I sit near the window and angle my chair toward the door. She brings the cortado over and sets it down on the table. The coffee is good. I read the menu on the wall four times. I think about leaving once. I don’t leave, because the coffee is good and that is the reason.
Then the door opens and he’s here in person.
Tobík comes through already mid-step, phone in one hand and sunglasses in the other. He goes straight to the counter,saying something to the barista before the door has finished closing behind him.
He’s speaking English. I’ve never heard him speak English.
I’ve known him since he was twelve. In Czech, he’s fast and easy, the words already there before he needs them. And now he’s standing at a counter ordering a coffee and every word is careful. Measured. He thanks the barista, and the thank you carries more weight than a native speaker would give it.
He is taller than the photos.
Logically, he can’t be taller than the photos. But on the screen he was flat, contained. Standing ten feet away from me he is not contained. His shoulders are broader than the photos showed. Nine months of professional hockey have settled into his frame in a way the camera didn’t catch. He’s not the kid Tomáš used to describe, the little brother in gear that was too big. The gear would fit now, maybe even too small.
He leans against the counter while he waits, which gives me time to watch him. He picks up a flyer and reads it. His head tilts when something interests him. His mouth moves slightly, trying the words. His light brown hair falls forward, curling over his forehead, and he doesn’t push it back. I have been watching this man through a phone screen for three years and the screen left out everything that matters. The way he stands. The way his whole body leans into whatever has his attention, even a flyer.
The barista says something and he laughs. Short, surprised, real. I’ve heard him laugh in Czech. It sounds the same in English. I don’t know why that does something to my chest.
He picks up his coffee and turns.
His eyes catch mine and he does a double-take. Then his whole face opens.
It happens in less than a second. Every part of his face reorganizes around something bright and unguarded, the brown eyes going wide.
I lift a hand. The hand goes up without consulting me.
“Tobík.” I hear myself say it. Smooth. Easy. The line I rehearsed, delivered like I didn’t. “I didn’t know you came here.”
Chapter 3: Tobík
Iturn with my coffee and he’s there.
Damián. At my table by the window, cortado in front of him, golden hair up in the bun, fitted dark shirt I haven’t seen before. The blue of his eyes catches the light from across the room in a way no photo has ever quite managed.
My face goes before my brain does. The grin arrives, the warmth floods up through my chest, everything wide and open and obvious. By the time I try to pull it back he’s already seen it. So has Jordan.
“Tobík.” He says my name the way he’s always said it. “I didn’t know you came here.”
“Damián.” My voice does something on the second syllable I would rather it hadn’t. “You’re here.”
He stands. He crosses the distance between his table and where I’m holding an americano I’ve forgotten about, and his arms are around me. The hug arrives the way hugs arrive between men who’ve known each other for ten years, natural and automatic, his hand on the back of my neck the way Damián has always touched people.
Except it holds. A beat past when it should end. His chin is near my temple and I can smell the soap that’s just him. My chest presses against his. The americano survives. I survive. Then he steps back and sits down like the extra second didn’t happen.
“The hotel is close,” he says. “I walked.”
“That is a kilometer and a half. That is not close.”
“I like walking.”
The Czech is already flowing between us. His mouth shapes the words the way it always has, fast and easy, and nobody in this coffee shop understands us.
I sit across from him at the small table. His knee is near mine underneath it and I can feel the heat of his body so close.
“Atlanta suits you, Tobík.” The half-smile. The one that hasn’t changed since we first met.
“Thank you. You look well too.” I take a sip of my coffee to give my hands something to do. “How was the flight? You got in yesterday?”
“Yesterday, yes. Long flight. Kovár looks like he hasn’t moved since November. We may be in trouble on the pitch.”
