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Or change her call.
“The catch was successful; the Prague Lions have the ball.” She motioned the catch to the referee behind the quarterback, who blew the whistle for the play clock to start.
Overhead, the sky had turned bleak and gray, a hint of rain in the air and haunting the massive, now defunct, Great Strahov Stadium in the Strahov district of Prague. They used it mostly for training now, but it still held the greatness of the second-largest sports stadium ever built. It seated over fifty-thousand people, and she’d been here once when it hosted the Sparta Prague soccer team.
Or rather, futbol.
She glanced at the play clock. Three minutes left in the fourth quarter—she’d be out of here in an hour.
Plenty of time to meet her contact near Old Town, Prague.
Not that her mind was on that—she had a game to call. But she hated being late.
Especially for the CIA.
Bly threw her a word and sprinted off the field while his defensive line came on. She ignored him—okay, maybe she saw as he whipped off his helmet and grabbed water from some innocent and too helpful trainer and squirted the liquid over his short, dark hair. As he pointed to the field—ahem, her—and lit out a barrage of words to the coach that came over to calm him down.
Jerk. Just because he was an American didn’t mean he got special treatment here in Europe. And yes, he might be a bit of a superstar here, but back in the states, he’d had a dismal run. She’d even heard he’d been sidelined with a concussion injury back in college—just talk among her crew of officials.
She made it a point not to get personal with the players, not to be biased or even assign common penalties to them. Last thing she wanted was to see something that wasn’t there.
The Prague Lions’ coach requested a time-out, and crew chief, referee Yannick Mayer, granted it, then walked over.
“Don’t let him into your head.” The German was an impressive former wide receiver turned referee who stood easily six foot four. Probably, Hudson Bly wouldn’t yell athim.
“No worries.” Although yes, that was exactly what she was doing.
“It’s just a scrimmage.”
“I know, but a few of these guys are on the all-star team, and they’re playing some team from the US in a few weeks, so I need to pay attention. The US refs won’t miss anything.”
“You’re just hard on this team because they remind you of your Vikings back home.”
“No, they’re better than the Minnesota Vikings—they can hold onto a third-quarter lead.”
He laughed but shook his head. “Still, these guys don’t have a chance against even the third-string powerhouses of the Minnesota defensive line,” he said. “Even with the American recruits.”
“But they give it a good show, and the league is growing, and it gives a chance to players—and officials—to hone their skills while waiting for their open door to the show.”
“Is that where you’re headed?”
She lifted a shoulder. “I like my croissants and café au lait.”
He pointed to a player coming onto the field. “Keep your eye on the Lions’ new wideout. They’re going to be formidable this year, and that American receiver from the University of California is a key hope for landing in the top of their division.”
“They’re giving him a lot of time this game. He has more catches than Bly. Poor guy clearly tripped over his own feet.”
Yannick laughed, then blew the whistle and headed up to the line of scrimmage.
Iris hunkered down and focused on her job—settling in twenty yards into the backfield, on the wideout side. She counted eleven defenders—good—then counted the eligible receivers.
She kept an eye on their new wide receiver as the ball snapped, and she backed up, watching the play develop. An option, the quarterback for the Prague Lions faked, then tucked the ball and ran.
He was demolished at the line of scrimmage by the Vienna Vikings.
The Vikings shut down the Lions, three and out, and Bly came back in for the Vikings. He managed to pull in a couple of long lobs, and the Vikings finished the training game one touchdown up.
The sky started to drizzle as she packed up her gear and headed into the officials’ locker room.
