But girls who knew I’d spent time in bed with their now-boyfriends have given me warmer receptions than the majority of my fellow Scholenberg attendees.
I came in expecting it, to a certain extent. We’re some of the best athletes in the world.
All competitive.
All used to being the best.
All perfectionists.
Put a group of people like that together, then add the fact that we’ll likely be competing against each other on the world stage wearing our home country’s colors in the near future? Hardly a surprise you would need a sharpened steak knife to cut through the thick tension in the small room. Maybe a machete.
My temporary teammates have trickled in over the past few days, but this is the first time we’ve all gathered in one small space.
I’ve passed some girls in the hallway before or seen them preparing food in the kitchen. I even went out to dinner with a few last night. Ellie Anderson shoots me a small smile when I walk into the room, but the rest of the expressions are guarded.
There aren’t any jokes or quips being tossed around. Sporadic, polite chatter in a smorgasbord of languages is the only sound echoing against cinderblock. Or it was. Silence descends when I enter, and I realize I wasn’t imagining my reception around the shared house being frostier than everyone else’s.
I know it’s actually a compliment, in an underhanded way. There are a couple of familiar faces I recognize, but most I don’t.
They all know who I am already.
We don’t have to marinate in awkward silence for very long. I’ve barely taken a seat next to Ellie, my fellow countrywoman, when the door bangs open to reveal Christina Weber. Seeing her in person prompts that same surreal flash my encounter with Adler Beck did yesterday. I’ve watched her win championships, studied her playing style, and read articles about her all-around badassery. And now she’s standing ten feet from me, talking through today’s schedule in crisply accented English. As my coach. She provides an unnecessary introduction and then announces an endurance test is up first, which is hardly a surprise.
Although expected, the announcement still sends an icy chill through me that eradicates most of the thrill of being in Christina Weber’s presence. Normally, I’d be champing at the bit to show off my hard-fought-for fitness. At the current moment, I know it means I’ll be sitting most of the day’s activities out.
Coach Weber ends her brisk instructions with, “Scott. A word.” Everyone else takes it as a cue to leave, and in seconds I’m sitting in a sea of twenty-four empty chairs.
“Nice to meet you, Coach Weber,” I state, standing and walking to the front of the room. Remaining in the empty row makes me feel like I’m back in high school, getting scolded in after-school detention for not paying attention during class.
“You too, Scott.” The words are clipped, but genuine. “Your medical records arrived yesterday,” Coach Weber continues. “You’ve got six more days of recommended rest.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I confirm. I couldn’t definitively tell you what day of the week it is, but I’m completely certain there are six days until I’m cleared to resume normal play.
“We’ve got a full team scrimmage next week. You’ll be starting.”
I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep a broad grin from flashing. I sprained my knee nine weeks ago at a spring skills clinic. Needless to say, it scared the shit out of me. Despite my aggressive playing style, I’d never had a serious soccer injury before; certainly never one that threatened my future in the sport, that jeopardized my career. Soccer has always been a constant in my life. The one thing I take seriously and prioritize. The fear of losing it, coupled with terrifying words like “possible permanent damage” and “surgery,” has kept my normally reckless nature in check these past two months. I’ve followed every instruction to the letter: icing, compression, elevation. Except for my impromptu battle of the sexes with Adler Beck yesterday, I’ve also limited any movement to physical therapist-approved exercise.
“You’ll have to sit out today. I’ve got Kluvberg’s physical therapist waiting for you. She’ll look at your knee and talk you through some additional exercises. Tomorrow’s a film and weights day. We’ll take it from there on what you can participate in.”
“Okay,” I respond. I came in expecting this, and after watching Lancaster’s team practice without me for the past two months, I’m actually glad I won’t have to sit and watch the team run today. There’s nothing worse than sitting on the sidelines.
“Head down the hall. Last door on the left,” Coach Weber instructs.
“Okay.” I head toward the exit.
“Scott?”
“Yes?” I glance back.
“Looking forward to coaching you.”
I allow myself a small smile. “Looking forward to being coached.”
I head out into the hallway. The floor is cement and the walls are painted a cream color. It’s minimalistic, aside from the massive glossy photographs printed on satin paper lining the walls. They’re all action shots of players running, lunging, or mid-kick. It’s impossible to miss that one athlete is featured twice as frequently as anyone else.
