The next few weeks fly by. I guess that’s what happens to time when you’re attending an elite soccer camp with an enervating itinerary that
believes in only one day off a week. My fellow Scholenberg attendees are tired, too. Even Olivia is too drained to make as many snarky comments. Each day, Coach Weber finds a new way to challenge us. It’s exhausting, and none of my fellow attendees are sneaking around with Adler Beck on top of an already draining schedule.
Ellie is definitely suspicious about how I disappear early some mornings and at other random points throughout the day. I had to make up an elaborate story for the day I spent hiking with Beck. I still don’t think she bought that I’d spent the day at the renowned art museum I actually visited on the first day of the program. Maybe because the ends of my hair were still damp when I returned to the house.
I’m not sure why I keep lying to her. I like Ellie. I’m certain she’d keep my extracurricular activities to herself if I asked her to, but I also know she’ll have questions. Questions I’ve never minded answering about a guy before. Questions I wouldn’t mind answering now if it had just been that time in the club. Or the club and the bathroom. It’s easy to answer a few questions about a one or two-time thing that’s ended.
Not so much when it’s lasted for weeks. And counting.
My phone vibrates on the table that flanks Beck’s king-size bed, waking me from a post-orgasmic utopia. Yup, I was right on about the bed. Although, honestly, his penthouse apartment is so massive anything smaller would look ridiculous.
Reluctantly, I drag my arm off the cloudlike mattress to grab my phone.
And think of the devil, it’s a text from Ellie asking where I am.
Out for a run, I reply. Hopefully she didn’t see me leave the house two hours ago.
Still?? she replies. It’s our day off!!!!
I chew on my bottom lip, trying to figure out how to respond. Our practice schedule is already insane. I’m dedicated to soccer, but I’m not a crazy person.
“What’s wrong?” I glance over at Beck, who’s lounging beside me.
“Ellie thinks I’m nuts. I told her I’m out for a run. On our day off.” I pause. “I haven’t told her about… this.” I flick a finger between our naked bodies, unsure how to categorize the reason we’re in bed together verbally. We’re fuck buddies, I guess?
There are plenty of guys I’ve slept with more than once, but they were sporadic hook-ups spanning weeks, sometime months, and always corresponding with some big bash on campus. Not almost every day for weeks.
We’re also friends?
Ever since our hike, we’ve kept talking about topics beyond soccer and sex. We still discuss—and act out—those plenty, but it’s intermingled with random conversations about books, food, music, movies, and travel.
Beck mutters something in German and slips out of bed. I sit up on my elbows. Most of the time he sticks to English around me, but there are moments when he’ll revert to his native tongue. It’s mostly when he’s close to coming, but that’s definitely not what’s happening right now. Beck pulls on a pair of athletic shorts and a Kluvberg t-shirt, and I mourn the loss of the view I was enjoying.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Beck glances over at me, and I don’t miss the heat that flares in his gaze. Is it good for my ego that he still seems just as transfixed by my body as I am by his? Try fantastic.
“I forgot it’s Sunday,” is his explanation.
“Okayyy…” I reply, letting a question linger after the word, because that really didn’t answer mine. Then, something occurs to me. “Oh my God, are you religious or something? Because I’m not sure He would approve of the past hour.”
Beck laughs. “No, I’m not religious. I have a family brunch.”
I would have been less surprised if he said he was going to church. “Oh,” I answer eloquently.
Beck pauses and studies me, as if he’s considering something. “Do you want to come?”
“What?” I blurt. Alarm bells start blaring in my head. “To your family brunch?”
Beck nods, since that’s literally what he just said.
“Will—uh—will your parents be there?” We’ve never discussed his parents aside from his brief mention of them during our walk to the stadium together, but I know they’re a substantial part of the enigma that is Adler Beck. He had towering expectations placed on him due to the fact that they were both successful players in their own right. Beck’s career would have been followed closely based on nothing but his last name and his parentage, even if he’d been nothing more than a mediocre competitor, but he managed to smash those already high hopes at just sixteen when he became eligible to play for Germany’s national team. He’s not only beloved by his home country but revered around the world for his skill on the pitch.
