Page 103 of Player

His tone is flat, like we’re discussing the weather. So calm. So in control.So broken.He looks away, deep in thought. I’d bet thousands of euros he’s thinking about her.

“You don’t seem like the type who ever gives up.”

His head turns and he narrows eyes on me.

“If you love her, fix it.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I lost someone close to me. A young girl named Christiana.” I close my eyes, willing myself to stop. But I’m on a mission to make her death have meaning, right? Maybe my loss can help him see how precious time is. “Love, like life, is fleeting. Whatever it takes, whether it’s asking forgiveness or being vulnerable or whatever is holding you back, show her you love her.”

I open my eyes to find him staring at me.

“Who are you?” I murmur.

He takes a sip of beer then answers me with a question. “Are you a nurse?”

I shake my head.

“A teacher?”

“No.” I pause, my eyes widening as I piece together why he’s asking about my profession. Drunk or not, I keep quiet about being a reporter.

He persists. “You’re not going to tell me.”

I shrug my shoulders. “You answered my question with a question. You first.”

“I’m no one you want to know.” Again with the flat tone, like he’s warning me, like we haven’t been sharing secrets and revelations.

“Too late,” I tell him. “I might not know your name, but I’ve seen your soul.”

He snorts. “And it’s blacker than a pint of Guinness, isn’t it?”

“Hard to say, given I’m wearing whiskey goggles.”

That makes him smile. There. Back on track.

“So, what’s the worst that can happen? She tells you to fuck off?”

“No. Been there. Done that.”

I raise my shot glass, saluting her. “She must be quite the woman then.” My vision blurs as the whiskey hits me.

The bartender appears, pops the lid of a Dos Equis, and pushes it in front of the man. Then he lines up three more bottles on the bar. “Leave the money on the counter, will you?” he mutters before addressing me. “Another?”

“Not if you want to be the man to tell Finn I’ve passed out in the jacks.”

“If your wan isn’t being hoisted out of the cage on a stretcher, that is,” the bartender reminds me. “If you two don’t mind, I don’t want to miss it.”

I frown and watch him head toward the back room just as the bell rings.

The chanting begins. “Mad Dog, Mad Dog.”

I draw in a breath.

“Did you bet on him?”

“Of course.”