“Nice face art” is how Emma greets me when I stumble into the kitchen the following morning. “That pattern looks a lot like our bathroom floor. Oh, wait…” She taps her chin with her index finger,
making an exaggerated expression of confusion.
I pass her to fill a mug with steaming coffee. “Yes, I spent the night sleeping on the bathroom floor, and it was just as uncomfortable as it sounds. Can we please move on?” I reply, holding my face over the mug so the warm molecules waft upward to cling to my face.
“Sure—as soon as you share why you spent the night locked in the bathroom.”
“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but sometimes when you drink a lot of alcohol, it makes you feel like you might throw up. And I thought the best place to do that would be in the bathroom. So that’s what I did, and then it seemed like too much work to get back to my bedroom.”
Emma rolls her eyes at my sass, but then turns serious. “Are you okay, S? You’ve been acting weird.”
“I’m fine,” I say emphatically, taking a large sip of coffee. The bitter, hot liquid trickles down my windpipe in a rapid stream.
“Oh-kay, then.”
I make scrambled eggs as Cressida and Anne both tramp downstairs. We all eat and then pile into Anne’s car to head to practice. Since we had a scrimmage yesterday, all we have is circuit training in the gym. Which is good, because I’m not the only one who is hungover. Most of the team greets me with bleary eyes and tired smiles.
Emma’s doing leg presses beside me when I finally voice the question that’s been percolating in my brain all morning. “When did you hook up again after Connor?” I ask her, referencing the frat boy she dated on and off most of junior year.
“Hello, left field,” she replies, glancing over at me.
“Forget it.” I shift my gaze back to the muscles of my thighs as they bunch and stretch.
“Oh my God! Did he ask you to find out?” she questions.
“Of course not,” I scoff. “Like I would tell him, even if he did. I was just wondering.”
“It was a month, I think. Jackson Smith. Oh wait, no, Colby Summers. I remember because he did this thing with his tongue where…”
“I don’t need details, Emma.”
“You asked.” I don’t reply. I sort of did. “Why did you ask?”
“Just wondering.” I feel Emma’s eyes on me, but she doesn’t say anything else. We move on to the pull-down bar, then the Ergometer, and then we’re done.
The whole team gathers around Coach Taylor. She talks through tomorrow’s itinerary and reminds us about the Canadian Football Organization Camp this weekend. Better known as CFOC, it’s become an annual tradition during the past three years at Lancaster to separate the end of our preseason and start of the regular season. Each team invited only has eleven slots—the starting squad. I know Cressida, Anne, and Emma will all be on the list alongside me before Coach Taylor finishes rattling off the names.
The prospect of leaving Lancaster for a few days is a welcome one.
Maybe it will help me recalibrate.
Then again, leaving the country was how I ended up in this constant state of uncertainty and annoyance in the first place.
“I wonder if we’ll see a bear this year,” Emma speculates from her seat beside me on the bus as we chug toward CFOC.
“I hope not,” I reply, keeping my gaze trained on the Canadian wilderness. Leafy trees flash by, shadowed by craggy peaks.
“Come on, that moose was so cool!”
“The moose was cool,” I admit. “It was also an herbivore.” “I could save you from a bear. We’d play it totally cool.” “I wouldn’t trust you to save me from a squirrel,” I retort.
“Well, this is a low point in our friendship,” Emma replies, letting out an exaggerated sigh.
I hide a smile as we pull up outside the wood lodge that houses the participants in CFOC. Lancaster sponsors many clinics throughout the year, but this one has always been my favorite. Tucked away amidst freshwater lakes and towering pines, it’s definitely the most scenic. It draws players from the best programs in North America, meaning it’s a chance to settle old scores and start new rivalries each year before the season officially starts.
“First clinic starts in an hour,” Coach Taylor announces from the front of the coach bus we made the trek from the airport in. “Get changed, get settled, and don’t be late.”
