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“I watched the highlights of the tournament and training. You looked strong.”
“Thank you.”
A pause. The pause she does when she’s about to switch registers, the one I’ve been hearing since I was a boy.
“How are you? Really?”
The question. She always asks the question. I always have the answer. The answer is tired, long tournament, heavy schedule. Today the answer is different.
“I don’t know, Mamka.”
The words come out before I can catch them.
She’s quiet. “Okay,” she says. Not a question. Not advice.
“I haven’t signed the contract.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“Your father mentioned that Peter mentioned that the club mentioned a delay. Information travels, Damián. I’m at the end of a long chain of men who think I don’t pay attention.”
“It’s been on my screen for five days. The signature line. I open the laptop, I look at it, I close the laptop. I’ve done this seven times. At some point repetition like that stops being hesitation and starts being an answer.” The words hit me before I can process what I’ve said.
“You sound like you’ve just heard yourself.”
“I think I have.” I shift on the bed. “Four years in Munich, Mamka. I know the route from my apartment to the training ground in my sleep. I know the physio schedule and the weights room rotation and the exact minute the light changes on the building across the street. That’s what Munich is. A system.”
“And there?”
“Here there’s a man who walks the same path every morning and half the city knows his name. Not because he’s famous. Because he talks to people. The woman at the flower stand. The owner of the dog who sits on his foot. The woman at the taco place who calls him Tuesday because she couldn’t pronounce his name and he let her rename him because Tuesday was easier and he found it funny. He’s been here nine months and people know what he looks like when he smiles.”
“Damián.”
“His name is Tobík.” Saying his name out loud sits in my chest. “Tomáš‘s brother.”
A breath on her end. Not surprise. The sound of something small arriving in a place she already cleared for it.
“I remember him. He was always reading. Tomáš used to complain you two ignored him for whole afternoons.”
“He still reads, Mamka. He carries a book in his bag like it’s load-bearing equipment. He reviews restaurants on Instagram.” I pause. “He plays hockey.”
“Hockey.” Her voice is amused in the way only mothers can be amused when they are also absorbing the largest piece of information their child has ever given them.
“For the Firebirds. Atlanta’s team.”
“And he is why you can’t sign?”
“He is part of it.”
“You don’t sound surprised at yourself.”
“I’ve been surprised at myself for three years. The surprise wore off. What’s left is just the fact.”
“Mm.”
“You sound very calm about this, Mamka. I was expecting you to be more surprised.”
