This. This right here is what I live for. The smell of freshly cut grass.
The feel of warm sun saturating my skin. The sound of labored breaths surrounding me.
I spin, shoving against Olivia as I fight to make some progress up the field. She grunts as my elbow makes contact with her stomach, but keeps pressing. Finally, I pull free—only to be greeted with the sound of Coach Weber’s whistle. Followed by another long pull.
“That’s it,” she announces. I stop with my foot on the ball, pulling in deep breaths of oxygen to replenish my bloodstream.
That’s it, and not just the end of the game or the end of practice for the day. That whistle signaled the end of Scholenberg. Today is our last day. The final of fifty-six days—eight weeks—just drew to a close.
The women surrounding me look just as taken aback. We’ve reached the end of the marathon. A finish line we all knew was coming. Saw coming. Prayed would arrive for weeks.
Crossing it feels different. Instead of relief, I feel perturbation.
“Get cleaned up. I’ll see you all tonight,” Coach Weber announces. Scholenberg is hosting a final group meal before we all go our separate ways tomorrow. I head toward the tunnel with the rest of my teammates but pause when I hear my name.
Coach Weber calls out to me, and it’s a mirror of our first day here. “Yes, Coach?”
I turn and return to the field, only stopping when I’m a few feet away from her.
“I had my doubts about you, Scott,” Coach Weber declares.
“Oh?” I reply. There are other things I would ordinarily say in response to that but nothing I would dare utter to someone I respect as much as Christina Weber.
“I knew you were talented. I expected you to skate on that, especially after an injury. But… I was wrong.” She gives me a rare smile. “You’re the most dedicated—not just talented—player I’ve ever coached. That will take you far, you understand me? You’ve got confidence on the field, but I also get the feeling not many people have told you this. Some players are talented. Others work hard. But it’s rare—extremely rare—to have both, to never lose the drive to be better. Keep at it, and there won’t be anyone left to surpass, Scott. I’m expecting to one day be known by nothing aside from the fact that I coached you for a summer.”
I gape at her. No one has ever heaped anywhere close to the mountain of compliments she just dropped on me. I just completed the most competitive soccer program in the world, and one of the most famous female footballers in the world is telling me she expects her legacy to encompass nothing but coaching me. And she’s completely serious. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Christina Weber these last eight weeks, it’s this: if she has a sense of humor, she guards it closely, and she doesn’t dole out false compliments.
“Uh—I—wow,” I stammer. “Thank you.”
“See you tonight.” She pats my shoulder and then heads toward the tunnel.
I remain on the field, savoring my last moments on this rectangle of grass. It hits me harder than I imagined it would—the fact that these are my last—as I stroll toward the center of the expanse. I drop down on the middle line and stare up at the cloudless sky.
I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here when a shadow falls across my face. Somehow, I know who it is before I shade my eyes to squint upward.
“What are you doing?” Beck inquires.
I could ask him the same thing. Instead, I reply, “Stargazing,” shifting my eyes back to the sky.
There’s a whoosh of air to my left as he drops down beside me in the center circle.
“It’s the middle of the day,” he observes. “I like a challenge.”
“Are you upset about Alesandra?”
A logical conclusion, since I’ve avoided him ever since. I track a puffy mass of condensed water vapor as it drifts across the brilliant blue backdrop. “No.”
Beck doesn’t say anything for a while. We lay side by side, staring up at the sky.
“What are you thinking about?” he finally asks.
“How I spent two months in Germany and only learned two German words.”
There’s a huff of air that could be interpreted as amused or exasperated.
I don’t let my eyes stray from the sky to check.
“I doubt it will matter once you return home,” Beck responds. He’s right, but the insinuation still smarts. I’ll never need to know German again. “You’ve got other talents,” he adds teasingly.
I don’t flirt back. “I’ve got to go. I’ll hold the bus up.” I jerk upright, then shove away from the turf so I’m standing.
Beck mirrors the first motion, but not the second. I study him sitting there. Sun-kissed skin. Azure eyes. Blond hair. His practice jersey covers the work of art that is his torso, but visible lines of muscle run the length of his forearms, bunching into defined biceps. The perfect portrait is framed by the famous arches of his home stadium.
“Bye, Beck.”
I’ve said those two words before, but they’re expelled differently this time. Finality has a bitter aftertaste that lingers in the air around us.
“Bye, Saylor.” He mimics my minimalistic farewell.
There’s more I could say. Regardless of his notoriety or appearance, I’ve always admired Adler Beck as a soccer player. This is my last chance to tell him that, but the past couple of months have forever vitiated any chance of me viewing him through a vacuum of just his athletic talents. I could thank him for the sex. For the glimpses into his world not portrayed on shiny covers. For making this trip not only about soccer.
Instead, I turn and head for the tunnel without saying another word. I’ve always found it easier to say nothing unguarded at all.