Emma files out into the aisle and I follow, trailed by the rest of our teammates. Cressida yawns widely as we pass through the automatic doors that lead into the lodge. It’s welcoming and homey, with a fire crackling behind the reception desk that makes me feel like it’s winter rather than barely September. There’s a massive chandelier hanging in the center of the lobby, constructed from antlers. I notice Emma eyeing it and grin.
We get checked in and head upstairs. Emma and I are sharing a room, and Cressida and Anne are across the hall. Emma swipes the plastic card against the keypad, and we head inside the room. It’s your average room, except with woolen blankets covering the bedspread and prints of snowy mountains on the walls.
“Bye-bye, summer,” Emma mumbles, flopping down on the buffalo print covering her bed.
I set my duffle bag on the dresser and unzip it to grab my cleats and shin guards. “All good things must come to an end.”
“Did you change your major again? Philosophy this time?”
I stick my tongue out at her and flop down on my bed. “Is it just me, or are these blankets actually really comfortable?”
“It’s just you,” Emma replies. “Mine’s scratchy.”
“I’m taking this back to school.” I pat the tartan pattern I’m lying on. “Brilliant plan. They’ll never notice,” Emma mutters.
I choose to ignore her sarcasm, closing my eyes and snuggling against the soft wool. What feels like mere minutes later, there’s a knock at our door.
Emma murmurs something unintelligible. I drag myself vertical and stagger over to the door. I blink through sleepy eyes to see Anne and Cressida standing in the hallway.
“Told you they’d be asleep,” Anne informs Cressida.
“Last time I don’t bet against you, Scott,” Cressida tells me. “Let’s go.
Clinic time.”
I grab my gear from the heap on the floor, and Emma hobbles out of bed. We all trudge down the hallway, bumping into teammates and competitors alike. CFOC’s headquarters are a mere hundred meters from the entrance to the lodge. It’s essentially a rectangular building constructed of galvanized metal siding meant to withstand the harsh winter. From past trips, I know the layout already. The first floor contains equipment rooms, a small kitchen, and lots of locker rooms, while the second floor is all offices. The paper posted on the front door states they have assigned Lancaster Locker Room five and Field three. I lead my teammates into the square room. It’s minimalistic, with locker-lined walls and a couple of scarred wooden benches.
Emma, Anne, and I are the last ones to leave the locker room. Cressida went ahead with an impatient sigh. Punctual as always. We’re about to exit the back doors that lead out onto the fields when I realize what I’m missing. “Crap, I forgot my pinny. I’ll catch up to you guys.” I hurry back down
the hallway, grabbing the white mesh jersey and pulling it on over the skin- tight polyester sports shirt I’m already wearing. I jog back to the exit leading to the fields, bursting through the doors.
Field three is the second one on the right. I can see everyone has already gathered in the center, so I quicken my pace to a slow run as I near the group. Teammates part as I near, flanked by players from other programs assigned to the same first clinic. Some I recognize, some I don’t.
“Sorry, Coach, I—” I freeze like I was just confronted with the bear Emma was talking about earlier. “What are you doing here?” The words are out before I’ve filtered them.
Before I remember my familiarity with Adler Beck is supposed to extend no further than one brief meeting at a children’s camp.
No one says anything as we stare at each other. Somehow, in the last month, I forgot how heartbreakingly perfect his face is. How one stubborn lock of blond hair flops forward. How his presence makes my blood fizz and my heart pound.
Beck’s the one who breaks the deafening silence. “Nice to see you, too, Saylor,” he replies. He’s mastered the art of dry humor, so I’m pretty certain I’m the only one who catches the sarcastic undertone. I’m definitely not the only one who catches his acknowledgment that we seem more familiar than two people who met briefly once would be.
“Thanks for joining us, Scott. I was just letting everyone know Adler will be serving as one of the clinic leaders for the next couple days,” Coach Taylor explains. “We have the good fortune of having his input first.”
Good fortune? More like my worst nightmare. I’m already having a hard enough time pretending he doesn’t exist. Forced proximity is not going to help.
