“The reason is mine. They do not need it.”
Another pause. Shorter.
“And the second thing?”
“I need you to make an inquiry. Atlanta United.”
I can hear Peter recalibrating. Four years of a client who has done exactly what was expected, and everything just went sideways.
“MLS.” I can hear him gather the words. “Damián, that is a significant step in a different direction than we have discussed.”
“I know.”
“But you want me to make the call.”
“Today, if you can.”
“Okay.” Peter’s voice shifts into the register I’ve heard when he’s working. The problem-solver. “MLS has a different structure. I will need a few hours.”
“Take however long is needed. Call me when you have something.”
“Damián…” another beat. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure Peter.”
“Okay. I won’t talk you out of this. I’ll see to getting you the best deal the league allows.”
“Thank you, Peter.”
I hang up.
Through the curtain, Atlanta stands in its July light. Glass and concrete and green pushing through every gap. Somewhere in this city there’s a path lined with trees and a taco place with a green awning and a golden retriever who sits on people’s feet and a man I called a poor decision five days ago. That man is nota poor decision, and I just made two phone calls before eight in the morning, to prove that to him and myself.
Chapter 19: Tobík
The walk to the hotel takes twenty minutes. The Beltline is bright, the July light already heavy on the trees, the air sitting on my arms the way it has been sitting all summer. The honeysuckle stretch smells like honeysuckle. The coffee shop stretch smells like coffee. I walk past both because the coffee shop is not where I am going and Jordan does not need to see my face today.
The hotel lobby is cooler than the street. The air conditioning finds the sweat on my neck and turns it cold. The doorman holds the glass door and looks at me and his face does a thing.
“Wait! You’re the hockey guy. From the Beltline. My daughter follows your account.”
“That is very kind. Tell her I said hello.”
“She’s going to lose her mind. Can I get a photo later? Before you leave?”
“Yes, before I leave.”
He nods. I walk past the front desk and press the elevator button. Tomáš opens the door to his room in a t-shirt and shorts. His hair is pushed back. His eyes are tired the way they get whenhe hasn’t slept about a specific thing, and I have known his face for twenty-two years, so I know the difference between regular tired and this.
“Come in,” he says. There is no warmth. Just the door opening because his brother is at it.
The room is small. The curtains are half-open and the Atlanta light comes through at an angle that catches the water bottle on the nightstand. Tomáš sits on his bed. I take the desk chair.
“You said call when I’m ready. I’m here instead.”
He crosses his arms. The bracing he’s been doing since I was twelve. He nods once.
“I know you know about me and Damián.”
