Chapter 15
“Oz’s ball!” he shouted as the free kick arced into the line of players protecting Skyline’s goal. Laurent obediently ducked in front of him as Oz jumped, stopping the shot with his chest and controlling it down to his feet.
His lungs burned and his breath faltered from the impact, and he sucked in air as he passed to Nico. They were up one-nil in their home fixture, but Miami’s manager must have given a rousing half-time talk because the opposition had come back from the break in full-on attack mode. Skyline’s defense had held up thus far, but the pressure increased every minute as Miami took chance after chance.
Kojo missed a pass from Laurent and one of Miami’s forwards snapped up the loose ball, then pivoted to drive hard into Skyline’s half. Oz raced to track back.
Instinct took over as he focused on catching his opponent. He chased the forward with ruthless precision, swiveling, confounding the Miami player’s attempts to shake him off. The forward veered toward the sideline, trying to force Oz to kick out any interception he managed, but Oz saw through him. He made his tackle carefully but forcefully, neatly stealing the ball from the forward’s feet and booting it to Guedes. Guedes passed to Nico, who passed to Laurent, who sailed it in a beautiful arc to Rio.
Oz was level with Rio when he crossed the ball to Deon. It had the shape of a perfect assist, and Oz held his breath as he looked to see whether Deon was about to raise the score to two-nil.
Except Deon frowned in the direction of the crowd, then turned wide eyes on Oz. The ball curved unheeded behind Deon’s back.
“Fuck’s sake, what are you doing?” Oz shouted, slapping his palm against his forehead. Deon’s response was to run straight toward him.
Bewilderment rooted Oz to the spot as he watched his teammate hurtling toward him, his brow furrowed in determination. Had he missed something?
He turned a questioning gaze to Roland only to find the manager sprinting onto the pitch. He frowned, trying to imagine what could possibly be going on, when Deon ran into him side-on, accidentally shoving him to the ground.
“Move,” the striker urged him, desperation in his voice as he yanked hard on Oz’s arm, the scents of soil and grass filling his senses as he struggled up from the earth. “There’s a bomb, we have to run.”
Oz’s heartbeat stalled, then resumed in triple time. “What?”
Roland reached them before Deon could answer, frantically pulling Oz the rest of the way up. “Hurry, we have to evacuate the pitch, go for the tunnel and—”
“It’s okay,” Miami’s goalkeeper called as he ran up to them. Oz swayed on his feet. One minute he was on the ground, now he stood, he hadn’t even seen anything happen. What the hell was going on?
“Road flares,” the goalkeeper told them breathlessly. “Fucking road flares taped to look like dynamite.”
Still getting his bearings, Oz followed the sound of a commotion to the stands behind Miami’s goal. Rio and Guedes were scaling the rows of seats—with several security guards on their heels—apparently in pursuit of a man wearing a camo hat and a fishing vest over his Miami T-shirt. Then he followed the line of fans’ pointing fingers to find what looked very much like a bundle of dynamite with a lit fuse on the bright green grass of the pitch, barely three feet from where he stood.
The afternoon was sunny and hot, but he shivered.
The referee joined their group and put his hand on Oz’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“Fine,” he answered automatically. In fact he was numb, confused, and totally unsure what else to say.
“Are you okay to continue?” the referee asked.
Oz nodded, then looked around at the four sets of eyes keenly trained on him as realization dawned. “Do you all think this was about me? He’s probably just some lunatic who wanted to disrupt the game for attention, like a streaker.”
“He threw it right at you, Oz,” Deon told him gently.
“I was so focused on the game, I didn’t even…” He trailed off, lost in astonishment.
Deon winced. “He called you a—”
“I’ll get my other players out of the stands so we can carry on,” Roland interrupted, but Oz held up his hand.
“He called me what?”
Deon’s expression darkened. “Haji bastard.”
Oz could’ve sworn he felt the ground shift beneath his feet. His heart seemed to drop into his stomach and then spring back into place, leaving him dizzy and nauseous.
“Let’s bring you off,” Roland said quietly. “No one will think less of you.”
Oz’s thoughts lurched and swam as he struggled to process what had happened—what was still happening. Through the haze, he found himself shaking his head, and his voice sounded thick and far away. “No. I want to finish.”
“Good man,” the referee decreed with a firm slap on his back. “Mr. Carlsson, round up your players and we’ll resume.”
Roland’s expression was uncertain, but he said nothing as he moved back to the sideline. A security guard scooped the fake bomb into a plastic bag and carried it away. Deon remained at his side while Guedes, Rio, and a Miami defender who’d evidently decided to join their vigilante cause climbed back over the siding. Oz stood limply while the referee gave them each a verbal caution but no yellow cards and the crowd applauded his decision.
“I respect you wanting to see out this half,” Deon said quietly. “Show these racist fuckers they can’t touch you. You’re strong, Wizard. Stronger than any of them.”
Oz nodded, but as the referee blew his whistle and the game resumed he didn’t feel strong. On the contrary, with every minute that passed the incident sank in a little more and awareness cut more sharply through the receding numbness.
It wasn’t bad enough these people attacked his home—now they had to interfere in his career, too? And in front of his teammates, his competitors—in front of all the viewers of that match in person and on TV.
He didn’t like to use the word hate. It was a concept he associated with wasted energy and small-mindedness. But as he jogged listlessly behind the action on the pitch he decided he hated the people who were targeting him. Unfamiliar heat seared through his chest. He hated them.
But that made him no better, he reminded himself, trying to calm his breathing and regain some semblance of cool, detached logic. He couldn’t let them get to him. That was what they wanted. He had to stay aloof. Rise above. Get on with his life and wait for all this bullshit to die down.
