Chapter 11: The Laptop

"It's not club property," I said. "I bought it with my last paycheck. I have the receipt somewhere."

"Find it," my lawyer said. "And Meg? Don't let it out of your sight."

I hung up.

Cody was already standing.

"Where is it?"

"Robin's. Under the couch."

"Under the couch."

"It's a good couch. It has a spring."

He picked up his keys.

"Junie's asleep," I said.

"Robin's off shift. She'll come here." He was already texting. "I want copies of that drive before midnight."

Robin arrived in pajama pants with a bag of chips and took Cody's spot on the couch without a word.

"Go," she said. "I'll guard the child. Bring me back a crime."

The laptop was where I'd left it.

Scratched silver, a sticker of a whistle peeling off the lid.

I hadn't opened it since the anniversary.

Cody and I sat at Robin's kitchen table and I typed the password.

Dex's birthday.

I changed it while Cody watched.

Five years of folders came up.

Inside each one, my clips.

The broadcast shows you the ball.

The club records a second feed for the coaches, one wide camera high in the stand that sees the whole pitch at once.

I'd had the password to that feed for five years.

I cut it every week.

Every referee's run, every bench, every touchline.

We started with Portland, minute seven.

I wound back two minutes and let the wide angle play.

There was the Front Range bench, small at the edge of the frame.

And there was the agent, at the rail beside it, in his dark suit.

He looked at the pitch.

Then he lifted his right hand and touched his left ear.

Two fingers, a light tug on the lobe.

Half a minute later, Dex pulled a shirt in midfield right in front of the referee.

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