Normally, the chance to meet two successful professional players is one I would jump at, but they’re not just retired footballers. They’re Beck’s— the guy I’ve been consistently sleeping with—parents. I’ve never met a guy’s parents before. And it’s mostly the fact that I want to, that I’m curious about something beyond Beck’s skill on the pitch and moves in the bedroom, that’s got warning signals singing out in my head.
Beck’s oblivious to my spinning thoughts. “At their house? Yes, I think so.”
I choose to ignore his sarcasm. “Won’t it be weird?”
He shrugs. “Doubt it. I’ve brought plenty of girls over before.”
Other women would probably wilt in response to that sentence, but it prompts a rush of relief for me. Being nothing more than one in a line of many is exactly what I want to be when it comes to Adler Beck. It washes away any reservations I had.
“Yeah, sure,” I reply. “I’m guessing attire is casual?” I ask, nodding to his own outfit.
“Wear whatever you want,” Beck replies in the indifferent tone most men have when it comes to fashion.
“Well, I only have one outfit, so it shouldn’t be too hard of a choice,” I respond with a roll of my eyes, hopping off the bed to retrieve the shorts
and top Beck dropped in a heap next to his hamper after yanking them off. At least it’s one of my cuter workout outfits, a matching tank top and shorts in a shade of light turquoise that draws out some of the blue in my eyes. Plus, I took a cab here, planning to run later, so it’s not even sweaty.
I get dressed and then follow Beck out of his apartment into the hallway, although apartment is a bit of a misnomer. The square footage is probably double that of the house I grew up in. Beck’s door is the only one in the hallway. He has the top floor all to himself.
We enter the elevator, and as soon as Beck taps the down button, we drop rapidly. I expect to see the marble lobby I entered earlier, but the door opens to a garage. I follow him over to his car, which is parked in the prime spot just to the left of the elevator doors. Once I settle into the passenger seat, we’re soon flying along the roads of Kluvberg. I take the opportunity to reply to Ellie finally, going for a garbled version of the truth.
Nope, I’m meeting a guy for brunch.
She replies immediately. OMG! Text me after.
Great. More lies to concoct. Maybe I should just fess up.
I switch my attention to Beck. “So, anything I should know?”
“Hmm?” He keeps his eyes on the road, which I guess is a good thing. “Family skeletons? Awkward baby photos? Drama? What am I walking
into here?”
One corner, or at least the corner I can see, of Beck’s mouth lifts. “I wouldn’t be expecting any of that. You’ll probably be bored.”
I eye him dubiously. It’s just now occurring to me, since he brought it up, that I’ve never been bored in Beck’s presence. Not once.
“What if they ask about…” I make the same vague gesture between us I did earlier this morning.
I’m not sure if Beck catches the motion I make, but he catches my meaning. “They won’t.” His voice is confident. “The media keeps them plenty well apprised of my sex life. They won’t be asking for details.”
I have nothing to say to that, so the rest of the drive passes in silence. My sense of travel time is skewed thanks to Beck’s lead foot, but we take about forty-five minutes to reach a pair of black wrought-iron gates. I’d guess the trip was probably supposed to take an hour.
I don’t say anything as we roll through the open gate and along a cobblestone driveway Beck has the sense to slow down for. I’m too busy gaping at the estate we’re driving toward. I shouldn’t be this shocked. I just
left Beck’s penthouse suite that, if I had to guess, I’d estimate cost several million dollars. Logically, I know he, and his family, have money. Lots of it. But I’ve never lived anywhere besides the three-bedroom bungalow my parents bought when they got married, a dorm room, and the Colonial-style cottage I share with Cressida, Anne, and Emma that seems to need repairs constantly.