Unless it didn’t. Unless it got worse. Unless it escalated to something none of them could predict or prevent.
He thought about the pig head in his kitchen, the utter violation of knowing a stranger had been inside his home. He thought about the massive levels of organization that must’ve gone into coordinating the protest at his house. Imagined the mindset of a man who’d spent the time and money to attend today’s match solely for the purpose of tossing a fake bomb onto the pitch. The Ausonius messages that still hit his social-media accounts multiple times per day.
He shuddered. He wished for Kate. He should’ve offered her tickets in his box. Then he could stagger off the pitch and find strength in her calm voice, her levelheaded response, her practical, pragmatic suggestions for tightening his security.
He wanted to see her so much he ached.
He drifted through the last half hour of the game, his performance embarrassingly bad, but all of the players gave him such a wide berth it hardly mattered. At times the way they played around him, almost apologetically, was more humiliating than his own terrible quality. Their forwards didn’t press him, their midfielders loosely marked him, and every Miami player shot him a sympathetic, encouraging smile at least once.
He appreciated their support—he did. He just wished to hell they had no reason to offer it.
Late in the match Pavel Kovar was taken off with a suspected head injury, and Oz’s sense of defeat was so heavy he nearly sank to the ground as the final whistle blew. He wanted nothing more than to duck into the tunnel and escape the TV cameras, but as the two teams shook hands on the result, their striker—a high-profile star of the American national squad—insisted on swapping jerseys, then turned his back to the nearest camera so Oz’s number was clearly visible, and then he led the stadium in thunderous applause with his arms raised.
Shirtless and wanting to be anywhere else, Oz hoped his smile didn’t look as tight and unnatural as it felt. He waved to thank the fans until the cheering finally died down.
Once inside the tunnel, his name echoed off the concrete walls as everyone tried to talk to him at once. He pushed through the cacophony, pausing at the spot where the tunnel split into several corridors. He should turn right toward the locker room, but he also wanted to go straight out to the parking lot, get in his car and drive straight home.
The second option was impossible—he needed to shower, hand in his kit to be washed and pick up his stuff from his locker, including his car keys. But it was so tempting that it swelled hugely in his thoughts, crowding out everything else until he found himself wondering whether he could hotwire his car to avoid getting his keys.
He blinked and the world came back into some semblance of coherent focus, and with a couple of deep breaths he gathered the wherewithal to proceed to the locker room.
Except most of the full Skyline squad, coaching and security staff, and seemingly all of the press office were in his way. Too many questions, too many intense stares, too many concerned expressions. He saw two uniformed police officers approaching from his left and that was it. He was done.
His knees buckled, a fact he realized just in time to brace his back against the wall before he thudded onto the floor. He propped his elbows on his thighs and covered his face with his hands.
Voices grew louder, his name resounded more frequently and he was dimly aware of a rush of movement as people moved closer and crouched down beside him. Hands were on his shoulders but his brain seemed to be shutting down section by section. Within seconds he couldn’t remember how to speak English, wasn’t sure what day it was, couldn’t have found his way home even if he’d managed to stumble to his car.
He balled his hands into fists and pressed them into his forehead as his whole body began to shake, his cleats clicking against the concrete floor with the force of his trembling.
“Oz, you’re okay. Look at me. You’re fine.”
Kate’s voice was a hook that snagged in his mind and yanked him up and out of the pitch-black whirlpool he was drowning in.
He moved his hands and opened his eyes, and his slow-moving thoughts caught up with the present in a dizzying fast-forward rush. He registered Kate kneeling in front of him, her expression calm and unfazed. His awareness widened until he found Roland, pale behind his glasses, and Skyline’s medic, Tony, watching him keenly.
He exhaled, gratefully comprehending that what had felt like fifteen minutes of bizarre, frightening displacement could’ve been only a few seconds. He could pull this back. He’d say his legs gave out from muscle fatigue. No one had to know what really happened.
“Sorry everyone, that match really took it out of me.” He forced a weak smile. Kate rose and backed up, and he took Tony’s hands and let the medic pull him to his feet.
“Let’s get you checked out,” Tony told him quietly. Oz opened his mouth to argue but Roland shook his head curtly, ending the argument before he could start it.
He caught Kate’s gaze and rolled his eyes, shrugging as if to say they were worrying over nothing. She regarded him steadily, blatantly unconvinced.
He set his shoulders as he followed Roland and Tony into one of the medical treatment rooms, leaving Kate and the rest of the crowd behind. His gratitude at her unexpected appearance gave way to concern and regret. Someone must have called her here in a professional capacity when the guy threw the road flares. He was her helpless client again, and worse, she’d seen him at his weakest and most overwhelmed.
He tightened his jaw. He was strong, impenetrable, in control. That’s how he wanted her to know him.
Tony nodded to the exam table. “Sit.”
“I’m fine, just exhausted,” he insisted as Roland shut the door.
“Sit,” the medic commanded, and this time Oz obeyed.
Roland studied him with narrowed eyes as Tony checked his blood pressure, listened to his heart and shined a pen light into his pupils.
“All clear,” the medic pronounced. “No signs of shock.”
Oz turned to his manager. “You heard him, I’m fine.”
Roland tilted his head from one side to the other and crossed his arms. “Do you want to talk about what happened? During the match or after it?”
“I want to take a shower and go home,” he replied honestly.
Roland looked at Tony, who shrugged.
“Okay,” the manager acceded reluctantly. “I’ll call you later.”
“I know you will.” Oz attempted a teasing smile, but he could tell from their unmoved expressions that he’d failed pretty miserably. Growing more tired by the minute, he slid from the table and let himself out of the exam room. Then he walked down the hall, hoping they hadn’t seen his hand shaking as he reached for the doorknob.