Page 15 of Offside

The ice baths after are democracy. Everyone hates them equally.

“How long?” Horak says, into his ribs, breathing like a kettle.

“Three minutes.”

“It’s been three minutes.”

“It’s been forty seconds. Think about the seven time zones. They believe in you.”

“Seven,” Horak says, and goes back under.

Coach walks the room once, says, “Good. Now rest,” to the room in general, and leaves. Three words for twenty men. He’s saving the rest for the match.

Dinner at the hotel is half a squad, the other half scattered to families and video calls and hotel rooms. Damian and Tomas having dinner at Tobik’s place, their mother cooking. The place I chose not to go.

Novotný demands programming before his tray is even down.

“Rank the celebrations. All time. This squad.”

“Number one. Horak, hypothetically, in the semifinal, because he has planned nothing and panic is honest.” Horak salutes me with a fork.

“I have planned something,” he says.

“Don’t tell me. If I know, it’s a performance. Number two. Polášek, Ostrava, the handshake.”

“It was a good handshake,” Polášek says. “It said what it needed to say.”

“It said nothing. That was the beauty. A man scores in the ninetieth minute and shakes hands like a notary. Number three, and the committee is unanimous, Kovár against Portugal, pointing at the man who gave the assist for eleven straight seconds. Longest point in federation history. The assist man got engaged that same week. Correlation.”

“And mine?” Novotný says.

“Yours are performances. These were celebrations. Different category. The committee honors your commitment to the arts.”

At half past nine, the lobby doors open and produces the captain, back from a family dinner, carrying a stacked tower of food containers like a man who lost an argument with his mother, which is exactly what happened, because that argument has never once been won.

He sees me at the far end, conducting my nightly review of the hotel’s foot traffic. He comes over and sets the tower on the table between us. Squad-visible, all of it, bright lobby, staff at the desk. Daylight, as the rules count daylight.

“How was the kitchen?” I say.

“She cooked for eleven people with two pots. She thinks it’s camping. Took forty minutes, and nothing was cold.”

“The woman should be given a trophy.”

“In the fridge, there’s a container with your name on it. She wrote it in marker.”

“What is it?”

“Svícková. In Atlanta. It shouldn’t be possible. It’s better than home.”

“Tell her I am grateful.”

“Tell her yourself, she reads any messages you send her.” He straightens the tower. Squares it to the table edge. His hands do logistics when the rest of him is busy. “You should have...”

The sentence stops. Three words in, brakes, full stop, a sentence pulled off the road with no skid marks, and he has already turned it into, “You should have the dumplings tonight. They don’t keep. The beef keeps.”

“Noted. Dumplings urgent, beef stable.”

“That’s the note. She sent enough for the floor,” he says. “She thinks the federation doesn’t feed us.”