He doesn’t push past that. He picks up his glass. We touch glasses without saying anything.
Šíma heads to the bar with Kovár and I take the elevator to our room on the fourth floor. Through the window, past the interstate, the Atlanta skyline catches the last of the light, the glass towers going copper and then dark. I have not been in a city this hot in June. Munich at this hour is still wearing a sweater.
I sit on the edge of the bed and take out my phone. I open the app.
He posted this morning. The Beltline. The golden retriever is back, the enormous one named after bread, sitting on his foot.He is laughing at the camera. Linen shirt. Freckles on his nose I have never noticed before, or I have and I keep noticing them anyway. Behind him the skyline catches light the way it does in every photo from that path. He captioned it with one word in Czech. Doma. Home. He called the city home.
My phone buzzes against my palm. The screen says Dad.
“Damián.” My father’s voice has the same cadence whether he’s calling from Brno or the surface of the sun. “I spoke with your agent. He says you haven’t called the club.”
“I’ve been traveling.”
“The phone works while traveling.”
“I’ll call them next week, Dad.”
A pause. He decides not to push, but the silence is worse, because I have to fill in his disappointment myself.
“Fine. Call me after.”
“Yes, Dad.”
A beat. “And Damián.”
“Yes.”
“Get some rest. Tournament starts in a few days.”
“I know.”
He hangs up. I put the phone down then pick it up again. The app opens and I see the coffee shop on Moreland with the blue awning. He goes there most mornings when he’s not on the road.
Tomorrow is not a road day. The season has ended for the Firebirds. He’ll be there.
I set the alarm for nine and sleep, eventually.
I wake up at seven. Recovery session is at ten. Three hours. I put on jeans and a shirt I choose carefully and then tell myself I did not choose carefully. I check the mirror. I see a man simply going to get coffee. That is what I am. Simple and straight forward. Excellent reasoning. No notes.
The walk takes fourteen minutes. A Brazilian flag hangs from a balcony on the second block. A group of teenagers in Mexicojerseys passes me on the corner, arguing about something in rapid Spanish, one of them laughing so hard he has to stop walking. The city has a different pulse this week. You can feel the tournament in it, in the flags and the languages and the way the restaurants have posted signs in four languages and the cab drivers are wearing the jerseys of countries that aren’t theirs.
I rehearse on the way. I didn’t know you came here. Casual. The line of a man who did not spend twelve minutes last night choosing this coffee shop over the one at the hotel.
It’s been three years since I have seen him. The bedroom. His face so close. I leaned in. I pulled back. Three years of calling it a weird night, of it living underneath everything without looking too closely.
I turn onto Moreland and recognize the block. The blue awning is exactly where the photos put it. The woman visible beyond the espresso machine, through the window, sports tattoos on both forearms, the way I knew she would. I am walking through a city I have never been to and the city looks familiar in a way that is not flattering to me.
I push the door open.
“Hey. What can I get you?”
“A cortado, please.”
“For here?”
“Yes, please.”
“Sit anywhere. I’ll bring it.”
