“Nagata again,” Hopper said with a snarl. Hopper and Captain Yugi Nagata had been going at each other constantly from the first minute of the game. Nagata was the tallest Japanese player—nearly five-eleven—and it gave him reach and speed that most of his teammates couldn’t begin to approach. His black hair was close-cropped, as befit a Navy man, and he wore an expression of perpetual, unflappable superiority no matter what he was doing. It was this, more than anything, that infuriated Hopper.
It didn’t help that Nagata was also a hell of a soccer player.
He started bringing the ball back up the field. Other defenders came in from either side, but Nagata—never taking his eyes off Hopper—shouted an order in Japanese. They immediately peeled off.
So that’s how it’s gonna be? Fine. I get it.
“Back off! I got ’im!” Hopper called out to his teammates. He saw a quick flash of amusement in Nagata’s eyes and knew that he had correctly intuited the captain’s mind-set. With a minute remaining, it was time to square off, mano a mano.
Bring it, jackass.
Hopper came straight at Nagata with no hesitation. Nagata faked left, moved right. Hopper swung in tight, trying to get the ball, but it wasn’t there. The move to the right had been another feint and Nagata darted around Hopper. Hopper muttered a string of profanities as he spun on his heel and went in pursuit.
He sprinted up the field, one step behind Nagata the entire way. The crowd was shouting, everyone going berserk. Hopper, his heart pounding, managed to bring himself up alongside, and he tried to knock the ball away from the captain. Nagata didn’t slow, keeping the ball away even as the two men slammed into each other repeatedly, side against side. The referees apparently couldn’t overlook this and they started throwing around yellow cards. The two men ignored them.
Hopper went for a full-body slam, banging into Nagata, almost causing him to stumble. He collided with him a second time and was about to go for a third when Nagata suddenly stopped, throwing his right arm straight to the side. The move clotheslined Hopper, knocking the wind out of him, and he tripped over his own feet and went down. With a clear shot at the goal, Nagata sped forward and slammed the ball with all his strength.
It hurtled straight toward the goal… and a hole in Stone’s defense.
Stone lunged for it and, an instant before it could roll across the white line, he smothered it like a hero landing atop a hand grenade.
An approving roar went up from the crowd, but Stone had no time for accolades. He never stopped rolling as he came up with the ball, looking for someone in whose direction he could throw it.
His brother, having regained his feet, ran up to him as Nagata retreated downfield, anticipating the throw. “Kick it deep. Hit me deep,” said Hopper.
Stone saw that Nagata was already positioning himself. “He’s been owning you all day,” said Stone, and Hopper didn’t need to ask his brother which “he” was being referred to. “We need to tie this thing up quick.”
“Deep, me, Stone.”
Stone looked at Hopper. Hopper was only partly looking at him. His attention seemed more focused on Nagata, who was already halfway downfield.
“This isn’t about you and him,” said Stone. “Don’t make this personal…”
“It’s sure as hell personal. That doesn’t mean I can’t do it. Deep. Me.”
Stone paused a second that felt like an hour. Then he nodded. “Be there.”
The words were like the firing of a starter’s pistol. The instant he said them, Hopper was off. He sprinted downfield, his arms pumping. He saw that Nagata was watching him with that same arrogant confidence as before. Hopper dashed to the right and Nagata started after him—then, the moment Nagata committed to the move, Hopper quickly broke left. You’re not the only one who can do fake-outs, he thought smugly.
There was one American player near Hopper, Tompkins, which was—as far as Alex was concerned—more than enough. From a distance he heard the thud of Stone’s foot coming into contact with the soccer ball and he turned, looked, panicked for half a second because the sun was in his eyes and he couldn’t pick up the ball’s location.
Then he saw it, coming in fast, straight up the middle of the field. It was a beautiful shot, arcing through the sky, turning slowly and lazily in the air. Hopper took a few steps to the left to line himself up and didn’t even have to look to know that the opposing goal was directly behind him.
They figure I’ll play it off my chest, bounce it to Tompkins, who’ll try to drive it in. No one would be insane enough to try and head it directly into the goal from this angle. At least that’s what they figure. I’m about to show ’em they figure wrong.
The ball descended toward him, and he braced himself, ready to propel the ball at the goal and himself into glory, or at the very least his team into overtime. Suddenly he heard a grunt, though, and a body hit the ground. He barely had time to register that it was Tompkins before Nagata was suddenly in front of him, facing him with a grim smile.
With a roar, Hopper came at him, but Nagata didn’t wait. Instead he performed an astounding backflip with the intention of catching the ball in midair and kicking it downfield.
Because of Hopper’s lunge, however, Nagata’s foot didn’t quite come into contact with the ball. Instead his foot struck Hopper full in the face.
One moment Hopper had been preparing for the ball, and the next he was hurtling through the air, landing with a heavy thud some feet away. There was a collective gasp from the crowd of onlookers. Even for the level of violence to which this hard-fought game had escalated, this was pretty bad.
And in the startled, momentary silence that followed, Hopper heard a familiar female voice cry out, “Hopper! Oh my God!”
Hey, he thought happily, Sam came. She said she wouldn’t be able to make it but she came. How nice.
Then he started to black out.
No. Oh hell no. You are not going to give that son of a bitch the satisfaction.
He fought his way back to consciousness before the darkness could completely overwhelm him. The world came back into focus, one piece at a time. First the concerned muttering of his teammates who were standing above him, and then the brightness of the sky overhead against his closed eyelids. From the things they were saying—“Should we get him a doctor?” “Do you think he’s dead?”—he gathered that only moments had passed since he’d gone down.
He also became aware of the throbbing in his shoulder. He’d landed on it fairly hard when he’d hit the ground. It was hard to decide which hurt more: that or his face. Hopper decided to push himself all the way back to wakefulness and sort it out later.
His eyes snapped open, taking in the concerned expressions of his teammates. “Didn’t hurt at all,” he said, lying through his teeth.
They must have known he was full of crap, but no one was about to call him on it, although Stone was slowly shaking his head in disbelief. His older brother looked inclined to leave Hopper lying right where he was, presumably while he went to get a medic for his prone brother. Beast, however, kept his priorities firmly in order and reached down to Hopper, gripping him tightly by the arm. Unfortunately it was the arm with the injured shoulder, and it was all Hopper could do not to scream at the top of his lungs as Beast hauled him to his feet. His face went white as a sheet, and he gasped repeatedly in order to get enough air into his lungs.