“Let’s get warmed up, ladies. Drop off your belongings and then ten laps,” Coach Taylor instructs. Water bottles are tossed. Sweatshirts flung. Laces tightened. Coach heads to the edge of the field to set up a line of cones for what I’m guessing will be sprints.
Everyone moves but Beck and me. I adjust the mesh material I hurriedly yanked over my head, so it hangs correctly and take a step forward. “You knew I would be here,” I accuse. Not my best opener, but what else do you say to the former flame/world famous athlete/sex symbol you weren’t sure you’d ever see again? I’m at a loss.
Beck doesn’t deny it. “Ja.”
“You didn’t have anything better to do than attend a women’s soccer camp in Canada?”
Beck scoffs. “We were already here for a practice match. Kluvberg thought it would be good PR.”
“And you didn’t think the fact that I would be here might complicate things just a tad?”
“I didn’t see why it would. We’re good, right?”
Damn him. What the hell am I supposed to say now? No, we’re not good. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m going to be distracted imagining what’s under your tracksuit for the next two days. Hard pass.
“Yeah, we’re good. It’s still weird you’re here though.”
“Take it up with the organizers,” Beck says breezily. “They’re the ones who reached out to Kluvberg. What was I supposed to say?”
I scoff. “They didn’t make you come.” “No?” An arrogant brow arches.
“Being here is beneath you, and you know it. It’s also a bad idea.” “It is?”
“You know it is, Beck. We’ve had a…” I stop speaking as a couple players walk by closely in an obvious attempt to eavesdrop on our conversation. A sharp look sends them scattering like startled chickens. “A different type of relationship,” I continue in a quieter voice. “I can’t go back to seeing you as just a famous football player now.”
“Why not? I made suggestions when we played together in the park.” “That was different.”
“How?”
“We were playing around then, just the two of us. My whole fucking team is here. My coach. Not to mention players from every other reputable program in North America. This is my future we’re talking about. My career. My reputation.”
“You think I’m trying to jeopardize any of that?” Yup, there’s some of the anger I’ve been waiting for.
“Not purposefully,” I acquiesce. “But…” Fuck it. “Having you here is a distraction for me, okay?”
He doesn’t pounce on that admission the way I thought he would. Instead, his voice is earnest when he responds. “I can help you, Saylor. I know your style of play better than anyone else here.”
“Coach Taylor has coached me for the past three years. I think she’s equipped to give me feedback. And all of the clinic coaches have seen footage of us playing.”
“So have I.”
I scoff. “You watched hours of footage of every team attending in order to prepare to come here?”
“I never said I watched footage of anyone else.”
“That’s even worse! I don’t want special treatment, Beck.”
“What does me watching you play have to do with special treatment?” he snaps.
“You just said you only watched me play, not anyone else. That’s special treatment.”
“I watched it months ago. Didn’t have anything to do with CFOC asking me to do this clinic.”
That catches me off guard, but I don’t have a chance to respond. “Scott!
You done socializing?” Coach Taylor calls.
I turn from Beck to see everyone else has begun running laps. I curse under my breath. I hate being called out at practice, at least for a mistake. I don’t mind the compliments. I could count on a couple of fingers how many times I’ve been chastised during practice. More than anyplace else, I stay focused on the field. Always. The fact that this lapse is due to Beck makes it all that much worse.
I jog to the edge of the field and then start really running, leaving Beck behind me. I garner more than a few curious glances from the other girls as we run circles around the field.
“Did your volunteer coaching gig with Adler Beck lead to some beef?” Emma questions, falling into step beside me.
The two girls running in front of us both slow their pace as soon as she says his name. Real subtle, guys.
“What makes you say that?” I reply, not looking away from the grass rapidly being swallowed beneath my long strides.
“He looks pissed.”
“He’s German—they always look that way.”
“Saylor.” Emma breaks out her rarely used, no-nonsense tone.
