“That is not true. Czech football has many surprises.”
“Name one.”
“Kovár once scored a goal. The entire country was surprised.”
Šíma, from three seats down: “This is accurate. I was on the pitch. I thought the ball went in by accident.”
Kovár, without looking up from his menu: “It wasn’t an accident. It was destiny.”
“It was a deflection,” Šíma says.
“Destiny deflected.”
The table fills. Davis across from Marchetti. Thompson at the far end, already reading the wine list with the focus of a man who takes alcohol as seriously as zone defense. Novotný and Polášek side by side, speaking Czech too fast for anyone else to follow. Four Firebirds players I invited at Tomáš‘s request, guys from the summer skate crew who said yes because free steak is free steak and because I asked.
Tomáš at the head. Damián to his right.
I’m across from Damián, to Tomáš‘s left. The seating means I can see his face for the entire meal. Two nights ago that face was on the pillow next to mine. Two nights ago his hand was on my jaw and his mouth was slow against mine and at 5:17 in the morning he kissed my forehead and left. Since then, three texts. Short ones. Schedule updates. The voice that was in my apartment has gone back behind the glass.
He looks good tonight. Dark shirt, hair up, the half-smile operating at reduced volume. He’s talking to Tomáš about the knockout match. His English is precise when Davis asks him something about the group stage. His Czech drops easy when Kovár leans over with a comment. He hasn’t looked at me for more than two seconds since I sat down.
I drink my water. The restaurant is loud. The air conditioning is losing the argument with fifteen large men and a hot summer evening. Someone at the far end is laughing about something Thompson said. The city outside the windows is lit up and warm and doing what Atlanta does at nine PM in summer, which is refusing to cool down.
Marchetti leans toward me. “You good?”
“I am good. Tired.”
“Tired like tired, or tired like you read until two in the morning again?”
“I have not started a new book yet. I am between books.”
“Between books.” He studies me. “That’s never happened before.”
“It is happening now.”
He lets it go. Marchetti lets things go the way a dog lets go of a stick, briefly and with the clear intention of picking it back up later.
The steak is good. The conversation has settled into the rhythm of men who don’t know each other well enough to be quiet but know each other well enough to be loud. Šíma is telling Davis about the time Kovár got lost in Prague. Davis is filming. Marchetti is adding commentary nobody requested.
Davis turns to me across the table. “Hájek, we should go to another match to watch your brother’s team play again.”
“Marchetti is now an expert in football so I guess we should.” The tables laughs.
Marchetti, from two seats down: “I AM an expert.”
“He is not an expert,” I say. “He has learned one Czech word and uses it incorrectly.”
Davis grins. “You know a lot of the Czech players coming in, right? Your brother’s team. Must be wild having them all in your city.”
“It is good. Tomáš I see more often, he was here at Christmas. Damián I had not seen in three years, so having him here has been—“
“Tobík, we should let the table talk about something else.” Damián’s voice, in English. Smooth. Careful. The half-smile. “The Firebirds’ season is more interesting than my schedule.”
The sentence lands on the table and sits there. To anyone else it sounds like humility. Damián being polite, redirecting attention, the controlled version doing what the controlled version does. Davis nods and turns to Šíma.
I hear it as something else. Damián just decided what I could say. About a topic that was mine. In front of my teammates. My friends.
The conversation moves on. I drink my water. The table keeps going. The noise fills the room. Šíma and Marchetti are competing for who can be loudest about the knockout match. Thompson has opinions about Czech defensive tactics that are surprisingly informed. Davis is still filming.
