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“What was in that envelope?” Shae asked.
“No idea.”
“You weren’t supposed to drop the key anywhere?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Those lockers have master keys to them,” her dad said. “They wouldn’t need her key to get in.”
Silence, some slurping.
“Maybe we get the key, go back to Germany, see if the box is empty,” said Ned.
“I have to go to Berlin to prep for a game in two days,” Iris said.
Ned had picked up his bowl to drink the broth. Now, he put it down, wiping his chin with a napkin. “I haven’t been to Berlin for a whole week.”
She frowned at him.
“Long story.”
Her dad touched her arm. “Don’t worry, honey. We’re going to figure this, make sure you’re safe, and get your life back.”
Perfect. Just perfect. That’s exactly what she wanted.
Four
Three more reps, rest, then one more set. Hudson readjusted his grip on the weight bar sitting heavy on his burning shoulders, sweat running down his spine, and slowly lowered himself down into a deep squat. Held it there, then slowly pressed back up.
Eight.
Around him, music blared in the Vienna Vikings’ gym, an old factory refurbished into a modern practice center. Massive windows were cut into the galvanized roof that let in the morning light, although today, rain plinked against them. Long-stemmed fans extended from the ceiling, stirring the air, thick with the scent of disinfectant and rubber.
The massive open-air gym and indoor turf field ran nearly eighty yards, so it felt like a field. The smaller area, once used as offices, contained the weight equipment. A sauna and showers extended past the weight room, with adjoining rooms for massages and cold baths.
Inside the gym, motivational quotes plastered the cement walls, most of it in Austrian, but Coach Clay had had some American phrases added too.All progress takes place outside the comfort zone!Or,If it doesn’t challenge you, it doesn’t change you!Or,Your only limit is you.
Good thoughts, the kind that should probably keep Iris from tiptoeing back into his brain.
Maybe she was back in Lake Como—
He shook the thought away. It didn’t matter where she was. He’d walked away, back to his life.
Where he belonged.
Metallica played over the speakers in the corners of the room—metal that was supposed to inspire sweat, although Hud had never been a fan of the screaming. And it wasn’t so loud that it overpowered the conversation between groups of players positioned around weight machines or mats, some spotting, some resting while the others lifted, grunted, blew out breaths of stress and triumph.
The players had arrived over the last two hours, most of them spending time with the weights, squatting or lifting. Some worked with the strength coach on explosive techniques like box jumps—one legged jumps to a high pad. Some simply did calisthenics—good old-fashioned push-ups and sit-ups, although many added a weight belt to their efforts.
Nine.
Hud’s chalked hands repositioned on the bar, his weight belt tight against his straining muscles. The wrist guards kept his hands from falling back.
“One more, Hud.” This from Toby West, their third American, a big tight end out of the University of Idaho who’d played on the practice team for the Green Bay Packers before getting cut and landing over the pond. At two-ten, and six foot one, he was just a little slower than Hud on the forty, but still managed to cause trouble for the wideouts on the opposing teams.
He also happened to be the one person who knew Hud’s story—besides, of course, Coach Max. Probably saw it on the game tape, over and over again.
Hud lowered himself once more, took a long breath, and forced himself up.
