“Your last match was on in the hotel. The cross for the second goal.” A small, precise nod, placed exactly where a professional puts these things. “That was a real ball.”
I used to collect those like coins. Flat little compliments with the current running under them. Precise, portable, and worth nothing. I have a mental drawer overflowing. Two years’ worth.
“If R16 goes how the table thinks,” he says, “Then it’s us.”
“Then it’s us.”
“Ninety minutes.” He looks at the tomatoes instead of me. “Long time.”
“Depends who’s chasing.”
His mouth does something quick at the corner and is gone. A year ago, I’d have gotten the whole smile. I priced that smile once, and I’m not paying it again.
“You’ve gotten faster, then,” he says.
“I suppose you’ll find out.”
Davide arrives with the focaccia he wasn’t going to buy.
“Who’s the focaccia for?” I ask.
“It’s for the team.”
“Which team?”
“There are eleven of me that need feeding.” He eats a corner of it, then spots my company and a grin breaks out on his face. “Kovár. Two tables away last night and no hello?”
“You were busy with the brisket. It deserved your full attention.”
“You know each other from the league.” Davide, happy, a man introducing people who need no introduction, because that’s the kind of morning it is. “Enzo’s staying with me and rearranging my kitchen.”
Marek looks at me, his light grey eyes stuck on mine for a beat, then turns to Davide. “How much of it is still yours?”
Davide laughs. I don’t. The laugh sits in my chest with nowhere to go, because the line of that joke is like a hundred jokes across a table in my place in Naples that Davide has never seen and will never hear about. My face wants to do the old thing. I inform my face we’re not doing that anymore. We’ve moved on from that.
“How’s the hotel?” Davide asks. “Kitchen situation?”
“There’s a microwave I refuse to acknowledge. The breakfast eggs are hiding something.” Flat, like a lab report. “I’m eating around the problem.”
“Come by after the round, then. We’re four blocks up. Enzo cooks like a criminal.”
“No,” Marek says. His eyes come back to mine. “Criminals compromise.”
The morning goes very still. Somewhere behind me, the peach man is telling somebody new about his trees. There’s a questionin Marek’s eyes he would never say out loud in front of a teammate of mine, and I would have answered it before he finished asking.
“We have film at eleven,” I say. To Davide. “And you have a pool session.”
“It’s nine fifteen,” Davide says.
“The peaches need to get home.” I take the focaccia out of his hand and put it in my bag, because his hands are full and mine need the job. “Kovár. Good luck.”
“You too.” Marek’s gaze drops to the bag hanging from my hand. “Six peaches. I understand the urgency.”
I don’t laugh. I am a professional at not laughing. I could give clinics.
I turn away.
We’re half a block gone when Davide starts.
