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“Camille.” Iris pulled her into a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
For her part, Camille looked wrung out, no makeup despite her attire, her eyes reddened. “Thank you for coming.”
Iris let her go, then Camille looked at Hudson. “Oh. You’re—”
“Hudson Bly, ma’am,” he said and reached out his hand.
She ignored it and pulled him into a hug. “Abe liked you. Said you had real talent.”
Huh. He hadn’t realized that Abe had even noticed him.
She led them inside the flat. Not impressive, it had parquet floors and scrolled crown molding, and giant floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked an inner courtyard. But the kitchen was tiny, jammed with women—most of them speaking English, maybe Abe’s family—and in the main room, a few familiar officials sat on the sofa. A couple coaches from rival teams ate brie and crackers from the spread on the table that had been shoved against the wall.
His gaze fell on Coach Max, his wide-receiver coach, and the sight of the big Austrian loosed a knot in Hud’s chest he hadn’t realized he’d been carrying. Coach nodded at him, smiled, then turned back to a man Hud recognized as coach of the Berlin Thunder.
“I’m going to check on Gennie,” said Iris. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Just don’t disappear out any windows or anything.”
“You’re not fun.” But she smiled at him, and that weird feeling simply wouldn’t go away.
He headed toward the table and recognized most of the food—cheeses and meats, but also baked macaroni and cheese, potato salad, and ham sandwiches.
“Feels like a church potluck,” Coach Max said as he came over.
“My family weren’t church people,” Hudson said. “But clearly that was a mistake.” He picked up a plate.
Max gave a smile. Said nothing as Hudson loaded his plate, then motioned him away from the table.
“You okay, Hud?”
Hud had picked up a fork, was diving into his macaroni. He looked up. So many ways to answer that question. But, “Yeah. Why?”
“Doc in Athens got ahold of the team doc with some questions. Said you had a seizure a week or so ago?”
Hud put down the fork, then the plate. “I’m fine.”
Max raised an eyebrow. “Is that why you called in sick for the last game?”
“It was supposed to be an exhibition.”
Coach held up a hand. “Yes. It was. Is. But with the game in Lauchtenland coming up, I thought you’d want to get all the practice time in—especially after the call from your agent.”
Hud just blinked at him. “Waylen called the Vikings?”
“Asked how you were doing, physically. Said your completion rate had caught the attention of a couple of professional US teams.”
Good thing he’d put down the macaroni and cheese. “What teams? The NFL?”
“I don’t know. He said he tried to call you, but you weren’t answering.”
“My phone took a bath.” He didn’t add that it was also on a boat that had gone up in flames. “Had to pick up a new one in the airport.” He pulled out a simple flip phone.
“Text me your new number. Then call Waylen. And show up for practice tomorrow. We added another game next week with the Berlin Thunder. The team has been invited to help with a fundraising event for the German Children's Cancer Foundation. Come to the event, shake a few hands, and then show off what you can do at the game, okay?” He clamped Hudson on the shoulder. “Can’t let Felix get all the grabs, right?”
Felix Wolf, the young and eager wideout from the Danube Dragons. He’d been four for seven in the exhibition game—not a terrible showing given the velocity that Jake fired off his missiles. Left a guy’s hand nearly broken if he didn’t catch the ball right.
“Right.”
