I wake up the following morning to Emma’s suspicious expression. She was already asleep when I snuck back into our room, leaving behind a
trail of water that has thankfully dissipated.
“Where were you last night?” she asks as soon as she sees I’m awake. “I went to the gym.” Sadly, I think Emma actually believes me.
“You’re acting weird, S,” she calls after me as I head into the bathroom. “I know,” I say before I close the door.
She lets the subject drop as we change into our Lancaster jerseys and head down to the banquet hall for breakfast.
Anne asks where I was last night when Emma and I reach the table our team is sitting at.
“She was working out,” Emma explains, rolling her eyes.
“Jesus, Scott,” Cressida comments. “Thank God I’ll never have to play against you.” Unlike me and Emma, Cressida has no plans to pursue a professional soccer career following graduation. Anne’s still undecided.
I grunt as I grab a bowl and a box of cereal. There’s no buffet like last night. Staff have distributed tiny containers of cereal and cartons of milk on each table for us to help ourselves to.
We head toward the fields as a team. This morning is starting with an hour-long scrimmage, followed by rotating between clinics. Unfortunately, I know this means I’ll have to interact with Beck at some point. There’s no sign of him when we reach our assigned field, though, and I let out a sigh of relief. I don’t regret last night, but it definitely didn’t clear anything up where he’s concerned.
Out of sight, out of mind hasn’t helped me much so far, but it ensures I’m paying close attention to Coach Taylor’s pregame talk. This game won’t count for anything, but it sets a tone for the type of team we are this season. We’ll play most of these teams, including our opponent today, Montclave College, during the regular season. Samantha gives me a brief grin as we meet with the ref, which I return.
“Looking forward to kicking your ass, Scott,” she comments. “In your dreams, Cole,” I reply, before calling tails.
I choose correctly, and it sets off a domino effect of luck. Emma slides a kick behind their goalie when she thinks Emma is going to pass to me instead, and then Natalie manages a wicked header. Cressida lets one goal in, but we still emerge victorious.
Then, it’s onto the rotation of drills. Beck has arrived at the field and is talking with a few of the coaches. I force myself to focus.
Our first assignment is the station Mackenzie is responsible for, and she gives us all a condescending smile as we gather around. It seems especially patronizing when she spots me. I smirk back at her. If she wants to challenge me, soccer is not the way to do it. She hasn’t seen me play in two years, and I was the victor of our last match-up then.
The premise of the drill is similar to the one Coach Taylor had us running through yesterday. Except instead of starting from side-by-side cones, we’re facing a defender already in the penalty box, and a goalie in position.
“I’ll do one round to demonstrate,” Mackenzie announces. Her gaze roams across the group. I know she’s going to pick me before she says my name. “Saylor. You’re a striker, right?”
“Yup.” I keep my response short, and I hear Emma muffle a snort beside
me.
“Are you willing to help me demonstrate?” Mackenzie asks sweetly. I tighten my ponytail. “Sure.”
She passes me a ball, and I trap it neatly, waiting for her to get into
position. As soon as she’s in place, I strike, racing forward. I don’t head straight toward her, jutting out to the edge of the box so she has to come to me. As soon as she leaves her position, I employ some of the footwork I can thank Christina Weber for. Mackenzie tries to copy me, but she slips.
I send the ball into the netting. It’s not the most satisfying goal I’ve ever scored—not by a long shot—but I still enjoy watching her squirm.
“Was that what you had in mind?” I ask her, my tone saccharine.
“Good work, Scott,” she mutters through gritted teeth. “Line up, everyone.”
The next few clinics pass in a blur until we’re only one away from Beck’s. William York is in charge of our current one, and there’s a fair amount of whispering going on. He’s got a charming British accent and the importance of a member of the royal family. He actually looks a lot like the future monarch who shares his name, albeit a younger version with a lusher head of hair. He instructs us through a combination passing drill. A few players struggle with the fast-paced weaving. I’m not one of them, and William comes over to congratulate me.
“Excellent work out there,” he tells me, flashing a cheeky grin. “Thanks.” I don’t smile back.
“There are some other passing techniques I could teach you.” Cressida’s to my left, and I see her smirk out of the corner of my eye.
“I’m sure the whole group would love to gain any extra knowledge you have to share,” I reply, and his cocky smile disappears.
He nods once, back to being professional. As he should have been all along.
And then we reach Beck.
He’s wearing all black today. The dark color is a sharp contrast to his golden looks. Those whispers William York garnered? Absent.
Beck’s not sporting a charming smile; his chiseled features are fixed in a glower. He’s not taking a casual stance; he’s planted in place, arms crossed. His presence isn’t charismatic; it’s commanding.
You don’t gossip about Adler Beck when you’re in his presence—you stare at him.
I keep my gaze fixed on the soccer goal behind him. I can feel Emma’s eyes on me and a few glances from my other teammates. They may not have heard my confession to Emma about our carnal acquaintance, but they all saw us talking yesterday.
Beck rattles off instructions for the drill, and I’m not surprised to hear they’re twice as complex as every other clinic we’ve completed so far. Everyone stays silent.
The exercise requires receiving a flighted ball, dribbling on the attack through a series of grids, and then taking a shot on goal.
Based on the befuddled expressions surrounding me, some are uncertain about how to execute it. Beck catches the confusion. He’s still scowling, but I think I catch a glimmer of mirth. “Would a demonstration help?” he asks authoritatively.
Heads bob around me, and call me a hypocrite, but I’m having the same bout of unprofessionalism that struck William York. Because Beck acting like a coach—my coach? It’s hot.
If I wasn’t so busy following a rabbit hole of inappropriate thoughts, I might have seen it coming.
