“Super cool. But what else could we expect from the Wizard?”
“That goal of yours was helpful, too, Lolo. We already had two on the board, but that’s when the Frenchman really excels, producing goals that are late in the match, against a weakened side, and ultimately superfluous.”
Laurent rolled his eyes as Oz playfully mimicked comments made by a sports journalist earlier in the week. “A goal is a goal is a goal, non?”
“Oui, my friend.” Oz clapped Laurent on the shoulder as they followed the rest of the team through the tunnel into the changing room.
Oz dropped onto one of the wooden benches running along the walls. He began unlacing his boots as Roland arrived and took his place at one end of the room.
“Nice result today, gentlemen. I know it wasn’t our toughest game of the season, but it was good to see everyone playing as if it was and supporting the younger guys in their opportunities to hit the pitch.” The manager nodded to the three young substitutes who’d come on in the second half, one of whom had just made his debut.
“I know the bright lights of Boise are tempting,” he continued. “But we have an early flight home tomorrow and the bus will be leaving for the airport at nine o’clock sharp. Let’s think about sticking to the hotel for once, okay?”
Most of the players were too tired to grumble, and the changing room echoed with cleats clunking to the floor and hangers retrieved from hooks. Oz stared at the toes of his boots, turning over Roland’s words in his mind.
They’d had earlier flights out of wilder cities. Roland wasn’t worried about them partying and missing the bus. He wanted everyone to stay in the hotel where Peak Tactical’s contractors could keep an eye on them.
An eye on him.
A wave of weariness washed over him, dragging what was left of his energy with it as it receded. He didn’t have enough space in his brain to think about this now. He only cared about showering, changing, and getting back to the hotel.
Laurent’s comedy singing in the shower perked him up slightly, and after they boarded the bus Rio twisted around in the seat in front of him, wearing his trademark grin. Oz returned it. It was so infectious he’d have to be dead not to.
“Is nice, boys?” Rio asked.
Oz frowned, trying to decipher Rio’s Spanglish. “What boys?”
“Boys.” The Chilean tapped the window.
“Oh, Boise.”
“Boy-see,” the midfielder repeated. “Is good?”
Oz shrugged. “Small.”
“Is why the boss, he say, go in the hotel, no clubs?”
“Probably,” he lied.
“Is fine. All I will want is the big steak. You will come?”
“To the hotel restaurant?”
Rio nodded.
Oz mustered a smile, knowing full well he’d be ordering room service. “Maybe.”
* * * *
Kate pressed her ear against the door before she knocked, alert for any sound that might indicate Oz wasn’t alone, any cosmic hint that she should turn around and walk away.
Nothing.
She rapped sharply before she lost her nerve.
“Yeah?” His response was muffled, distracted.
“It’s Kate.”
“Hold on.”
He opened the door looking uncharacteristically scruffy in a loose T-shirt and athletic shorts.
“What?” he asked without preamble.
She held up her palms. “I come in peace. I saw the rest of the team in the restaurant, and someone mentioned you decided to stay up here and eat by yourself. I wanted to make sure everything was all right.”
“Everything’s fine.”
“Great. I’ll leave you to it.”
She turned to go back to her own room, genuinely pleased with the relatively low level of hostility in that exchange compared to every other time she’d spoken to Oz on this trip. Given their accord at her office she initially wondered if he was putting on a disgruntled spectacle for his manager’s benefit, but after his third tirade against bodyguards riding on the team bus she stopped caring. Her job was to keep him safe, not happy.
“Where are you going?”
She glanced over her shoulder at his question. Oz stood in the still-open doorway.
“To my room, for an exciting evening of pizza and HBO. Why?”
His mouth curved in a half-smile. “There’s no pizza on the menu. I checked.”
“You’re kidding.” She had her heart set on pepperoni and mushrooms.
“Five-star hotel, five-star menu.” He nodded into the room behind him. “We’ll order one pan-seared salmon and one chicken and waffles, and the squad nutritionist won’t know who ate what.”
“She checks your room-service receipts?”
“She’s tough. Is it a deal?”
Kate exhaled. Even without pizza, the thought of a long, hot bath, an hour of television and an early bedtime was tempting.
And lonely.
“Sure.” She let him hold the door as she crossed into his room.
His room was only slightly larger than hers and equally unmarred by personal items, except his Skyline-branded suit hanging in the open wardrobe and an unzipped sports bag on a chair. The TV was frozen on what she guessed was a video game, with the muzzle of a rifle aimed into a wintry landscape, shown from the shooter’s perspective.
Oz gestured toward the screen. “An old version of Outlaw Brigade, set in the Eastern Front during World War II.”
“This is your system?” She indicated the tangle of wires and controllers on the floor.
“I bring it with me when we travel. Sometimes I get post-match anxiety and insomnia. It helps me calm down.”
She picked up the box for the game and scanned the bloody, violent images on the back. “You find this calming?”
“It’s mindless. Distracting. Stupid, over-the-top death and destruction. Like a horror movie.”
“I don’t like horror movies.” She put down the box and picked up the in-room phone. “Pan-seared salmon, you said?”
He nodded, sat down on the floor with his back against the end of the bed and resumed playing. He muted the sound as he said over his shoulder, “Can you double-check there’s no pork in the chicken and waffles?”
Kate spoke to the room-service operator and placed their order.
“Twenty minutes,” she informed him, dropping onto the end of the bed. “Definitely no pork in the chicken.”
“Thanks. I know it sounds paranoid, but pork always seems to find its way into Southern recipes.”
“So tattoos and alcohol are fine, but pork is off-limits,” she mused aloud.
“If I adhere to two of the Five Pillars in a week I consider it a victory.”
“That certainly is a unique brand of Islam.”
“No one gives Jewish people a hard time if they aren’t Orthodox, and I’ve met plenty of self-proclaimed bad Catholics. I prefer to think of myself as an imperfect Muslim.” He lifted a shoulder.
“Don’t get me wrong, I met plenty of so-called Muslims