“You say that about Kovár every time according to Tomáš.”
“Because it’s true every time. He shows up to camp looking like someone’s uncle and then runs ninety minutes and I don’t understand his body.”
“Hockey has the same. Mueller eats pasta every game day. Every single game. He says it’s tradition. The nutritionist says it’s a problem but he plays well. Mueller says the nutritionist doesn’t understand tradition.”
Damián laughs. Short, surprised. His laugh hasn’t changed either. Of course it hasn’t. Why would it have?
“Footballers are worse. Šíma tapes his left boot before his right or he won’t play. He says it’s not superstition. He says it’s science.”
“And is it science?”
“It is absolutely not science,” he laughs, then glances around the small space we’re in. “How long have you been coming here?”
“Since October. This is the part of the Beltline that I walk.”
“So you come here every day?”
“Most days. If I’m not traveling, I’m here. Jordan knows my order before I ask.”
“That’s a good sign.”
“It means I’m predictable. I’m not sure that’s the same as good.”
“Predictable is underrated.” He takes a sip of the cortado. “In Germany, nobody knows where I get coffee. I’ve been there four years.”
“That’s because you don’t let them know you.”
I didn’t mean to say it. It’s true in response to Germany. But I’m not talking about coffee and we both know it.
“Maybe,” he says. The half-smile doesn’t move. “Maybe I don’t.”
I glance around at the handful of people sitting around the shop. “It’s strange, speaking Czech in here. Nobody understands us.”
“Is that strange?”
“It’s private. Like a secret room inside here.” I smile, one I can’t contain. “Do you have a routine in Germany? Beyond the coffee nobody knows about?”
“Training. Recovery. Match. Training. Recovery. Match.”
“That’s not a routine. That’s a schedule.”
“What’s the difference?”
“A routine has parts that are yours. A schedule has parts someone built for you.”
He looks at me when I say this. His eyes stay on mine a beat too long, and the blue goes focused in a way I’ve seen exactly once before.
“Are you ready for the group stage?” I ask, because I need the look to stop before it does something to me in a coffee shop with five other customers and a barista who is already grinning too much. “Brazil is first?”
“The eighteenth. We’ve been watching film. Their striker is quick. Pulls wide and cuts back.” He shifts into the football register I’ve heard him use with Tomáš a hundred times, and the focused look softens. “Tomáš thinks we match up well. I think Tomáš hasn’t watched enough tape.”
“He watches plenty. He just watches differently than you.”
“He watches it like an attacker. I watch it like a center back. One of us is correct.”
“You both think you’re correct.”
“I am correct.”