I sigh. “Fine. I fucked him at Scholenberg and told him he should leave just now. Happy?”
It’s a testament to how shocking this revelation is that Emma has some trouble staying upright. She stumbles a couple steps over absolutely nothing before managing to stay vertical and keep pace with me. I’ve told her some crazy things. We’ve shared some wild exploits. But based on her sudden balance issues, I’m guessing if I glanced up, she’d look pretty stunned.
“I can’t believe you fucked Adler Beck and didn’t tell me until just now,” she finally recovers.
I scoff. “Please. You suspected. He’ll sleep with practically anyone who flirts with him.”
“Did you flirt with him?” Emma questions, sounding dubious. “I beat him in a shootout,” I respond.
Emma laughs. “Only you. Was the consolation prize your—”
“Ladies! If you have spare air to chat, you’re not running fast enough!” Coach calls out.
Groans fill the air, but I welcome the challenge, flexing my calves with every stride to give my movements an extra boost. Ten laps fly by at the accelerated pace. Next are push-ups. Then sit-ups. Followed by burpees. One girl throws up before we even hit sprints. Clearly her usual coach doesn’t believe in conditioning the way Coach Taylor does.
Every muscle in my body is burning by the time we get a water break. “I should have pretended to be sick this morning,” Emma grouses. I roll
my eyes as I stretch my calf and watch Coach Taylor talk to Beck. “Wonder what Coach is cooking up with your lov-ah?” She croons the last word like she’s Taylor Swift.
I shoot her a glare for that comment.
“Back on the center line, please,” Coach barks. “One line of defenders.
One line of strikers.”
We all take our time walking back to the center of the field in a blatant attempt to prolong the short break. I end up at the front of the strikers’ line.
“Scott, Morgan, you’re up.”
I dribble over to the cone that marks the start of the drill. Coach Taylor blows her whistle, and I easily spin and sprint around my assigned defender before sending the ball to the back of the net.
“Morgan! What the hell was that? Make Scott work for it! Scott, again! This time with Adams.” I line back up at the cone, and once again I easily skirt around my teammate and score. Coach Taylor sighs. “Henderson! You’re up with Scott. Stick to her like glue.”
I line up for a third time. Janie Henderson stays with me for about twenty feet, but then I feint right, and dart left, easily outrunning her. I score for a third time and expect that to be the end of it.
“Adler, can you please demonstrate how to properly mark a striker, since my defenders seem to have forgotten?” Fuckkk. I keep my gaze on the grass as I jog back to the starting cone.
I can physically feel the excitement thrumming through the assembled players as I hear footfalls approach me that must belong to Beck. Like me, they thought he was here in an observational role. Had I known that wasn’t the case, I would have let Janie keep me from scoring just now.
Finally, I can’t avoid it any longer. Azure eyes are already fixed on me as Beck stops about five feet away. He’s shed the light jacket he was
wearing earlier, revealing the cotton jersey underneath that is the same shade of dark gray as the track pants he’s wearing. This is exactly why I wanted him to leave. I never get distracted on the field. But Beck? Less than five feet from me? I’m having trouble focusing.
We stare at each other. He’s looking at me like an opponent, and I’m finally able to do the same. Long after I should have started the drill on my own, Coach blows her whistle. I start to move, darting through the complicated pattern of footwork that shook off my past three defenders. Beck stays with me, just like I knew he would. Biologically, he’s both faster and stronger than I am. But this drill isn’t about speed or fitness; it’s about strategy. If this was any other top-tier male footballer, I probably still wouldn’t stand a chance. But it’s not. It’s Beck. Not only have I spent years watching him play and studying his technique, this is not the first time I’ve played with him. Against him.
Most importantly, I know how he thinks, how he moves. Because I’ve done a lot more than just play soccer with Adler Beck. My body is already attuned to his every shift. I can anticipate his movements before he makes them based on subtle tells most would miss. Thanks to his admission earlier, I know he has all the same advantages when it comes to me. We practically mirror the other’s movements. I spin; he turns to block me. I feint left; he goes right. I gain ground; he forces me back.
