Defending Hearts. Rebecca Crowley

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СКАЧАТЬ “I’ll prepare the invoice.”

      Chapter 6

      “Paulo’s ball!”

      Oz ducked at the center back’s instruction, avoiding an accidental deflection into their own net if they both tried to go for the ball at the same time. Instead Paulo comfortably cleared it with a header, one of their midfielders took possession and within seconds they were all running back toward Amity’s goal.

      Midfielder Nico Silva made a nicely weighted pass to Rio, who took an audacious shot on goal that went wide. The clock ran down and Oz glanced at the fourth official, who raised a digital board showing the minutes added on for injury time.

      Only two, thank God. He was tired, and Skyline’s two-nil lead was unlikely to be challenged in only a hundred and twenty seconds.

      Skyline’s forward players passed the ball between them with deliberate sluggishness, and he vaguely marked an even more exhausted-looking Amity midfielder. Finally the whistle blew full time, ending the match and sealing Skyline’s victory.

      “Nice one, good match,” he told the Amity player as they shook hands. He repeated a similar pleasantry to each player he encountered as he moved toward the away stand, and all of his opponents had similarly sportsmanlike—if slightly breathless—replies.

      “Oz, pleasure to play with you today.” Boise’s captain—an American in his late thirties who’d had a successful career in Europe—spoke enthusiastically as they shook hands. “I know there was some noise around you coming to Boise and I really appreciate that you gave us a chance. We’re trying to build a strong franchise out here and the last thing we want is for top-flight players to be put off by the hostility of a couple local idiots.”

      “It’s cool,” Oz assured him. “I wish you the best. The more clubs thrive, the better the competition across the league.”

      They parted and Oz joined his teammates in applauding the away fans, who leapt and screamed and waved red-and-navy scarves to celebrate the decisive victory.

      Oz forced a smile as he clapped, his shoulder blades drawing together inadvertently, the space between his eyes tightening. Something was bothering him, something heavy and ominous, compressing his lungs and balling his hands, but he couldn’t trace its source. He couldn’t shake it, either.

      Maybe it was the half-full stadium. The rows and rows of empty seats loomed over the pitch like thousands of hollow eye sockets, and the erratic concentration of spectators made the sound of the crowd echo and fade and swell in strange ways as he moved from one end to the other. He didn’t think he’d ever played for the viewing benefit of so few people in such a big space, even as a youth player for the Swedish national team.

      Or maybe it was the paranoia pervading so many elements of this trip. Kate’s presence at the airport, on the plane, in the hotel, and now in the tunnel was a constant, if not totally unpleasant, reminder that certain people didn’t want him in Boise. And although the welcoming hospitality from Amity’s staff and players was second to none, it was hard to ignore the black-suited security contractors always on the periphery.

      “If the people of Boise didn’t hate you before, they certainly do now.” Laurent Perrin, Skyline’s French central midfielder, slapped him on the back as they started toward the tunnel. “Your goal-line clearance cost them the one chance they had to get on the scoreboard. And it was epic, by the way.”

      “Thanks.” Oz cheered up as he recalled his flat-out sprint to catch the Amity striker who’d burst past Guedes and made a run for goal. Oz caught him on the goal-line and flicked the ball up and over the net. “That was pretty cool, huh?”

      “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.

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