Free Suspended by Robert Rayner

have lemonade and cookies, please.”
    â€œWhat would you and Mr. Grease like?”
    â€œGrease and I will have our usual evening beverage, please.”
    â€œDoes Grease live here, too?” I asked, as Mrs. Pettipas left the room.
    Grease was sitting in a big leather chair at the end of the room with his boots on the table.
    â€œSometimes.”
    Mrs. Pettipas returned with our refreshments. Then she handed Ice and Grease each a glass of red wine.
    Ice rapped on the table. “Okay, Shay — bring this team meeting to order.”
    We stared at the wine in amazement.
    He looked at me. “Go on. You’re the boss.”
    â€œWe have to make sure we don’t give up an early goal against St. Croix, because if they get ahead you know how tough their defence is,” I said. “So we’ll play four at the back and four in the middle, with two strikers.”
    Grease leaned forward, slapped Brandon on the shoulder, and nodded. Everyone except Ice and Grease was sitting forward attentively. I felt like the president of a company.
    â€œOkay — you know we’re going to be recognized by St. Croix right away. They’d like nothing more than to finish our team. If we get to play — let’s go out with a win.”
    I looked at Ice. “Do you want to say anything?”
    â€œI’ve got an idea,” Ice said thoughtfully. “This strategy is called the Third Force Strike.”
    Julie looked at Ice, shaking her head.
    â€œWhat?” he said. “You think I’m full of it, darling, don’t you?”
    â€œDon’t call me darling.”
    Ice ignored her complaint and went on, “It means when you have two opposing forces at stalemate, you can work a breakthrough by introducing an unexpected new power — a third force. It’s a term that’s used in psychology and power games.” He’d been leaning back in the chair beside me at the head of the table, sipping his wine elegantly. Now he suddenly sat forward. “In soccer it means you set up your main strike force — that’s you, Magic and Brandon — and then you sneak in a third striker who drifts in from somewhere unexpected.”
    I said, “How do you know this stuff?”
    â€œNever mind,” said Ice. “Who’s the least likely striker here?”
    We looked around the table at one another.
    â€œSuppose you were playing against the Wanderers,” Ice pressed. “Which of you would you least expect to score a goal?”
    Linh-Mai said quietly and apologetically, “I guess that’d be me.”
    â€œThen you’ll be our Third Force, darling,” said Ice. “This is how we’ll do it …”
    When Ice had finished explaining how we’d carry out the move, and while we passed the cookies around the table one last time, I asked Ice where the washroom was. He said down the hallway on the left.
    The washroom was like something out of a magazine, with big, old fashioned taps, and scented soap, and thick fluffy hand towels hanging on the back of the door. On the way out I noticed, through the open door of the room across the hallway, a set of photographs on the wall. The figures in the photographs looked like soccer players. I crossed the hall and took a step inside the room. I knew I was being nosy, but I was so intrigued by the photographs I couldn’t help it.
    The room was like a small study, with a desk in the centre and behind it a wall lined with book shelves. The photographs hung on the wall beside me. They were all of the same person, a young soccer player. In one picture he stood with his foot on a soccer ball, his arms folded, grinning. His soccer shirt bore the words “Montreal Marvels.” In another he stood among some suited adults, holding a trophy. A caption beneath read “Young Soccer Player of the Year.” There were more pictures — of a team, and of the young soccer player in action. I