I’m so caught up in the complicated dance I startle when Coach Taylor blows her whistle. I drop Beck’s gaze as soon as we stop moving.
“Well, that was—that was something. Good work, you two. Hart, Thompson, you’re up next.”
I jog back to the end of the line, avoiding every gaze aimed at me. Especially his.
Exhaustion and my dark mood keep questions at bay for the remainder of the day. Just because no one says anything to my face doesn’t mean I can’t hear the whispers, though. They grow exponentially more annoying when we head to dinner, mostly because it’s the first time all the CFOC attendees are in one place. Gossip contained to individual fields has its first chance to flow freely.
The lodge’s dining hall is set up buffet style, with massive trays of food being warmed by kerosene candles. Tables aren’t assigned, but I head for one toward the back right, and the rest of Lancaster’s team follows me. I set my water bottle on the varnished wood and head for the rapidly forming line. I end up behind Samantha Cole, the captain of one of Lancaster’s chief rivals. Despite that, we’ve always been friendly off the field, as evidenced by the warm grin she gives me.
“Hey, Scott.”
“Cole,” I reply, grabbing a plate and a roll of utensils.
“I don’t suppose you’ve suddenly started missing the net?”
“You’ll find out when we scrimmage,” I respond, helping myself to some salad.
She sighs. “I’ll take that as a no.” “Smart choice.”
“Hey, some of us are hitting the pool tonight, if you want to hang,” Samantha says as we shuffle along in line to the poutine.
“Sure, sounds fun,” I reply, studying the gray sludge covering the potatoes apprehensively.
Samantha misreads my interest. “I’ve been dreaming about these since last year. The chef said it’s the ketchup they add to the sauce…”
“Scott!” I groan when I recognize Coach Taylor’s voice calling my name and abandon my spot in line to walk over to where she’s standing a couple dozen feet away, next to the drink dispenser.
“Yes, Coach?”
“Do I need to be worried about you this season?” Coach Taylor fills a plastic cup with ice and then water, all while staring at me expectantly.
“Worried?” I echo.
“You were distracted all day.”
I don’t deny it. “Everyone has off days.”
“They do,” Coach acknowledges. “But I didn’t think the player who showed up to my practice with the flu last winter believed in off days.” I flush, and Coach’s voice softens a bit. “I’ve never had to place pressure on you, Saylor. Because you put it on yourself, and you excel. You’re heads and shoulders above any other player I’ve ever coached. I don’t want—”
“Hi, Elaine!” I look to the left and have to swallow a groan when I see Mackenzie Howard has appeared alongside us.
“Mackenzie.” Coach acknowledges her with a slight dip of her head. I can’t help but notice she doesn’t look thrilled to be addressed by her first name.
Mackenzie Howard is the current star of the women’s professional soccer league. She’s two years older than me, on a professional team, and takes great pains to remind me of both every time we interact. I typically find some way to mention the national championship Lancaster won my sophomore year. Against her alma mater her senior year.
“Saylor, how nice to see you,” Mackenzie says. “Can’t believe you’re a senior now! Two years on the Wolves have just flown by.” Yup, right on cue.
“I know!” I reply in the same upbeat tone. “Seems like just yesterday we were beating you in the national championship.”
Coach Taylor’s lips twitch.
“Everyone is so excited to see where you end up next year,” Mackenzie states. “You know—” She stops speaking abruptly then waves her left hand. “Beck!”
Shit on a stick. I look down at my plate as I hear steps approach. They must know each other from the last Olympics. Of course, that sends me spiraling into speculation about just how well they know each other. I banish the thought from my brain as quickly as it appeared. I already know I’m part of a pool—a very large pool—of women who have slept with Adler Beck. Who cares who I’m treading water next to? And… clearly I’m far too fixated on Samantha’s swimming invite.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look, I chant to myself. So of course, I look. His gaze is fixated on me already; I try and fail to convince myself I’m suddenly feeling flushed because of the heat the side of the ice dispenser is radiating.
