Chapter 4
Paula
Iris Vance has spent the entire day sabotaging me with the glee of a kid playing hide-and-seek.
She lies about the time of practice, her room number, the meal schedule.
“Oh, were you looking for me?” she asks when I finally track her down in the hotel restaurant.
Her teammates stare at me.
“Who's this, Vance?” one of them asks.
“A friend,” Iris says without looking up from her plate.
I raise my eyebrows and pin her with a look.
“A friend?”
“Okay, fine,” she concedes. “Listen up! I want you to meet someone. This is Paula, my girlfriend. We've been going out for a few weeks.”
The entire dining room goes quiet. Every eye on me.
“Hades let you bring her to preseason in Florida?” Jamie whistles. “Moving fast, Vance. None of us have our partners here, unless it's already pretty serious.”
“I mean, it's not like Hades let me bring my girlfriend.
She showed up on her own. She saw the photos and got really pissed at me, so she hopped on a plane to chew me out.
We made up and we're good now,” she explains, shrugging, though the gesture is too rehearsed to be real.
“You know, those party photos. She's kind of jealous. Any more questions, or can I keep eating?”
The silence stretches a few more seconds, and nobody takes their eyes off me. Tina watches from the corner.
“So what do you do, Paula? You look like you're in some kind of professional sport.”
“Cybersecurity. Consulting,” I cut her off.
I must be convincing, because as I sit down, the rest of the players drift back to their own conversations.
“Iris can be pretty intense,” Zoe Méndez whispers once my so-called girlfriend gets up for more food.
“I've noticed in these three weeks.”
“She's hard to read. What you see is never quite what you get. If she goes quiet, don't freak out. That's actually a good sign. She's got a heart of gold, I promise.”
***
The daily report I write each night doesn't have many changes.
Compound perimeter: fence in good condition, main entrance with credential check, two secondary entrances without constant surveillance but fairly secure. Several cameras throughout the hotel.
Social media monitoring: @yoursecondskinseesyouforreal has posted three times in the last four days. Screenshots of the team's stories. Expanded photo collage. Threat level: no change.
Off the record, I jot down a few more personal observations in my notebook. Things that might help me understand her.
Iris's room doesn't have a single personal photo. Clothes everywhere, water bottles, tangled chargers, three pairs of headphones, a stuffed octopus that probably belongs to Wesley and that she hasn't given back. But not one photo.
When I walk past her door at three in the morning, the glow from the TV bleeds under the frame. Every night. No exception. Volume low. A steady hum that fills in for the silence.
Iris Vance sleeps with the television on.
***
Friday afternoon, I pretend to take a walk while checking the south perimeter when I hear a kid laughing. Full volume, no filter. A laugh that hasn't been smoothed down by the world yet.
Iris sits cross-legged on the grass. Wesley is on top of her in an oversized team jersey, barefoot. His light-up sneakers tossed about six feet away.
“And then the dragon,” Iris says, putting on a voice that's almost theatrical, “got to the soccer field. But there was a really big problem.”
“Wha?” Wesley asks, eyes wide.
“He didn't have cleats. Dragons have claws, and claws don't fit in cleats. Know what he did?”
“What?”
“Played barefoot. And scored a goal. With his claw. BOOM!”
She makes an explosion with her hands, and Wesley laughs so hard he rolls off her lap.
“Again?”
“Another goal? Yeah, then he scored another one, but that was a header. The dragon jumped so high he spit a little fire and almost burned the ball, but it went right in the upper corner.”
"Uppa corna?"
“The tippy-top corner of the goal. Where the pretty goals go.”
“Iwis scores pwetty goals.”
“Sometimes, boss. When I don't hit the damn post.”
“Damn?”
“Uh… no, no, I didn't say that. You made that up. Also, that word doesn't exist. Don't say it.”
“Damn!” the kid repeats.
“Oh man, Zoe is going to kill me. Shh, I'll tell you another story, but don't say that word again,” she says, covering his mouth with her hand.
Then she kisses the top of his head. Closes her eyes. Buries her nose in his hair and breathes in slowly.
“You smell good, boss,” she murmurs, and then she tickles him.
I can't help smiling. Wesley leans against her chest, total trust. He knows Iris loves him like he's her own.
***
At dinner, I sit next to her, Zoe Méndez, and Tessa, though the three of them are deep in conversation and barely notice me. Wall at my back. Full view of the room.
A tray lands in front of me. Lucía sits down without asking.
“Sorry, this seat's free, right?”
“You already sat down.”
She just smiles and offers me a small bottle of reddish sauce. I drizzle some on the rice. The heat climbs slowly through my chest. Reminds me of my grandmother's kitchen.
“How's it going with the blonde?” she asks, lowering her voice while she cuts a piece of chicken.
“Pretty well, I guess,” I say, not wanting to give anything away.
“She's loud and kind of a mess. She's late to everything, and occasionally you want to strangle her,” she jokes. “But take care of her. Under all that noise, there's someone who still hasn't learned how to sit with the quiet.”
“I will,” I tell her.
“And if you hurt her, I swear there won't be a corner in the world where you can hide from me,” she warns, switching to Spanish so nobody else at the table understands.
Dead serious. No wink. No smile. Same calm she had yesterday when she asked if I spoke her language.
“You can keep the sauce if you want. My mom sends a few bottles every month.”
Next to me, Iris is telling another story. Her ponytail swings every time she waves her hands, and the whole table laughs.
And I catch myself thinking that maybe Lucía is right. Iris Vance is more fragile than she looks.
***
At 11:47 p.m., I walk past her room. The blue-white glow appears under the door. TV on. Volume low, same as every other night.
I stop.
There's another sound. Footsteps. The bed creaks. More footsteps. She gets up. Lies down. Gets up again.
Iris Vance is not sleeping. She walks her room at midnight with the TV on and the volume down because the silence crushes her.
I press the notebook to my chest and keep walking.
In my room, I change into pajamas, lie down, and close my eyes. I think about walls with no photos. About clothes thrown everywhere. About a TV left on and a woman who buries her nose in the hair of a kid who isn't hers like it's the only thing that matters.
I think: this is just a job.