Page 19 of Guarding the Star

More laughs. The reporters love her. Iris knows it. She feeds them headlines nonstop. Quotes that get shared and drive traffic.

***

At midnight, in Iris's apartment, I go through the stadium's security camera footage. Section by section. Stand by stand.

Camera seven. North section. Row twelve, seat twenty-three.

There he is.

Young. Mid-twenties. Thin. Brown hair. Thick-framed glasses. A black T-shirt with @yoursecondskinseesyouforreal printed in white letters. Until now, he posted from behind anonymity. Now he wears the alias. That's a shift in behavior, and when that happens with a stalker, it never leads anywhere good.

I take a screenshot. Zoom in. The image is grainy, but enough. Narrow nose, small jaw. He doesn't watch the game. His eyes stay on Iris. When she moves, his head turns. When she celebrates the goal, he doesn't clap. He sits still. He watches. Just watches.

I write in my notebook: “Subject visually identified. Location: north section, row twelve, seat twenty-three. Close to the players' tunnel access. Next step: coordinate with police for formal identification.”

A screenshot and a T-shirt with an alias aren't enough for a restraining order. I know that. The subject bought his ticket, sat in his seat, made no attempt to contact Iris. Legally, he's a spectator. He has every right to be at the game.

I save the screenshot. Open another recording. Camera three. Tunnel area. End of game.

Iris walks off the field after the win. Club scarf around her neck, cleats in her hand. She walks among her teammates. The crowd screams. Flashes pop.

And at second fourteen of the video, she looks up at the stands.

Second fifteen. She finds me.

Second sixteen. She smiles.

Second seventeen. She keeps walking.

I rewind. Watch the sequence again.

Rewind again. Searches. Finds. Smiles.

The third time I watch it, I close the laptop.

Iris Vance walks off a field with twenty-five thousand people screaming her name, and the first person she looks for is me.

My heart is beating too fast.

My phone rings, and pulls me back.

“Have you eaten?”

“Abuela, it's midnight.”

“It's one here. I saw your player's goal.”

“You watch soccer?”

“Carmela sent it to me on WhatsApp. She says she's your girlfriend,” she answers, like it's nothing.

“Who's Carmela?”

“My neighbor. She likes soccer. I haven't told her anything about your job, don't worry,” she assures me.

“Abuela, nobody can find out about Iris. It's really important,” I remind her.

“Your voice changes when you say her name.”