“Saylor.” He addresses me and ignores Mackenzie, and I hate how much that matters to me.
“Beck.”
“Oh, you two know each other?” Mackenzie questions, looking back and forth between us. I’m guessing calling Beck over was meant to be a power play on her part.
“Yes,” Beck replies simply.
The weight of his eyes on me is crippling. “Are we good, Coach?” I ask, eager to flee.
“We’re good, Scott,” Coach Taylor confirms. “No shenanigans tonight, all right?”
“Of course not,” I reply hastily.
“That’s what you said last year,” Coach replies, but her smile is amused, not annoyed. “Enjoy your dinner.”
I grasp the opportunity to leave. “You, too.”
The line is gone, with only a few stragglers still getting food. I rejoin where I stopped, plopping a small amount of poutine on my plate before moving farther down the line. I’m transferring some roast chicken when I hear Mackenzie’s voice again. She’s sliding her plate down the buffet, chattering about some endorsement deal. Beck is following her but doesn’t seem to be paying particularly close attention. I don’t let myself look for long enough to confirm. I finish serving myself chicken, scoop some rice, and grab a fork. When I turn back around, Beck is spooning some poutine on his plate.
“That’s got ketchup in it,” I blurt.
Beck looks up at me. Really looks at me, and I forget we’re standing in a glorified cafeteria in Canada. “Thanks.”
I shrug. “I may not want you here, but anaphylactic shock seemed harsh. I don’t exactly think there’s a hospital around the corner. Unless they drove like you, no one would ever get you there in time.”
I’m revealing far too much about the knowledge I’ve retained concerning Adler Beck, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appears entertained by it. “Don’t go crazy with the compliments.”
“That wasn’t one.”
“Yes, it was.” Beck sounds very, very confident about that, and I hate he has a right to be. I’m notoriously forgetful when it comes to things like dates, names, and favorites. But I remembered Beck is allergic to tomatoes. He leans past me to grab a fork, and it’s closer than we’ve been in weeks. “Don’t forget I know you, too.”
The words are almost a taunt, and they propel me into motion. I stride past Beck toward the rows of tables, dropping my plate down next to my water bottle and sliding into my seat across from Emma. She raises both eyebrows in a silent question, but I don’t answer, jumping into the conversation about our scrimmage tomorrow. We’re scheduled to play Montclave College, which is one of the better teams here. Assuming I can stay focused, we shouldn’t have any problem beating them.
After dinner, there’s a speech by one of the organizers filled with words like “dedication,” “perseverance,” and “discipline.” Words I’ve heard in pep talks and read on posters in locker rooms more times than I could count.
They’ve never been a reminder I needed.
And the only reason I need them now is nodding along to something William York—Britain’s best hope of a world championship—is saying. I do a quick scan of the rest of the table of clinic leaders. They’re all athletes I recognize. CFOC really pulled out all the stops this year.
The speech ends with a plea to act professionally amongst our peers, and then we all file out of the banquet hall.
“On that note, Samantha Cole invited us to the pool,” I announce to my teammates.
“Better plan than the campfire last year,” Cressida scoffs as we enter the elevator. There might have been a minor incident with some smuggled liquor. “I’m in.”
“Meet back here in a few?” Emma suggests as we reach the hallway containing our rooms. Everyone agrees, and I follow her into ours, feeling a burst of foreboding as the door swings shut and latches.
She whirls around as soon as it does. “Okay, spill.”
“I already did. I slept with him while I was in Germany.”
“Yeah, well aware of how you dropped that bomb during laps, S. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before.” There’s some hurt mixing with incredulity. Out of all my friends, Emma’s the one I’ve always shared sexual exploits with, both incredible and underwhelming.
