Leon's heart hammered against his ribs. The win against Scarborough felt like a distant memory.
All that existed was the buzz in his hand and the unknown Swiss number on the screen.
He was in his tiny office, the smell of mud and sweat and cheap coffee hanging in the air. He let it ring twice more, his mind racing.
Is this the court? Did we do something wrong? Can they give us more minus points?
He finally answered, his voice barely a croak.
"Hello?"
"LEO! YOU MADMAN! YOU ACTUALLY WON A GAME!"
The voice was not Swiss. It was Italian-American, fast as a freight train, and utterly, wonderfully familiar.
"Marco?" Leon gasped, sinking into his chair in a wave of pure, unadulterated relief. "Why are you calling from a Swiss number? I thought I was being sued by a mountain."
