The Ingenious One

Betrayal

They were laying abed, cigarette smoke billowing forth from their lungs. “Tell me again,” she whispered. He folded his hands behind his head.  A distant look sparkled in his eyes. “I am often referred to as the Ingenious One, no?  This is true.  Yet, sometimes a situation is precarious.  What can or can’t I do?  We win; we lose.  Tonight was different.  Through pure volition, I willed this victory. She turned towards him resting on her elbow, “and the goal?” “Ah, the goal.  Losing, no?  But Podolski, the Pole from Gliwice, reverse bicycled into the corner.  It was a thing of beauty.  I wept.  We’d won.” She smiled. “For a time, I forgot my capabilities,” he said, “but tonight it was made clear—my mind is a weapon.” “Will you stay?” “Is this off the record?” Again, she smiled. “Managing England?”  He frowned.  “It’s (how you say?) spec-u-la-tion.” “You must know you’re a front runner?”  What little sheets were covering her gently slipped off. “The decision,” he finished his cigarette, “is it mine to make?  Sometimes the Universe wills these things.  But, if the Dictatorial Duo (curse their name) has a hand in it, then, yes, I will be managing England.” “Why do you say that?” “They are tiring of my infinite nature.” “And what of the Greyhound?  Or the Fjord?” “England,” he laughed, “they are more likely to manage the Impact.” “The Impact?” “The MLS expansion team hailing from Montreal.” “Really?  Surely, they are better than that?” “I am not so sure.  But, now, I sleep.  Please do not disturb my slumber.”  He closed his eyes. Andrea waited until his breathing calmed before she rose and sent her emails.  Her editor would be interested in the Ingenious One’s comments concerning the rocky English-managerial position, and Christie, wife of the dwarfish Puppet Master, would find the Ingenious One’s sleeping mumbles of tactics and transfers valuable.  She paid a pretty penny.  Andrea felt guilty; after all, if it wasn’t for her selling his secrets, then the Ingenious One would never lose.  But then again, what did she care of soccer or football or whatever one called it? She clicked “send” before climbing back into bed. 

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