I can’t share the truth: that I needed to forget Adler Beck, and telling her would have made that impossible. So, I share a morsel. “I thought it would be weird. You’ve got a poster of him on your wall!”
“Exactly why you should have told me! Having sex with Adler Beck is one of my life goals. I had a whole plan for how to approach him at the next Olympics!”
I head over to my duffle bag and start changing into my bikini. I’ve never felt jealous of Emma before, even though she’s got the perfect family, but I know she’s serious. Emma’s just as bold as I am; it’s part of why we’re such good friends. Given the chance, she would proposition him. The thought forms a knot of anxiety that drops in my stomach like a lead brick.
“Okay, we’ll get back to that,” Emma states decisively when I don’t say anything. “How was—”
“Emma, I really don’t want to talk about it, okay?” I interrupt, using a serious tone I rarely employ off the field. “I’d say I’m sorry about not telling you, but I’m really not. If anything, this conversation has made me wish I never did.”
Emma huffs. “You were never going to tell me?”
“Honestly, probably not. I had no idea he’d show up here as some sort of guest coach.”
To be honest, I’ve never really understood the role of the clinic leaders here. Especially this year. In the past, they’ve mostly been female players a few years into their professional careers who have suggested new drills to run.
“He didn’t coach shit. Just stared at you.”
I don’t touch that comment, just pull sweatpants and a sweatshirt on over my swimsuit. “Ready?”
Emma sighs. “Yeah.”
We head out into the hallway. Everyone else is already waiting for us as we enter the elevator and then make our way through the maze of beige carpeting to the section of the hotel that houses the pool.
The walled-off area is swirling with steam and excitement when we enter. There are a couple hundred attendees at CFOC this year, and I’d estimate at least a quarter of them are in this space relaxing on loungers, sitting in the hot tub, or standing in the pool that maxes out at five feet.
There’s a game of water basketball already underway, and I quickly shed my clothes to jump in and play. I’m well aware I’m using sport as an escape right now, which is nothing new. It’s definitely healthier than other options.
The game lasts for about a half hour before it dies down. I’m eager to continue playing, but I’ve also swallowed more chlorinated water than I ever wanted to. Everyone else starts to trickle out of the pool and then out of the room.
“517, ladies! We’ve got booze!” one girl calls out, prompting some scattered cheers. I pull myself up on the edge of the concrete but leave my legs dangling in the water.
“We’re headed up.” Cressida appears beside me, already dressed. “Do you want us to wait for you?”
“No, I’m good. Go ahead,” I tell her.
She nods, and pretty soon I’m the only one left at the pool. For the first time since seeing Beck, I’m alone.
I knew I would probably see him again. Eventually. There are a lot of soccer players in the world. Few at his level; the level I hope to reach. That was meant to be some distant encounter.
Not here.
Not now.
Not while I still care.
By the time I stand, my feet are pruned, and my unsubmerged skin is dry. I towel off and then slip back into my sweatshirt and sweatpants. The weight of my phone feels like an anvil. I sink down onto one of the lounge chairs and pull it out of my pocket, biting on my bottom lip as I deliberate.
I text him. Are you up? If he’s on a German schedule, it’s the middle of the night.
His response is immediate. Ja.
We never finished playing earlier. Not my best line, but he still replies instantly.
Meet you on field 12.
Heart pounding, I weave my way back down the hotel halls and through the lobby. Technically we have a curfew that went into effect an hour ago, but any authority figures should probably be more concerned about the rager happening in 517 than me taking a walk outside.
The automatic doors glide open, providing me with a soundless exit— into a deluge of water. It’s not raining out—it’s pouring. I’m soaked after a few steps and debate turning back, but I press on. Between the pool and the downpour, it’s not like I can get any wetter at this point.
The water coating everything glints under the natural light of the moon and the artificial ones lining the path that leads from the lodge to the fields.
I see Beck long before I reach him. The lamps don’t extend past the first field, so I have to rely on the moonlight as I walk toward Field twelve. The rapid raindrops falling blur the entire landscape together, with the exception of Beck and the shape of the soccer goal to his left.
