Page 10 of Offside

“You noticed,” he says, at the door.

“I notice everything. It’s a condition.”

“I know,” he says. “I’m counting on it.”

And he goes, and I stand at the rail with that sentence, and I file it in his folder.

Media at twelve is a room with a red backdrop and thirty phones. I do it the way I always do it, which is why they keep sending me.

A journalist asks about the mood in camp. I tell him the mood is that Novotný has annexed the omelet station and we are seeking a diplomatic solution. A journalist asks about the semifinal. I tell her we are aware of it. Laughter, clips, everyone eats.

Then a man in the third row.

“You’ve been playing on the Czechia National Team with Damián Mareš for a long time, and now he stays in Atlanta when this ends. What changes for you?”

“Nothing,” I say. “He’s keeping the humidity and I get to go home to my own bed.”

More laughter. Next question. The broadcast doesn’t miss. That’s the whole point of the broadcast. But the question followsme out of the room anyway, and somewhere between the backdrop and the lift it rewrites itself.What changes for you?

Nothing.

The film room at four is full, which on a rest day is either professionalism or fear. Kovár is there, third row. Tomáš runs the remote like air traffic. Coach says four words total and leaves after the final match highlights reel. I say my one thing per half, the room laughs on schedule, and five rows of the national team watch other countries fight over the win we want.

Dinner is quiet, and I do the rounds anyway. A table needs maintenance even on rest days, especially Horak, who has learned he can be seen crying after the quarterfinal in seven time zones and is taking it hard.

“Seven,” I tell him. “The record. Nobody’s ever cried in more than six. You’re a pioneer.”

“Where was it seven?”

“Doesn’t matter. You made strangers feel things. That’s your job, done properly.”

He laughs, which was my job.

Damián sits down next to me with his tray. Chicken, rice, the face of a man about to be casual on purpose.

“Tobík’s coming to training tomorrow. Guest of the federation, very official, there’s a lanyard.” He says the word lanyard like it’s a small country he’s been given. “Dinner after at his place. Family thing. You’re invited. You’re always invited, I’m just making sure you are aware.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“You won’t.”

“I won’t. But I’ll do it warmly.”

He grins and eats. The man made one announcement and has a whole life now. Some mornings I can feel how empty his side of the room is. I mean that as praise. I’m not looking into why it doesn’t sound like praise.

Inadmissible. Struck. Moving on.

Later, I do my stretches in a room that smells like Damián’s cologne and laundry bags. Damián comes in from the bathroom, flips his pillow twice, and lies down like scaffolding coming down.

“If you’re staying up to write the tournament memoirs,” he says, “use the small lamp.”

“The memoirs are embargoed until after the final.”

“Night, Šíma.”

“Night.”

He’s asleep in four minutes. I clock it without meaning to.