“Saylor?” He addresses me directly, and it catches me off guard. I was expecting him to limit our interaction today.
“What?” I ask, in a tone I wouldn’t usually use with a coach. Glorified or not.
Does Beck answer? No. He strolls toward the penalty box. I sigh and follow him.
“You clear on it?” Beck asks me quietly when I catch up.
“Insulted you have to ask,” I respond. And am completely unprepared for the devastating grin Beck flashes me.
“Good.”
We split off. I sprint through the first two grids, Beck plays me a flighted ball, and I send it into the goal. He doesn’t congratulate me, just nods.
Like it’s exactly what he expected. Somehow, that’s better.
Everyone else works their way through the drill, with varying levels of success. Beck corrects every error. Not harshly, but absent of any sympathy. He doesn’t flirt with anyone.
A loud horn sounds across the field, signaling the end of the clinics and the break for lunch.
“Thank God,” Cressida announces beside me. “I’m starving. Who thought those little boxes of cereal were breakfast? Give me some waffles and bacon.”
“It’s a soccer camp, not a vacation,” I reply, laughing, although I’m just as hungry.
“Why can’t it be both?” Cressida challenges.
I’m following Anne off the field when Beck speaks. “Saylor?” I pause.
“Can I talk to you?”
“Go ahead,” I tell Cressida, who’s stopped beside me.
I spin around slowly to watch him approach. He halts closer to me than I expect.
We stare at each other.
“Look, about last night—” Beck starts.
I take offensive action. “This isn’t happening anymore,” I tell Beck, gesturing between us. “Last night was a mistake. We had fun before. Now we’re finished. If you want to get laid, go hit up Mackenzie Howard. Or one of the other couple hundred girls here.”
“I tried to,” Beck tells me. I feel my face blanch in shock in response to his blunt reply, and he lets out a low laugh. “Not here. Back home, once you left. I tried to go back to—”
“Fucking every hot girl who hit on you?” I supplement. Beck rolls his eyes. “I want you, Saylor. Just you.”
I stare at him, totally shocked. “Be serious, Beck.” “I am.”
“I don’t even know what that means.”
“It means I want to date you. Be in a relationship. Whatever you want to call it. I want you, Saylor.”
I’m even more stunned. Beck expecting to hook up after the signals I sent last night? Expected. Telling me he wants a relationship? Un-fucking- expected. To put it mildly.
“I’m just a girl you used to sleep with. One of many.”
A frustrated hand rakes through short blond strands. “You’re a lot more than that to me… but I can’t figure out what I am to you. If I’m anything to you.”
Once again, I’m wholly unprepared for his response. “I—I don’t know,” I manage.
Beck nods once. “Fine.” He turns and starts walking away. “Wait. Where are you going?” I call after him.
He spins back around but doesn’t diminish any of the distance he just put between us. “I’m leaving,” he replies matter-of-factly. “I have practice tomorrow. My plane leaves in an hour.”
“You’re… leaving?” “Yes.”
“You can’t just show up here, tell me you want a relationship, and then take off, Beck!”
“I told you how I feel, and you did the same. Doesn’t seem like there’s anything left to discuss.”
“I told you I don’t know how I feel! You just dropped this on me out of nowhere. I haven’t even had time to think about it!”
“You shouldn’t need time to think about it, Saylor. Do you need twenty minutes to decide if you’re going to go for a goal?”
“The reactions aren’t comparable! You waited until an hour before your plane leaves to have this conversation?”
“You asked me to keep things professional,” he snaps, before letting out a long string of German. For once, I’m glad I don’t know what he’s saying. I doubt it’s complementary. Sure enough, when he switches back to English, it’s to say, “You’re absolutely infuriating. First you lecture me for coming and tell me not to talk to you about anything but football, and now that I have, you tell me I should have brought it up sooner?”
“Fine. When you put it that way, I can see why you’re annoyed,” I acquiesce. “But how was I supposed to know this is what you wanted to talk to me about?”
Beck scoffs. “Just forget I said anything.”
“I thought—I thought we were just having fun before…”
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” The words are inscrutable. Sarcastic?
Genuine? Angry? He’s giving me nothing.
He turns and strides away, leaving me standing here. Baffled. Irritated. Befuddled. I think I should call out after him, but I don’t know what to say. So, I watch him walk away, left with the sneaking suspicion that I just made a cataclysmically stupid mistake.
The nagging feeling stays with me. Every time I make a decision on the field for the rest of the day, I recall Beck’s words.
I ask Cassidy Jones, a senior at a school in California who’s done the same circuit of camps Lancaster has for the past three years, the question Emma would have a field day with as we’re paired off for a passing drill in the afternoon.
“Have you ever been in love?”
She chokes a little on the water she’s drinking. “Jesus, Scott. You really don’t bother with any small talk, huh?”
I don’t answer the rhetorical question. “Have you?”
“Uh—yeah, I guess so.” “You don’t sound sure.”
“Well, it’s not exactly black and white. That’s why there are a million songs and books and movies about it. No love story is exactly the same, the way no two people are exactly the same.”
I like things to be black and white. That’s why I love soccer. “Then how did you know you were in love?” I press.
“I don’t know, I just did. It became something I just knew. Like my favorite color or whether a ball is going to get past me when it’s flying at my face. He made me happy. Made me a better person. I felt like I could tell him anything. All that sentimental shit people wax poetic about.”
“Hmmmm,” I muse.
Cassidy slants me a side glance. “You asking for any particular reason?” “Nope. Just wondering,” I lie. She lets it drop, another reason she was
an excellent choice for the query.
I like things to be black and white. Adler Beck is a whole lot of gray.
Overwhelming, confusing gray.
And I don’t know what to do about it.
If I should do anything about it.
