Chapter 11
“Number twenty-four, Kojo Agassa. Number eighteen, Özkan Terim.”
Oz barely registered the applause of the away fans. He swept his hands down his face to complete his prayer, then studied the team lined up on the other side of the pitch.
Charlotte was one of Skyline’s fiercest competitors this season. Their striker was big and powerful, but he was getting older and slowing down. The midfielders were clever, creative and agile but struggled with finishing, and relied on the striker to convert their elegant assists. Skyline’s job would be to intercept those long passes, or even better, to beat the midfielders off the ball.
The whistle blew and the match started tentatively. Laurent made the first move for Skyline, darting forward to win the ball. Charlotte’s right-back chased him to the sideline, then kicked the ball out of play, giving Skyline a throw-in.
Oz exhaled. Tried to get his head in the game. Tried to remember that fans had traveled and spent money and waited to see this match, and that he was paid a princely sum to perform to their expectations.
He couldn’t think about the unspoken, unresolved sexual tension that settled heavily on his shoulders whenever Kate entered a room.
He couldn’t think about the way her eyes widened in disbelief when he’d told her he was a virgin, or about her decisive, sudden departure, or about his sulky disappointment.
He definitely couldn’t think about her total silence from the moment she left his house until they met again at the stadium before the team’s departure for Charlotte, or her detached, professional manner when she did speak to him.
And, on that note he most certainly couldn’t think about the embarrassing level of personal security he’d endured on this trip, from having to wait alone in the lobby so his room could be inspected to the bouncer-looking guy who’d preceded him on and off the team bus. Although his teammates knew he wasn’t the prima donna his security presence suggested, he hated the thought of a fan or an opposing player coming to a different conclusion.
He shook his head as he jogged to mark a midfielder, imagining he was shaking out thoughts about anything except this match.
Soccer. Listen, react, run. Nothing else.
He spent the next ninety minutes in constant motion. Precise, controlled, relentless. He executed tackle after perfect tackle, neatly winning possession and sailing the ball up the midfield. He chased Charlotte’s forwards, leapt to defeat their stylish passes and cleared the striker’s best, squarest shot of the match, a breath away from the goal line.
He was at his best, playing with exactly the combination of ruthless aggression and clinical self-control that made him stand out in his youth-league team when he was ten years old. He was faster now, sharper, better trained, but at times he still found himself reaching back to the raw instinct discovered in his childhood, the relentless determination and brutal efficiency he’d learned from watching his uncle.
The scoreboard read nil-nil when the final whistle blew. Skyline’s forwards’ shoulders slumped in disappointment, but Oz smiled. That zero was hard earned and he was proud of it.
He slapped backs to celebrate with his fellow defenders and shook the hands of the opposing players. He bantered with one of the Charlotte midfielders, traded a joke with their goalkeeper and accepted wry praise from their famed striker.
He grinned as he left the pitch, exhausted, relaxed, pleased.
“Very nice.” Roland nodded his approval and spoke in Swedish as Oz walked past. “Stunning work today.”
Oz stuck up his thumb to show he’d heard, following his teammates toward the dressing room. One of Charlotte’s media coordinators waved at him from a bend in the hallway, beckoning him over.
“Number eighteen, you’ve been named Skyline’s man of the match,” she announced brightly. “Can we grab you for a five-minute interview?”
“Of course,” he replied, delighted. Man of the match was rarely awarded to defenders, and he hadn’t been given the honor since he unexpectedly scored a winner at the beginning of the season. He followed her to the pressroom, where tall boards showing the sponsors’ logos were set up to form a corner.
Pavel Kovar, Skyline’s goalkeeper, was already in place. As the team’s captain he gave a short interview after most of the matches, and his comfort in front of the cameras was evident in his easy posture.
“Good work today.” The Czech slapped Oz on the back as he took his position in front of the boards. “Especially that last clearance.”
“I’m sure you would’ve saved it if I hadn’t.”
The older man smiled. “I wasn’t going to say it, but since you did…”
The correspondent from the major sports channel which aired CSL matches hurried in, microphone and cameraman at the ready.
“Good to go?” he asked without preamble, and the two players nodded.
He motioned for the cameraman to start rolling. “Pavel, Oz, thanks so much for joining us after what appeared to be a punishing draw against Charlotte. The match was truly box-to-box and a real credit to both defensive sides that neither team was able to create an opportunity to score. Pavel, how important is communication for you with pacesetters like Oz and Kojo Agassa on your end?”
“Communication is absolutely fundamental to keeping a clean sheet,” Pavel explained. “We know where we all are at all times, to avoid mistakes and maximize our strengths.”
The reporter pivoted. “Oz, stats show us that you run more than the average left-back, but in this match you clocked a whopping eight miles of distance covered, more than anyone else on the pitch. Do you see your position as being more than a defender?”
“Much more,” Oz replied. “I have my defensive duties, of course, and I can’t neglect them, but where possible I love to chase up the pitch and get involved. My aim is always to assist the team from wherever, whenever.”
“And I know you must be tired, but tell us, Oz, you consistently hit top marks in speed and distance. Would you say you’re in the shape of your life?”
Oz smiled, envisioning the headline the reporter clearly wanted. I’m in the shape of my life, reports Skyline’s man of the match Oz Terim. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt to do the guy a favor.
“Yes, absolutely,” Oz affirmed. “I’m twenty-seven and at a physical peak, but I’m also settled at Skyline, settled in Atlanta, and surrounded by some of the best players in the CSL.”
The reporter signaled for the cameraman to cut, then nodded to the media assistant. She produced a soccer ball-shaped statuette and handed it to Pavel.
“We’ll just get a shot of you receiving your award, Oz, and then we’re done.”
A few minutes later Oz entered the dressing room with his statuette in hand, to the warm applause of his teammates. He accepted high fives and fist bumps and although everyone was clearly tired, their smiles and well wishes were genuine. Oz undressed and showered with a sense of relief, glad to have proof that no one judged him for his new bodyguard.
He dressed in his Skyline tracksuit and joined the rest of his team in the lobby to board the bus back to the hotel. When Kate appeared from around a corner he forgot the awkwardness between them, pushed aside her rejection and launched into unapologetic flirt mode.
“Hey, do you think we’ll need a bigger bus so I can get this back to the hotel?” he joked, holding up the statuette and beaming at her as she approached. “I don’t know what the load limit on these things is, and I’m pretty sure this is one hundred percent solid plastic, so—”
His words died at her grim expression.
“We have a problem,” she told him soberly. “A self-proclaimed jihadi opened fire on a shopping center in Decatur. He wounded three people and killed a mall security officer before turning the gun on himself.”
It took him a few moments to process her statement and form his response. “That’s terrible, but I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”
“Citizens First called for its Atlanta supporters to speak out against people they consider to be jihadi sympathizers.” Her lips thinned into a line. “Fifty people are picketing outside your house.”