The house before me looks far too dignified to contain leaky faucets or creaky floorboards. The Scholenberg house I’m staying in and the other residences I walk past daily are all designed in what I’ve come to recognize as traditional German style: brightly colored and half-timbered. But the mansion before me is Baroque in appearance, both symmetrical and stately. There’s a courtyard containing topiaries and statues that wouldn’t look out of place at a royal residence cradled between the two wings of the house that jut out to the left and right. Beck parks at the very edge of the cobblestones.
“So, is your house behind the palace?” I ask, only half kidding. He grins. “Come on. We’re late.”
“Oh, is that why you were driving like we were fleeing a crime scene?”
Beck laughs. “No. I just like driving fast. And I’m not exactly worried about getting a ticket.”
Of course he’s not. Any cop would probably just ask for his autograph.
I follow him through the courtyard and glass-paneled doors into the marble entryway, feeling very out of place in my athletic apparel. One major I tried out before settling on public relations was architecture, and I feel like I’ve stepped inside one of the chateaus or palazzos we would study slideshows of in the intro class.
There’s a flurry of German to the left, and a statuesque blonde girl who looks to be about my age appears, stopping at the bottom of the staircase.
“Hi, Sophia,” Beck replies.
The blonde switches to flawless English. “You brought a girl to brunch?” She sounds thoroughly displeased about it.
“I thought you said you weren’t coming,” Beck replies.
“Ah, that explains it. Plans change. People don’t, apparently.” She huffs out an annoyed sigh.
I’m worried Beck’s managed to double-book his family brunch when she holds a hand out to me. “Hi, I’m Sophia Beck.”
I see glimpses of the family resemblance. She’s got the same pronounced cheekbones and shiny blonde hair as her older brother. “Saylor Scott,” I respond, shaking her firm grip.
“You’re American,” she realizes.
“Yes,” I respond, tempted to make a joke but uncertain how it will be received. She still looks annoyed by my mere presence.
“Are you a model?” she asks me.
I laugh. “Ha. No. I play soccer. I mean, football.” Her eyebrows rise. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Are you any good?”
“Yes,” I respond immediately.
She laughs. “I like you, Saylor Scott.”
“Thank you?” I reply, unsure how to take her quick about-face. But when her attention jumps right back to Beck, I realize bouncing between topics might just be her personality.
“Do you not own any nice clothes?” Sophia asks him, surveying Beck’s clothes disdainfully.
“Do you not own pants?” he retorts, studying Sophia’s admittedly short dress.
“If I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it, Adler,” she retorts, and I have to admit it was worth coming just to see Beck get scolded by his little sister. It’s also the first time I’ve heard anyone address him by his first name, but I guess it makes sense. It would be strange to call someone by your own last name.
Based on the wry twist of his lips, Beck notices my amusement. I’m distracted from his face when a massive tan and black animal appears around the corner and leaps on him. A loud bark alerts me to the fact that it’s a dog. A German Shepard, to be exact. I watch the exuberant canine leap and slobber all over Beck, who doesn’t seem the least bit fazed. He crouches down, allowing the excited dog to circle and rub against him. He murmurs something in German, and the dog’s tail wags even faster, something I hadn’t thought was possible. The whipping fur is generating enough of a breeze to be felt as it wafts across my bare legs.
“My brother likes to act like he’s the shit, but he’s actually a big softie,” Sophia whispers to me. “At least when it comes to dogs.”
“Interesting,” I muse.
Beck raises his gaze to where the two of us are standing, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches us talk conspiratorially.
“You should head out to the terrace,” Sophia instructs, not looking the least bit bothered by his scrutiny.
“Why aren’t you coming out?” Beck asks, still looking suspicious.
This time Sophia does look a bit guilty, shifting from foot to foot. “I may have invited Karl. He’ll be here any minute.”
“Sophia! I thought you were—”
“You do not get to have an opinion on my love life after what I’ve had to endure in school about…” There’s a quick glance at me, and then Sophia switches to German.
