Page 73 of Playing By Ear

Perry’s journalist radar switched on. “You’re a detective?”

“I work for a private investigation firm. As does my boyfriend, Evan, the Warriors midfielder whom John conveniently leaves out of his play-by-play.”

Ben’s last remark held a note of cattiness Perry would ask Jamie about later. “I’m a freelance journalist, always on the lookout for new story ideas. If there’s ever anything you can share, let me know.” He dug a business card out of his jacket pocket.

Ben took the card. “This says you’re a sportswriter.” His breath hitched. “Do you cover curling?”

“I have done in the past. Why, have you got a good curling story for me?”

“You should talk to Heather, the Warriors goalkeeper. Her videography firm did a documentary on an upstart curling team’s journey to the national championship. Ooh, maybe she could use a writer for some of her work. You could meet her at Fergus and John’s party later.”

“Ah.” Perry hadn’t yet committed to the party. Such gatherings were awkward and disorientating, and he could already feel a headache coming on. But the freelance life was all about the hustle, and he couldn’t afford to miss a networking opportunity.

“You can talk to all the players then,” Ben said. “The history of the Warriors is fascinating.”

That new-idea tingle sparked in Perry’s mind. “Has anyone ever written about them? Like, a long, in-depth piece, with interviews of the players, fans, members of the community?”

“I don’t think so.” He poked Perry’s wrist. “You should do that!”

A splendid idea. “Let me jot a note before I forget.” Perry pulled out his phone and typed a few words by feel in his notes app. Even zooming in and viewing through his sunglasses, not a single letter was legible under the glare of daylight, so he dictated a brief outline of the idea, then closed the app.

John and Andrew returned as the players took to the pitch again, appearing to Perry as a mass of pale shapes upon a greenish background.

“Ali’s out with a lost contact lens,” John said. “Terrible luck, that.”

“So Jamie’s moved up to midfield to take Ali’s place,” Andrew said. “Fergus is in Jamie’s spot at right fullback, and Craig’s come in to take over deep midfield from Fergus. Charlotte’s also reserving the option to play three at the back if they need extra offensive ammunition near the end. Which is exactly what I was telepathically recommending to her.”

“I tried wearing contacts once, and it was a nightmare,” Ben said. “Apparently I’ve got an overactive blink reflex.”

“Better than an overactive gag reflex,” John quipped.

The banter continued as second half began. Perry’s mind spun with possibilities for the Warriors piece, and any regret he’d had in attending the match blew away on the relentless westerly wind. A new story was worth any headache.

Especially if the team could snatch a victory today.

It was just a matter of time before the Warriors equalized. Jamie had to believe that. He couldn’t bear losing a third quarterfinal in a row—because of his foul, no less. If such a future had appeared to him in a crystal ball, he’d have smashed that glass bastard into a million treacherous shards.

As the second half progressed, Balornock began to buckle under the pressure of defending a wafer-thin lead. The Warriors slowly pressed higher up the pitch like an advancing tank brigade. Balornock’s passes grew hastier and sloppier.

With fifteen minutes remaining, a Balornock center-back suddenly pulled up, clutching the back of his thigh. A teammate kicked the ball out of play to let the physios attend to the likely hamstring injury.

At the brief stoppage, Charlotte waved Jamie and Fergus over. “We’re switching to three defenders at the back,” she told Fergus. “Make sure everyone knows what to do.”

“This is what we’ve trained for.” Fergus hurried off to alert the others.

Charlotte handed Jamie a squeeze bottle. “You’re still thinking like a defender.”

“How?”

“A defender above all wants not to screw things up. An attacker wants to go and win the fucking thing.”

“Right.” Jamie took a gulp of Lucozade. “Win the fucking thing.”

“Fergus and Craig have got your back. Let them be the fortress.” She poked him in the chest. “You be the arrow.”

The teams got back into place as the Balornock substitute sprinted onto the pitch, his friskiness a mockery of the other players’ fatigue.

Play restarted. Time to fly.