smile. Preferring to double down on the lie rather than admit to it, he said, “Never better.”
Apparently this latest overaggressiveness had been the final straw for the refs. Or at least it was for the American ref. The Japanese ref was angrily protesting, but his counterpart was shaking his head as he shoved his way through the crowd of onlooking American sailors. “Penalty kick. End of injury time. This is it.” He leaned in and looked into Hopper’s eyes. “You in shape to take it, son?”
“Oh, I can take it.” He raised his voice to make damned sure the Japanese players heard him. “I can take whatever they dish out!”
This was all that was required to get the Americans psyched up. Shouts of “U.S.A! U.S.A!” rose from the onlookers, mixed with chants of “Hopper! Hopper!” The Japanese, meanwhile, were trying their best to keep their expressions carefully neutral. But Hopper was sure that he saw growing nervousness in their eyes. They were aware that the tide was shifting against them, and that Hopper could single-handedly tie the game and force them into overtime. Furthermore Hopper was convinced that when that happened, the Americans would have the momentum to run roughshod over them.
He took a few steps forward on his own and then pain ripped through him. It wasn’t his head or his legs; instead it was his shoulder, which was hurt worse than he’d thought. His arm was hanging at an odd angle; it had been dislocated.
He looked toward the sidelines to see if Sam had noticed, since she was the one he was most concerned with. She knew his body better than anyone except himself, so if anybody was going to be aware of the level of damage he had sustained…
Yup. She sees it. I’m boned. She was standing next to Vera, pointing to her own shoulder as an example, and Vera’s gaze shifted from Sam’s demonstration to Hopper’s actual right shoulder. She saw the damage that Sam was indicating and there was real concern on her face. Sam started gesturing for Hopper to remove himself from the game, but he simply shook his head and turned away from her. She wouldn’t understand. It was a guy thing.
“You want someone to take it for you?” said Stone, referring to the penalty shot.
“I got it,” said Hopper.
The ref flipped the ball to him and Hopper fortunately caught it with his left hand. He brought the ball over to the penalty line and dropped it at his foot. The goalie was watching steadily. He slapped his gloved hands together and then spread his arms wide in a defensive posture. Hopper could see the sweat beading on his forehead. “You ready to kiss the donkey? Kiss. Kiss. Kiss,” Hopper muttered.
No reason to hurry. That’s what the goalie wanted him to do. He wanted him to rush the shot, and Hopper had no intention of accommodating him. Instead he stretched his legs, buying a few more moments to get his head together.
As he did so, Nagata took a moment to cruise past him. Hopper didn’t bother to ask if he was there to apologize for his cheap attack. There was no quarter being asked or given.
“Two kinds of idiots, Hopper,” said Nagata in a low voice. “One looks where he kicks. Other looks where he doesn’t kick. Which idiot are you?”
Hopper had no idea what he was talking about. Nagata was trying to get into his head and Hopper wasn’t about to let him. “I’m the idiot who’s gonna kick the ball through his face.”
Nagata simply gave him one more contemptuous look and moved on.
It had all come down to him. He closed his eyes, took a deep, cleansing breath. Then he backed up several steps, preparing to make his final charge at the ball. People were screaming themselves into a tizzy from the sidelines, shouting encouragement. Pain continued to throb in his shoulder and he pushed it away so it wouldn’t distract him.
The goalie was slowly drifting from side to side, looking at Hopper challengingly. He was practically daring Hopper to drive the ball past him.
Hopper was more than happy to oblige.
He took one more breath, and then charged. The ball was sitting there waiting for him, inviting him. The goalie was prepared to obstruct him, expecting Hopper to try to get the ball to one side of him or the other.
Screw that. Hopper knew exactly what was going to work. Why go to one side or the other of an obstruction when you can go through it, and exact a bit of revenge at the same time? Send Nagata and his people a message that they couldn’t get away with that kind of crap.
The kick was perfect. He sent the ball spiraling directly, and with full force, at the goalie’s face. In Hopper’s mind, the goalie stood there with a stunned expression, caught completely flat-footed. The ball smashed directly into the target, knocked him flat and sent him sprawling to the ground. It rolled past him into the net. The crowd went wild, the game went into overtime, the Americans won, and a triumphant Hopper was hoisted onto his teammates’ shoulders and paraded around the field.
In reality, however, the goalie judged the ball perfectly. Rather than flinch, he reached up and caught it on the fly. The solid thump of the soccer ball into his hands was the death knell of the Americans’ hopes as the game ended with the victorious Japanese swarming onto the field, pounding one another on the back in triumph.
Hopper stood there, staring, his jaw twitching as his mental image of what would happen crashed up against what had actually transpired. Nagata, of course, chose that moment to step in near him and say, just softly enough for only Hopper to hear, “So predictable.”
Hopper had never wanted to punch someone in the face as much as he did Nagata at that moment. The fist of his left hand curled up tightly and he turned to face him. But the Japanese captain was no longer there; he was crossing the field and, projecting dignity and control, joining his teammates in celebration. Instead there was Beast, patting him on the back, and Tompkins, and Stone shaking his head consolingly, saying “Good shot,” “Good try,” and all the other useless condolences that are typically offered when things simply don’t go the way you wanted them to.
Nor did it help that they were patting him on the shoulder, which was throbbing like a son of a bitch. He tried not to wince from it and didn’t even come close to succeeding. Just like you didn’t come close to succeeding in tying the game.
Stone stepped closer to his brother. “At least you demonstrated mild self-control,” said Stone. “You didn’t beat up the Japanese officer. Well done.”
Hopper wondered if Stone knew that he’d nearly lost control and belted Nagata into the middle of next week. In my defense, he had it coming. Somehow he didn’t think that that excuse would have flown with his brother—or, for that matter, with anybody else.
It didn’t matter, though. Nothing mattered as far as Hopper was concerned, because there was Sam, his beautiful Sam. His beautiful Sam. She would comfort him, she would speak kind words to him, she would say all the right things. She would—
All business, Sam skipped over sweet nothings and instead inspected his right shoulder with practiced confidence. “On your back,” she said briskly.
“Right here? In front of everybody?” He lay down slowly. “All right, honey, I’m game…” As a couple of his teammates snickered, he gestured for her to lie on top of him while he moved his pelvis in a suggestive manner.
Sam was clearly not amused. She reached down, grabbed his wrist, and put a foot in his armpit. “It’s gonna hurt,” she warned him.
“You always hurt the one you—” He didn’t get the rest of the sentence out. Instead he let out a startled shriek that was higher-pitched than he would have liked as Sam pulled hard and snapped the shoulder back into place. He lay there for a moment, gasping in pain. Then slowly he sat up, growling as he flexed his arm. It was still sore as spit, but the agony was subsiding.