Beck barks something back in his native tongue, and then I’m lost, feeling like I’ve stumbled into the wrong theater and am stuck in a foreign film screening. Without subtitles.
Sophia says something that makes Beck’s fists clench, and that’s when our trio turns into a quartet. A new voice spouts more German, and I turn to see Erika Lange—now Erika Beck—enter the imposing entryway. I straighten automatically. Beck’s mother isn’t in quite the same strata of notoriety as Christina Weber, but she’s close, and she probably would be if an ACL injury hadn’t cut her career short. Despite being in her fifties, she’s still got the lean build of an athlete, and her blonde hair only has a few ribbons of gray working their way through it. She’s stunning, in an ethereal, timeless way. It’s obvious where her children got their looks.
Her voice is quieter than Beck and Sophia’s, but both of them fall silent as soon as she speaks what is clearly some sort of admonishment. Then she notices me and says something else in German. Beck jumps back in, and then Sophia laughs and says a few words.
I wish I could get a transcript of this conversation to plug into Google Translate later, but they’re speaking too fast for me to catch so much as a single word to look up.
“Hello. I’m Erika,” Beck’s mother says, switching to English and giving me a warm, albeit guarded smile.
“I know,” I blurt.
Her smile grows a bit more genuine. “You’re American,” she observes, echoing her daughter. I’m guessing it means the girls Beck referenced earlier have all been German.
“Yes. That’s why I don’t know German. I mean, I didn’t think I’d need to know it. I’m just here for a few more weeks.” Oh my God, stop talking! I scold myself. “I think it’s a great language, though,” I add, worried I’ve somehow offended everyone in the room.
Beck snorts at my side, and I elbow him in the stomach. Unfortunately, I think the contact hurts my arm more than his torso.
“Are you here on a university trip? Or vacation?” Erika inquires politely, a small smile playing on her lips that I hope means she found my awkward babble charming and not idiotic.
“I’m here for Scholenberg.” Both Sophia and Erika’s eyebrows rise. “I was just planning to play socc—football. That’s why I didn’t bother to learn any German. I wasn’t expecting to be around so many… Germans.”
There’s a second snort beside me, and I jab Beck a bit harder this time.
Still rock solid.
“I’d love to hear more about Scholenberg,” Erika remarks. “I haven’t seen Christina in ages. She’s still the head coach, yes?”
“She’s more of a drill sergeant, but yes,” I reply. Erika laughs.
“Where’s Papa?” Beck asks, strolling farther into the mansion.
“On the terrace,” Erika replies. “It’s so nice out I thought we’d eat outside.”
We walk through a tastefully decorated living room, leaving Sophia behind in the soaring entryway to wait for the mysterious Karl. I’m guessing they covered that in the German portion of the conversation.
The terrace is covered by a wooden lattice woven with bright greenery that shades the table and chairs beneath it. It overlooks a broad stretch of grass framed by tall, trimmed hedges that block any neighbors.
Seated at the head of the table is a tall, silver-haired man I immediately know is Beck’s father. Hans Beck raises his head from the newspaper when we approach, blue eyes flitting between his wife and son, then to me. He snaps the paper back into its original fold and tucks it under the place setting already set out on the table.
Beck and Sophia favor their mother in appearance. Hans Beck cuts an intimidating figure, with a domineering presence similar to Beck’s, but it’s a rougher one. His face is tough and weathered, and what remains of his original hair color is darker than the rest of his family’s, combed back neatly to emphasize his hewn features.
Beck says something in German to his father that I’m guessing is a greeting. “Hello.” Hans greets me in a gruff tone. Or maybe Beck was instructing him to address me in English.
“Hi, Mr. Beck.” I hold out a hand to shake his. “I’m Saylor Scott.” “Hans is fine,” he replies, studying me curiously.