The dinner marking my final evening in Kluvberg isn’t held at another fancy restaurant. It’s held at a tiny beer garden tucked in the midst of the city. The more relaxed atmosphere serves as an accurate depiction of the shift that’s taken place amongst us attendees over the past two months. Pop music and reminiscing punctuate the air as we scarf bratwurst encased in pretzel buns and gulp beer. There’s a communal mood. Tonight, we’re not attendees of different universities without matching passport covers.
Tonight, we’re teammates. For the first and final time.
Halfway through her first beer—which is only relevant because I’m pretty sure it means she isn’t drunk—Olivia gives me a hug and informs me she hopes the rest of the American team isn’t as good as me at the next Olympics. Coming from her, that’s the equivalent of pledging lifelong devotion.
Then, I get drawn into a dance-off to Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” with Ellie; a song that owns a permanent spot on my pre-game playlist, meaning I’ve got a full arsenal of moves to bust out as I toss my hair and lip-sync the lyrics. There’s no official winner crowned by the laughing onlookers, but I’m pretty certain it’s me.
Breathless and thirsty, I return to the picnic tables. I gulp some water before switching to my glass of beer.
Alexis is still in her same seat from dinner. “Did I see Olivia hug you?” she asks.
I laugh and take another hoppy sip. “Yeah. See any pigs flying?”
“What?” Alexis looks thoroughly confused, and I can’t say I blame her. It’s an expression I’ve never fully understood. If you were going to highlight the impractical nature of a farm animal leaving the ground, wouldn’t it make more sense to choose the heaviest one? Like a cow? Or a horse?
“Never mind. How come you’re not dancing?” “I prefer to watch the rest of you act like idiots.”
I grin. “Harsh. Come on, it’s our last night. You’ve got something better to do?”
“Nope.” Alexis takes a sip of her own beer. “Kind of surprised you’re here, though.”
She’s studying me closely. “I came here for Scholenberg. Where else would I be?”
“With Adler Beck?”
I scoff, mostly to cover the fact that the sound of his name hits me like lemon juice in a paper cut. “Things aren’t like that between us.”
“They aren’t?”
“No.” The word comes out harsher than I mean it to. “So, you’re done?”
I nod.
“Do you want to be?”
I stopped dancing for a cold drink and somehow stumbled into a therapy session. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” I pause. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it matters.”
“I don’t—it was just supposed to be sex. I’ve never… cared. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”
“I don’t think we get to choose who we fall in love with,” Alexis says softly.
I rear back like she slapped me. “I didn’t say anything about love.” “So… your plan is to never see him again?”
“I mean, I assume he’ll be at the next summer Olympics.” Alexis snorts. “Right.”
“Scott! Get your ass out here for a second round!” Ellie shouts.
“Be right there,” I call back. “It’s best this way,” I tell Alexis, draining the rest of my beer. “Cleaner.”
I stand and return to the makeshift dance floor, losing myself in the music’s beat. But the pulsing bass doesn’t drown out my thoughts for long.
Did I say I’m leaving tomorrow?
Does Beck know today was the last day of Scholenberg?
Did the goodbye I uttered sound as final to him as it did to me?
I’m speeding toward the end of my time in Germany like I’m inside a car Beck is driving, and Alexis was right. I want to be spending the remainder of it with him.
The night ends with a speech from Coach Weber. It’s quite different from her words to me earlier. She sticks to inspirational quotes and ends by telling us we’re one of her favorite groups. It’s a line I’m certain she’s included every year since she became head of the program over a decade ago, but it’s still nice to hear.
The night winds down pretty quickly after that. The beer garden’s staff seem eager to see us go. Not only are we a boisterous group, but
Scholenberg rented out the whole place. Our exit means they can shut down for the night.
Ellie’s already concocting a plan to return to Submarine when we emerge out onto the street.
“I’m going to head back to the house,” I tell her. “I’m exhausted and I’ve got an early flight.”
“Fine,” Ellie agrees with a disappointed sigh. “We can drop you off on the way.”
“It’s fine. I’m just going to walk,” I reply. “One last look at the city, you know?”
Ellie studies me for a minute, and I think she’s going to call me out on it. “Text me when you’re back,” is all she says.
“I will. Have fun,” I encourage as I start down the street—in the opposite direction from the building I’ve lived in for the past two months. I’m already in Kluvberg’s most upscale neighborhood. It’s only two blocks from Beck’s apartment building.
I hover on the sidewalk, staring up at the highest floor. There are a couple of lights on, not enough for me to tell if he’s home or just left them on earlier.
It’s been almost a week since I was last here. Since a brunette bombshell showed up for the second shift. But neither of those things would matter if it was just sex.
Heading inside Beck’s building would be about more than that. It would be about talking to him.
Touching him.
Simply being with him.
For the first time in my life, I’m worried I might let it show that I care.
That’s not a risk I can take for a final frolic in the sheets.
I turn and start to walk back to the Scholenberg house, not caring that it’s begun to drizzle. Appreciating it, actually.
It hides the fact that there was already water dripping down my cheeks.