Uneasily, I realize it’s a remarkably accurate portrayal of what my life has looked like ever since he jogged out of that tunnel.
“I didn’t realize it was supposed to rain,” I say when I stop at the edge of the field beside him.
“It wasn’t,” Beck replies. “Ready?” He tosses the ball tucked under his arm down onto the grass. Rather than bouncing, it rests in place in the middle of one of the many puddles that have formed, and I eye it dubiously. “Yeah. I’ve got to take my shoes off, though. They’re literally filled with water.” Beck watches me pull off my socks and sneakers with an
unreadable expression. “What?” I finally ask.
He shakes his head once and yanks off his own. I head after the ball, and he follows me.
We start playing, and I’m fairly certain we must look ridiculous. Both of us were already soaked, and pretty soon we’re both splattered with mud as well.
We’re less evenly matched than we were earlier, and I know it’s because of me. I’m not fully focused. There’s no one watching us. Judging me.
I don’t think about technique or angles or strategy. I think about keeping the ball moving through and around the puddles dotting the ground. I watch ribbons of rain run out of Beck’s hair, I study the intensity in his blue eyes, and I don’t move away when his warm body jostles mine; the contact somehow searing through the waterlogged layers we’re both wearing.
Beck’s ahead by two goals when I finally collapse on the soggy ground. I’m sweating underneath my swamped clothes, but the rain washes the perspiration away immediately. Beck drops beside me, breathing heavily.
“Did you see the interview I did?” I ask, with no preamble.
“Yeah, I did.” Beck’s voice gives no indication of his thoughts on the topic.
“It just came out, and then I felt like he was judging me for being another one of your fangirls, and I felt obligated to explain.”
“It’s fine, Saylor.” After a couple minutes of silence, he adds, “It would have been nice if you’d ever told me that yourself.”
“Told you what? You know I’ve watched footage of you playing.” “That’s different than knowing you watched that game. That it’s part of
the reason you pursued football!”
“I watched your first championship game, along with approximately five hundred million other people. It made me feel like less of a nutcase for focusing on nothing but soccer. Happy now?”
Beck mutters what I would guess is a German profanity. It sounds like a word he’s said around me before. There’s a pregnant pause. “Otto hung a sign that says, ‘Saylor Scott’s Inspiration’ above my locker,” Beck states.
A reluctant grin tugs at my lips. “That’s kind of funny.” It’s also nice to know he didn’t totally erase me from his life the way I’ve tried to remove him from mine.
“I thought so, too,” Beck admits. “Not that I’ll ever tell him that.”
We fall into silence, watching more and more water gather on the surface of the field as the soil loses its ability to soak any more liquid up. Thunder rumbles in the distance, suggesting the worst of the storm is far from over. I’m soaked and sweaty. The ground is hard and muddy, and yet I don’t move. I don’t feel any inclination to, and Beck doesn’t seem to, either.
I don’t know how long we remain sitting before Beck stands and offers me a hand. It could have been mere minutes, or hours that have passed.
Time has ceased to exist.
I grasp his palm, and his firm grip propels me vertical at the same moment I start to stand on my own. The combined velocity sends me crashing into Beck’s chest.
I pull back slowly.
“Saylor—” Beck starts, but I don’t let him finish. I kiss him. Partly because actions always seem to serve me better than words, and mostly because I want to. For once, we’re not racing toward something more. This kiss is the meal, not just the appetizer. There’s no nearby bed we’re about to fall into. Waterlogged clothes aren’t easy to grope or caress through.
So, we just kiss. For another indeterminable number of seconds. Until my lips feel chapped and my heart is racing just as fast as when we were playing soccer.
I started it, so I end it, pulling back slowly until Beck lets me break his hold entirely. I stare into his confused blue eyes for a brief moment, and then I turn and walk away, leaving the perfect moment behind me.