I shift nervously under his scrutiny. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’m not easily starstruck. I’ve met dozens of famous former athletes before and wasn’t the least bit nervous. I managed to beat Beck in a shootout the first time we met, for fuck’s sake. I know their names, but Erika and Hans Beck retired before I was even born. I’ve never seen either of them play. And yet I’m acting like a teenager meeting my date’s parents before prom.
“Your home is beautiful.” I sweep a hand toward the yard like they’re not aware their back lawn looks like it could be featured on the cover of a gardening magazine.
“Thank you,” Erika says graciously. “Saylor is here attending Scholenberg,” she informs Hans.
Something that looks like respect glints in blue eyes the same shade as Beck’s. “Congratulations. That’s a competitive program.”
“Thank you,” I respond. “I’m a competitive person.”
There’s a small twitch of his mouth, and I’m fairly certain it’s as close to smiling as Hans Beck gets. “The best athletes are,” he replies.
I smile.
There’s a chattering of German, and then Sophia appears in the opening between the french doors with a guy with light brown hair close behind. He’s handsome in a preppy, male-model kind of way that’s been artfully prepared. His t-shirt displays the faded logo for a band I’ve seen advertised around Kluvberg, and gel glints in his hair, suggesting the messy look he’s sporting is purposeful.
Erika greets him first. “Hello, Karl.” There’s a pause. “Karl,” Hans grunts.
I watch Sophia level Beck with a sharp glance. “Hi, Karl,” he says.
I look at Karl, only to see he’s already staring at me; in a way that seems a bit more appropriate for a poorly lit bar than a family brunch. “Hey, Karl,” I say casually. “I’m Saylor. Nice to meet you.”
His eyes widen when he registers my American accent, and then his eyes drift downward over my body. I thought Beck was just being
protective earlier, but it seems Karl is not the most upstanding of teenagers. “I’m hungry,” Beck says abruptly. “Is the food ready?”
“Yes, it is.” Erika lurches into motion. “Take your seats, everyone.”
Hans returns to the same chair he was seated in previously, and I round the edge of the table to sit on the side facing the house. There are six chairs, but only five place settings. Obviously, my attendance wasn’t planned upon. I start to take the seat without a plate or silverware, but Beck grasps my elbow and pushes me down a spot to the chair that’s already set.
“Take that one,” he instructs.
“Wow, so you can be a gentleman,” I whisper to him as I do as instructed.
Beck smirks as he sits in the chair next to me. “I’ve gotten the impression you like it when I’m not a gentleman,” he mutters back.
“How exactly did I give you that impression?” I ask innocently, still keeping my voice quiet as I brush my arm against his.
“Saylor.” There’s a note of warning in his voice, but the syllables of my name also sound thicker than usual.
I grin triumphantly. I bet he’s hard.
I’m distracted from our flirting when my name is said again, this time in a bubbly, female voice.
“Yes?” I reply, turning to look at Sophia.
“I was wondering if you’d like a tour of the house?” she asks.
“Sure,” I reply, standing. I don’t miss the way Karl’s eyes follow my movements as I walk back around the table to the doors that lead inside. As we enter the living room, I hear Hans ask Beck something in German.
“This is the living room,” Sophia announces, smiling widely and spinning in the center of the plush rug. The color scheme is muted, and one I’m pretty certain was crafted by a professional interior decorator. It’s almost too perfect; the light grays, pale pinks, and muted blues melding together like an early morning sunrise. There’s an oil painting hanging above the fireplace that depicts an old building, some sort of cathedral or church, I think. Below it a series of photographs rest on the mantle.
There are several staged family portraits and a few candid shots. One in particular catches my attention, and I study it closely. A sixteen-year-old Beck stands between his two parents, beaming. I know he’s sixteen because of the stadium in the background, the German flag draped across his
shoulders. It’s a snapshot of the moment following his breakout performance that allowed Germany to win a championship.
“Do your parents play?” Sophia asks me, following my gaze.
“No,” I reply, laughing a little at the thought. “I don’t think either of them have even seen a game.”
