Page 12 of Guarding the Star

“So what do you do, Paula? You look like you're in some kind of professional sport.”

“Cybersecurity. Consulting,” I cut her off.

I must be convincing, because as I sit down, the rest of the players drift back to their own conversations.

“Iris can be pretty intense,” Zoe Méndez whispers once my so-called girlfriend gets up for more food.

“I've noticed in these three weeks.”

“She's hard to read. What you see is never quite what you get. If she goes quiet, don't freak out. That's actually a good sign. She's got a heart of gold, I promise.”

***

The daily report I write each night doesn't have many changes.

Compound perimeter: fence in good condition, main entrance with credential check, two secondary entrances without constant surveillance but fairly secure. Several cameras throughout the hotel.

Social media monitoring: @yoursecondskinseesyouforreal has posted three times in the last four days. Screenshots of the team's stories. Expanded photo collage. Threat level: no change.

Off the record, I jot down a few more personal observations in my notebook. Things that might help me understand her.

Iris's room doesn't have a single personal photo. Clothes everywhere, water bottles, tangled chargers, three pairs of headphones, a stuffed octopus that probably belongs to Wesley and that she hasn't given back. But not one photo.

When I walk past her door at three in the morning, the glow from the TV bleeds under the frame. Every night. No exception. Volume low. A steady hum that fills in for the silence.

Iris Vance sleeps with the television on.

***

Friday afternoon, I pretend to take a walk while checking the south perimeter when I hear a kid laughing. Full volume, no filter. A laugh that hasn't been smoothed down by the world yet.

Iris sits cross-legged on the grass. Wesley is on top of her in an oversized team jersey, barefoot. His light-up sneakers tossed about six feet away.

“And then the dragon,” Iris says, putting on a voice that's almost theatrical, “got to the soccer field. But there was a really big problem.”

“Wha?” Wesley asks, eyes wide.

“He didn't have cleats. Dragons have claws, and claws don't fit in cleats. Know what he did?”

“What?”

“Played barefoot. And scored a goal. With his claw. BOOM!”

She makes an explosion with her hands, and Wesley laughs so hard he rolls off her lap.

“Again?”

“Another goal? Yeah, then he scored another one, but that was a header. The dragon jumped so high he spit a little fire and almost burned the ball, but it went right in the upper corner.”

"Uppa corna?"

“The tippy-top corner of the goal. Where the pretty goals go.”

“Iwis scores pwetty goals.”

“Sometimes, boss. When I don't hit the damn post.”

“Damn?”