Coach P shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Mindlessly, he tapped his fingers on the table, having waited for the man for more than an hour. It irked Coach P that he’d had to miss out on the Olympic opening ceremony just because Marco had insisted on meeting then. The idiot had cost him the experience of parading down the Seine to honor his country. Instead, here he was, stiffening his back in a dingy Parisian hotel that passed torture devices for seats.

 The feel of something sticky on his fingers snapped him out of his thoughts. He squinted at the black, gooey substance and wiped it off the corner of the menu. 

 The door creaked, and he jerked his head in that direction. He was disappointed to see a couple walk in, dressed in matching costumes with flags painted on their faces. Spanish, he guessed. The couple giggled and whispered in each other’s ear as they settled on a table to his right. Then a rough hand clamped on his shoulder, and he jumped in surprise. 

 "Jumpy, not a good sign," said a man in an undersized leather jacket. 

Flashing a smile that did not reach his eyes, the man hooked a wet umbrella onto Coach P's chair and dropped onto the opposite seat with a thud, earning a few glances from the other patrons. His face was sharp and narrow, with a day's worth of stubble darkening his jawline. 

Coach P ground his teeth, caught himself before he shook his head. He reached behind to lift the umbrella from his chair, hooking it on the table instead. “Marco? I've been waiting for 40 minutes.” 

"You win anything yet?" The man squinted at the menu. 

Coach P raised a brow. "The Olympics just got started.” He gestured behind him with his thumb. “We had the opening ceremony." 

The man leaned forward, elbows creaking the table. "The bookie told me what this is all about. A magic spear?" He lifted a guitar case Coach P hadn’t noticed and placed it on the table, chuckling. 

Coach P eyed the case. “I know it sounds crazy. It's going to help me win. Anyway, all that matters is that in three months, the bookie will probably get his money."

The man raised his eyebrows. "Probably?"

"We'll win. My athlete will win. The spear." Coach P stretched an open arm.

The man's calm demeanor gave way to a predatory look. "The bookie says you have a deal and all, but this is my territory. You make money, you pay me first, then you pay the bookie. A delivery fee," he said, tilting his head, a cat studying a mouse.

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Coach P knew what came with dealing with gangsters: unpredictable and often prone to impulsive decisions.

"The deal with the bookie and my cousin was..." The man shot a hand towards Coach P's neck and pulled him forward, out of his chair. "You pay me a delivery fee," he whispered. 

A waiter looked over, then averted his eyes as if nothing was happening and scurried off to the kitchen. The Spanish couple stood up to leave.

"Marco…I-I can pay a delivery fee," Coach P stuttered. He didn’t like that he’d had to add to his already significant debt with the bookie by having him facilitate the spear’s retrieval from the Kenya National Archives—details he wasn’t interested in knowing. But he liked this less. He breathed out a sigh of relief anyway when Marco’s calloused hands let go and patted him on the cheek.

Marco flashed a grin, exposing a gap where a canine should have been. "See? That wasn't so bad." He opened the guitar case, removed a mass produced plywood guitar and slid a finger to the guitar heel. With a pop, it parted in two like a hotdog bun to reveal A Pselt flag attached to a five-foot pole.

 “Custom work to get it in here." Looking pleased with himself, he tapped the guitar, then took the flagpole from the case and twisted the middle. It came loose, exposing a bronze-looking rod. 

Coach P held out a hand to stop him. "Thank you. I'll take it from here." 

Marco grinned and looked around at the other tables, then let go of the pole.

Pressing the guitar halves back together, Coach P snapped the latches shut and stood up.

"I'll be in touch," he heard Marco say, as he turned. Without a second glance, he headed out the door.

Coach P stepped out into the street.  A light rain was falling, but he didn’t bother to take out the raincoat stashed in his bag.  The streets still teemed with people despite the weather. And he resented the cloud of excitement they cast around him. Crossing the road without looking both ways, he shook the guitar case and was comforted by the thud of metal on leather. 

He’d gone through so much to be here and would soon reap the rewards. He had come close to looking for another job more times than he could count—something more stable, as his wife put it. But every time, when morning came, he put on his training kit and walked to a nearby training facility to work with his 19-year-old middle distance running prodigy.

The gambling scandal had brought him to his knees, as none of the athletes he had worked with in the past would go near him. He was considering moving back to the small town he grew up in, when he saw how a 16-year-old girl won a race at a high school athletics meet. Her long, neat strides reminded Coach P of the first time he laid eyes on Lynara, the country's most decorated middle-distance runner. 

Three years after taking over the teenager’s training, he was sure he had a running phenom on his hands, though she had yet to win a major competition.

But if what he thought the spear could do was true, all the sweat and tears would be worth it. He gave the guitar case another shake and branched off towards a security checkpoint that would get him back into the Olympic village.