Death Match - Diane Duane [33]
“Like Chicago,” Hal muttered.
“Chicago,” said George, “we’ll solve the old-fashioned way. We’ll beat them. They have tactical weaknesses that we can exploit, and besides, O’Mahony got herself her third yellow card in that last game. Careless of her. Bad coaching, as much as anything else. Her coach lets her lose her temper and get away with it. One more foul like that, and we won’t have her to worry about anymore….”
Their food arrived. Catie found herself looking with faint dismay at one of the biggest sandwiches she had ever seen in her life. The thing was nearly nine inches tall, and she had never seen such a forlorn and pitiful statement as the single toothpick pushed into the top of it, pretending to hold it all together. There was easily what looked like half a cow’s worth of smoked meat in there. She sighed, picked up half of it, pushed out some of the meat, reassembled it, then squashed it into some thickness she hoped she could at least get a bite out of and went to work.
George’s sandwich was cast in much the same mold, and for a few minutes quiet mostly prevailed as he and Catie jointly tried to get their lunches under control, while Hal tucked into his eggs Benedict. “You’re mostly a new fan, I take it,” George said to Catie after a while, taking a break from his sandwich.
Catie nodded. “Yeah. Until now I’ve been playing soccer, mostly,” she said.
“Real or virtual?”
“Real. Local-league level.”
George flashed that brilliant smile at her again. “A rugged individualist, in this day and age, to play out on the grass under the sun, and get yourself burned and banged up.”
Catie shook her head. “It’s just reaction to the rest of my life. The soccer’s a good way to stay in touch with physical reality. I do so much virtual stuff: schoolwork of course, and a lot of imaging, and Net Force Explorers…and some F.I.C.E.-sponsored chess, in the winter, when you’d have to be crazy to play anything outdoors.”
That got another smile out of George, an impressed one. “Really? Plane or 3-D?”
“Plane. I prefer the classic approach.”
“What level?”
“Three. Nothing to brag about.”
“I made three once,” George said, “when I was in my teens. But I didn’t have what it took for tournament play. Physical stuff turned out to be more my forte. I did some track and field…then I found spat. Or it found me—”
“You couldn’t have waited, could you?” said a voice from down the aisle of the restaurant. They all looked up. A stocky fair-haired guy about Hal’s height but about twice his width, and maybe twenty years old, was standing by their table and looking over their meals with a critical eye.
“Late as always,” George said, glancing at him and picking up his sandwich again. “Nothing for you. We ate yours.”
“Oh, yeah, Bird,” said Mike, completely unconcerned, sitting down next to George as George pushed over to make room for him. “Hey, Hal, how’s it going? How’d that test go?”
“Aced it.”
“Good for you…we’ll get you into Brown yet. This your sister?”
“Yup. Catie, this is Mike Manning.”
“Hi, Catie, nice to meet you. Is there a menu?” Mike started looking around him, and a second later Wendy the waitress had materialized at the table, smiling, and was handing him one. Mike asked for a lemonade fizz; she went off to get it like she’d been waiting for the request her whole life.
While Mike was looking over the menu, Catie glanced over at George. “There’s a question I’d like to ask you….”
Mike hooted with laughter and elbowed George.
George raised his eyebrows. “No,” he said, with the slightest smile, “I’m not married, I’m not dating, I’m not gay, and I have no plans.”
Catie grinned, but