Lew came up, punched my shoulder, put his arm around my waist. I put an arm around his shoulders.
‘You little bastard,’ I said.
We walked off, shaking hands with opponents, ruffling team-mates’ hair, listening to the supporters shouting. Mick was kissing players.
In the gloom, I could see Allie, pale head, standing on the bonnet of her truck, fists raised in the air, shouting something. Next to her, Vinnie was doing what looked like the samba.
And then I saw the black Mercedes, person leaning against the grille. Hadn’t seen her, spoken to her, since the night I killed two men on her fire escape. Wanted to, scared to, she didn’t call.
I cuffed Lew on the back of the head, walked down the line, wet, covered in mud, people patting me on back.
Anne Karsh was in jeans, tartan coat, hair wet, beautiful. Wary eyes, not smiling.
I stopped a metre away. ‘Owe you a coffee machine,’ I said.
She shrugged. ‘Been meaning to throw out that machine for years. Makes really bad coffee.’
We looked at each other.
‘Must’ve read your mind. Threw it out for you. You in the country going back?’
‘In the country staying over. Not sure where yet. Leon’s divorcing me. Met a neurosurgeon in Switzerland. I get Harkness Park.’
‘Nice place,’ I said. ‘Got the Bobby Hill memorial tennis court. Want to come back to the pub?’
Anne smiled, nodded, touched my muddy arm.
‘C’mon, Mac,’ Flannery shouted. ‘Got to sing the team song. Got to learn it first.’