“Not even yours?” Sophia asks, sounding surprised.
“Nope,” I respond, keeping my tone light. “Have you ever played?”
Sophia scoffs. “Definitely not. They’re a hard act to follow.” She nods to the photo of her parents and brother.
“Did you want to?” I ask, curious to hear her perspective after what Beck had to say about Sophia enjoying the perks without the pressure.
“Not really. I still remember the first time we played football in school. My parents had retired already, Adler was only at the academy, but everyone still expected me to play, to be good. It was exhausting. I don’t know how Adler does it, to be honest.”
“Do you guys get along?” I ask curiously. “It seemed like I was walking into some pretty thick tension earlier. Not that I understood anything.”
Sophia laughs. “Yeah, we do. For the most part, anyway. It was mostly because of—well, you.”
“Me?” I say, surprised.
“Not you, specifically. Just that he brough home another girl.” “So…. he brings a lot of girls home?” I ask. Not that it matters. Sophia nods. “He promised to cut it out, but then, well…”
“He brought me,” I surmise.
She nods again. “I was just annoyed. But I didn’t mean to make you feel unwelcome.”
“You didn’t,” I assure her, even though she sort of did.
She studies me speculatively. “You’re different,” she admits. “Most girls are too busy making heart eyes at Adler to so much as talk to the rest of us.” “Sounds awkward,” I note. “But I’m leaving in a few weeks. I already
know my heart eyes are numbered.”
She eyes me. “Maybe that’s why you’re different. The rest of them never did.”
Sophia leads me through the entryway to the opposite side of the house, which I learn contains a library, sitting room, two bathrooms, and an honest-to-God conservatory.
“I feel like I’m in a game of Clue,” I confess to Sophia as I glance around the glass-paneled room that juts off the east side of the mansion.
She laughs. “Oh my God, I haven’t played that in forever.”
“It’s my favorite board game,” I admit. “I get sort of competitive. None of my housemates back home will play with me anymore.”
“We’re totally playing after brunch,” Sophia decides, grinning. “It’s a deal,” I reply, smiling back.
We swing back through the entryway, past a room that must be the kitchen, based on the flash of shiny appliances, and end up back on the terrace. Breakfast has been served, and Beck’s eyes jump up from his freshly served plate to meet my gaze as soon as I step out of the house. Erika’s taken the seat at the other end of the table, and I make my way around the back of her seat to sink down beside Beck.
“All good?” he asks me in a low voice.
I nod, studying the array of food spread before me. I tend to be a picky eater, and I could characterize my relationship with German cuisine as more misses than hits. There are some familiar dishes—waffles and what looks like a cheese tart with cherries—but the rest are foreign. There’s some sort of smoked fish topped with a swirled cream, a green soup sprinkled with crispy brown croutons, a salad scattered with seared meat, and rolls with crispy bacon and sauerkraut peeking out.
“That’s mackerel,” Beck informs me, nodding to the fish. “And zucchini soup with pumpernickel crusts.”
“Yum,” I remark, in what I mean to be a genuine tone. Beck chuckles under his breath, suggesting I may not have been completely successful.
“Weren’t they both on your list of most-hated German foods?” he asks.
I flush. I forgot about my “conversation” with Matthew Jr. in front of him. “That was before I decided to embrace the local culture,” I tell Beck.
He smirks. “Really?”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, forking some of the fish onto my plate and trying not to gag at the smell.
“I ran into Headmaster Schneider yesterday,” Erika states as she eats some of the green soup that’s apparently made from zucchinis. “He’s looking forward to the camp, Adler.”
“Good. I’ve got four guys from the club coming,” Beck replies. “Herrmann?” Hans asks.
“Ja. And Ludwig,” Beck responds.
Hans nods in approval. “What camp?” I inquire.
Everyone looks at me, but Beck is the one who answers. “It’s for the kids at my old football academy. We do a weekend clinic once a year. This year’s is next Sunday.”
