Page 70 of Full Contact

“Varga arrives when Varga arrives,” Kieran said. “You know that.”

Inside, I took the spot I always took, against the back wall beside the door, hands in my pockets. The first reporter did ask, and directed the question at Heath, friendly enough. Heath said he’d heard, everybody was glad for them, and he was more interested in talking about Minnesota’s forecheck, which he then discussed for two full minutes with visible enjoyment.

Somebody asked Kieran whether four-and-one made this team a contender. “It’s October,” Kieran said. “Ask me in March.”

“Rook’s last season, though. Does that change things?”

“It changes how many people ask me about it.” He considered. “We’d like to keep him busy into June.”

Everyone wrote that down. I made a note to send it to the website team.

Varga arrived five minutes into availability with a leaky travel mug, and set it on a napkin he’d brought for the purpose. Nobody had briefed him. Leah glanced at me along the wall, and I kept my hands in my pockets.

The reporter from the radio station leaned in. “Lucas, any reaction to the news about Trier and Mark Corley?”

“Reaction?” Varga sat forward. “I was at the wedding. I sat at the next table for twenty minutes. They didn’t notice me. Do you know how difficult that is? I’m very noticeable.”

Everyone laughed.

“And somebody on the internet today said this is a strategy.” He spread his hands. “A strategy? These are two men who sat in the shade at a wedding and talked about a cat until somebody had to come get Mark for the toasts. He missed the start of my speech. Mark doesn’t miss things. That’s not strategy. That’s the opposite of strategy.”

“So you approve,” the reporter said.

“I’ve approved since July. I told Rook in July. Rook told me to mind my business. I minded it for three months, which is a personal record, and you can print that.” He sat back. “Now ask me about the power play. I have opinions about it.”

They finished up by speaking with Varga about the power play.

Heath appeared again as I was coiling a cable. “Hey. When things calm down, dinner at ours. Kieran’s short ribs. Bring Trier and the cat if she’ll travel.”

“That’s a kind offer.”

“It’s a standing one.”

“I’ll check the schedule,” I said.

By six, Leah sent me tomorrow’s schedule. It was ordinary nearly all the way down: morning skate availability, a broadcast follow-up, two credential requests for the weekend. A syndicated piece had picked up Deckert’s story and reprinted the statement without adding anything.

The exception was Varga.

A radio station had posted his forty seconds on the web. By five it had passed two million views. By five thirty somebody had made a hashtag. It was #oppositeofstrategy, and it was beating #hotsuitweddingman.

Leah stuck her head in on her way out. “Fourteen requests for Varga,” she said. “I said no to all fourteen. He’s devastated.”

I went home. Trier called at eight. I was at the counter reheating the white-bean soup Felix had left in my fridge on Saturday after the knives.

“Give me the damage report,” he said.

“There isn’t one. Deckert’s piece is the record. The pickup added nothing. Follow-ups died by five. Tomorrow’s requests are about Minnesota. No change to filming, nothing new for you to approve, and nobody’s revisiting the statement. Varga answered one question at availability and outdrew the statement by roughly two million.”

“I saw. He’s sent it to me four times.”

“Leah turned down fourteen requests for him.”

“He told me,” Trier said. “He feels muzzled. He was right about the toasts, though. You did miss the start of his speech.”

“I was in the middle of something.”

“I remember. I was there.”