“Vež.” Kovár bends over, hands on his knees. “Water. Or I collapse and you’re serving to yourself.”
“One more set.”
“One more set and I’m filing a grievance. With the union. There is a union for this.”
“There’s no union for extra sessions.”
“Then I’ll start one. Kovár‘s Union for Men Being Punished by Cent erBacks Who Won’t Go Inside.”
“I’ll be your first member.”
“You’re the problem, not the membership.”
He straightens. Wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. The grass at the edge of the pitch is brown and crisp from the heat.
“You know what this is,” he says.
“Training.”
“This is you being somewhere that isn’t your head. You’ve done this since the youth team. Something goes sideways and you book extra sessions and head every ball in the city until one of them apologizes.”
“That’s not what’s happening.”
“How many headers was that?”
“I wasn’t counting.”
“Forty-seven. I was counting because I’m the one serving and my shoulder will be feeling this tomorrow.” He tips his chin at me. “Whatever it is, the balls don’t know.”
“Six more.”
“Four.”
“Five and you pick the restaurant.”
“Done.”
He sends five more and each one goes where I tell it to go. Clean. Directed. The body doing what it does best, which is read the delivery and adjust and connect, and the connecting is work that doesn’t require explaining to anyone. Four nights ago a different set of decisions were being made by a different part of the body, and those were also precise, and also not something I have successfully filed under any category that makes sense in the daytime.
Three times. Three separate occasions on which I have been naked with Tomáš‘s brother. The filing system I built for thealmost-kiss does not extend to this. “Weird night” covers one night. Three times is a pattern. A pattern being performed by a man who is absolutely about to call his agent and accept the captaincy of a Bundesliga football club. I should be studied. Scientists should be looking into this.
The locker room is empty, everyone else at recovery or lunch. The air conditioning pushes cold against my wet skin. I check the schedule on my phone. Recovery at two. Dinner at seven.
Peter’s name is in my missed calls.
I call because the shelf life on not calling expired three weeks ago.
“Damián.” The voice of a man whose patience has been professional-grade and is approaching its limit. “I have news.”
“Tell me.”
“The club moved it’s timeline. Kessler’s retirement announcement is Thursday. They want to announce the new captain at the same event.”
“Thursday. This Thursday.”
“As in three days. If you are signing, they need confirmation by tomorrow evening, European time. They have bent over backwards to give you the time you need. They have overlooked the deadlines you continue to ignore. If you are not signing, they are calling Weber. “
“Weber cannot captain that back line.”