“They trust you to teach children?” The words are out before I think them through.
Beck just grins, unperturbed. Erika doesn’t fully manage to hide her smile behind her water glass.
“We’re always looking for more volunteers, if you’re interested, Saylor,” Erika offers.
“Oh, um, I don’t really—I’ve never coached anyone before,” I reply. Sophia pipes in with “If Adler can manage it, I’m sure you can.” Yup, totally set myself up for that.
I surprise myself by saying yes. Lancaster’s soccer teams had to attend a youth clinic last year, but it was more a PR stunt for the university than anything. All we did was pass out water bottles and set up cones.
“Wonderful,” Erika replies.
“You play football?” Karl speaks for the first time since I returned from Sophia’s tour.
I decide to give his wayward eyes another chance. “Yeah, I do. You?” “Used to. My band takes up too much time now.”
I smile to myself. Of course he’s in a band. “Do you play an instrument?” I ask, in an effort to be polite.
Beck sighs beside me. At first, I think it’s in annoyance; but when Karl launches into a twenty-minute description of his skills on guitar, his capability in writing songs about squirrels, and his lofty musical goals, I realize it was with dread. This is obviously a soliloquy the Becks have all heard before. Even Sophia looks bored.
After we finish eating, Sophia darts inside and returns with a familiar cardboard box.
“A board game?” Beck asks skeptically.
“No one invited you to play, Adler,” Sophia says.
Hans and Erika rise to clear plates, and I start to as well. “We’ve got them,” Erika says, flapping her hands toward me in a clear motion to stay seated. “You kids have fun.”
“There’s nothing fun about Clue,” Beck mutters.
“It’s Saylor’s favorite game,” Sophia states. He looks to me. “It is?”
I nod, then shrug. “I like mysteries.” “Fine, I’ll play.” Beck sighs.
I don’t miss the way Sophia glances between us, and I know she’s misreading Beck’s acquiescence. She sets up the board, deals out the cards, and then we play. Despite his initial complaints, Beck is not the least enthusiastic player at the table. Karl has him beat by a mile. I guess all of his cards by my third turn, mostly because Karl keeps flashing them at me. Either he truly has no idea how the game works, or it’s his attempt at flirting with me in front of his girlfriend.
Beck navigates Mrs. White, known as Frau Weiss in the German edition, out of one room, and I let out a long sigh. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
He glances at me. “I just did.”
“But it did happen in the Conservatory.” “No, it didn’t.”
“How do you know?” I reply.
“Because I have the card, so I know you’re just messing with me.”
“Hmmmm,” I say, adding a question mark next to the room listing on my sheet.
“Or am I messing with you?” Beck adds, sending me a smirk as he moves the white figurine forward.
I narrow my eyes at him.
I have to show Sophia one of my cards on her next turn, and I walk all the way around the table just to show her the illustration of a gun to ensure Beck can’t peek.
She shakes her head as I head back to my seat beside him. “Anyone ever tell you you’re competitive?”
“Multiple times a day,” I assure her.
And it’s affirmed twice more when I correctly guess the suspect, location, and weapon.
“You don’t have to be quite so excited about winning,” Beck informs me as we clean up the pieces. Sophia and Karl have already headed inside.
“Well, I didn’t exactly have a chance to celebrate last time,” I reply, referencing our shootout for the first time in weeks.
“Maybe because you knew it wasn’t a clean victory,” Beck replies.
“What was dirty about it?” I counter. “I made five, you made four.” “My thoughts, for starters,” Beck replies.
I smirk as I meet his gaze. “You didn’t seem all that affected.”
“I’ve been training since I was a kid not to be affected on the field.”
But I affected him. He’s not saying it, but it’s spelled out in the subtext. “So, you’re saying you want a rematch?” I tease.
“No. There are other things I’d rather do with you than play football.” Heat and intensity mix in his gaze, but I don’t think he’s just talking about sex.
“Well, Karl left,” Sophia states, bouncing out onto the terrace. “So, you can relax, Adler.”
“Great,” he replies, dropping my gaze.
“I think I’m done with him this time,” she decides.
“Great,” Beck repeats dryly. I’m guessing it’s a line he’s heard before.
He grabs the board game box and heads inside.
“I just need to meet some new guys,” Sophia declares. “Clubbing! We should go clubbing next weekend!”
“Uh, sure,” I reply, unsure what the proper etiquette is for going out with a fuck buddy’s family member. Sophia doesn’t seem put off by my lackluster response, bouncing back inside while I follow.
Beck and his parents are already waiting in the marble foyer. We all exchange goodbyes, and Erika tells me how much she’s looking forward to the youth camp next Sunday. Sophia gives me a hug.
I smile, and then we’re back outside. “Sophia likes you,” Beck comments as we climb into the car.
“I know. She told me thirty seconds after we met,” I respond glibly. “Also… she wants to go clubbing next weekend.” I study Beck’s face closely, worried he might be annoyed. But his expression barely flickers as he starts back down the cobblestone driveway.
“Not surprised,” he responds.
We roll through the gate and then hit cement. Beck accelerates accordingly, and soon we’re speeding along at his usual pace.
“Thank you for inviting me today. It was nice,” I say. “Your parents are really nice. It’s nice you’re so close with them.” And nice is the only adjective I’m capable of coming up with, apparently.
“You’re not close with your father.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“No,” I confirm. “My dad, he—he didn’t deal well with my mom leaving. None of us did, really. But Hallie and I were just kids. He was the adult. He was supposed to hold it all together, and instead he fell apart. By the time he started acting like a parent again, I didn’t need one. Or want one, at least.”
“And now?”
“He’s getting remarried.” I sigh. “He called the day I found out I got into Scholenberg. Not that he would have had any idea of what it even is. I’ve only met Sandra—his fiancée—once.”
“How long have they been together?”
“Three years,” I admit. “I don’t go back home much.” “Why not?”
“It’s weird. There are all these memories of the past. Before my mom left. After. The last time I was home was for my sister’s wedding. She’s… forgiven him. She went through all the same shit I did, and now she’s just fine. Married with a kid, going over to his house for dinner like we were always one big happy family. I’m the resentful one stuck in the past, just getting more bitter as they move on with their lives.”
“Just because you had the same upbringing doesn’t mean you have to respond to things the same way. You’re not the same person as your sister. I mean, look at me and Sophia. She brought a guy to brunch who can spend ten minutes describing his song about feeding squirrels. I was sitting next to the ‘Future of Women’s Soccer.’”
A surprised laugh bursts out of my lips. “Where did you come up with that?”
“I may have researched more than just your conversion rate,” Beck admits.
I smile, but the amusement fades quickly. “Thank you,” I say quietly. Unexpected warmth encompasses my left hand.
I turn my gaze to the German countryside flashing by, trying to shake the claustrophobia crawling over me. I just told Beck things I’ve never spoken aloud. Never told anyone. That disgusting fish must have had some truth serum in it.
I’ve always kept confessions and coitus separate. Mixing them seems an awful lot like a relationship, and a boyfriend will not get me to the Olympics. To the national team. On a professional team after graduation. Won’t help me accomplish any of the goals I’ve set for myself.
Even if I were open to having a boyfriend, I’m pretty certain Adler Beck is the worst possible candidate for the position. Not just because he’s famous. And lives in a country four thousand miles away from the East Coast of the United States. And goes through women at a dizzying pace. And a poster of him hangs in the room across from my own.
Adler Beck is a terrible idea because I suddenly know with absolute certainty that if I let myself, I could care about him.
Like him.
Maybe even love him.
So, I slide my hand out from underneath his and pretend the pines we’re passing are the most interesting ones I’ve ever seen, so I don’t have to register his response.