I grit my teeth as I pass the tenth photo of Adler Beck.
No wonder his ego is larger than most countries.
The last door on the left reveals a room flashier than I expected. We’re on the lowest level of the Kluvberg stadium. The room we met Coach Weber in was little more than a dim expanse that I’m guessing is ordinarily meant for storage. But despite its disparate location, this room contains a whole host of equipment I know must cost thousands of dollars. A brunette with a friendly smile is tidying a shelf of towels when I walk inside.
“You must be Saylor,” she declares, in what I think is a French accent. “I’m Alizée.”
“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you,” I reply.
“Take a seat up there, please.” She nods toward the straight-line table, the kind I’ve become far too familiar with over the past two months. I climb up on it and stretch my legs out.
Alizée pokes and prods at the muscles in my right leg in a way I’ve also become too accustomed to, but her next words alleviate some of my frustration. “Your knee looks good. Really good. Six more days until full activity?”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and nod.
Alizée rotates my knee for a little longer, then walks me through a few new exercises I can add to my current routine to ease my knee into full movement. She’s just wrapping up the last one when the door bangs open. I tense involuntarily, not realizing why until I look up into brown eyes, not blue. My body relaxes without me telling it to.
The man who’s just entered jabbers out what sounds like an apology. Alizée replies, and I hear Scholenberg mixed in with a series of unfamiliar words.
“You’re all set, Saylor,” Alizée says. “Keep doing those, and I’ll see you next week. Should be able to give you the all-clear.”
“Okay, thanks.” I hop off the table, passing the man I’m certain must be a Kluvberg player without a glance, even though I can feel his eyes on me.
I head back into the hallway, ducking into the first stairwell I come across. But when I exit the stairs, it’s not into the industrial-looking lobby we entered this morning. Instead, I’m in a hallway covered with a lush carpet and lined with offices. I swear under my breath and turn to head back into the stairwell.
And almost collide with someone.
I glance up into gray eyes. This man is one I recognize. It’s Stefan Hermann, Kluvberg’s current keeper. I’m guessing Otto’s being groomed as his backup and eventual replacement.
Suddenly, I can’t go anywhere without bumping into famous, fit men. It sounds like a wonderful problem to have, but every Kluvberg player I encounter who’s not Adler Beck increases my chances the next one will be. Ellie said FC Kluvberg spends most of the summer at their nearby training facility, giving up the stadium for tours and Scholenberg. Either she has inaccurate i
nformation—which, given who her uncle is, seems unlikely—or I have questionable luck.
“Do you know how to get out of the stadium from here?” I ask, hoping he speaks English.
“Two floors down and through the lobby,” he replies. Of course he does. Everyone I’ve encountered in Germany speaks perfect English, albeit with a range of accents.
“Thank you,” I reply, flashing him a grateful smile and rushing into the stairwell.
His directions are accurate, and a few minutes later I’m emerging from the dim lobby into the brilliant German sunshine. I wave at the security guard as I head out the gate reserved for players, coaches, and others with some form of special access to the stadium. For the duration of Scholenberg, that includes me.
Once outside the fence surrounding the stadium, I pause for a minute. I expected to have downtime during my first week here until my knee was cleared.
I didn’t expect to have free time.
Coach Taylor, Lancaster’s head coach, has a strict policy that requires all players to attend practice, even if injured. I was expecting something similar here.
Instead, I’m standing outside the most famous football stadium in the world with no idea where to go. Every person I know in Germany is inside that stadium, and it’s not even ten in the morning—the middle of the night on the East Coast—so I can’t call anyone back home to kill time.
The four-story structure Scholenberg houses us in is only a few blocks away, but returning to a twin bed and unpacked suitcases doesn’t sound appealing. So, I just start walking.
Kluvberg’s stadium is nestled amidst the oldest section of the city that shares its name. The location is a tribute to both the club’s esteemed relevance and its entwined history. I wander along streets teeming with character and charm.
I would have jumped on a plane to Antarctica if that was where the best women’s soccer camp in the world was located. I didn’t really give any thought to my destination beyond the ways it could advance my soccer skills.
Wandering along cobblestone streets that look straight out of a storybook, I take a moment to appreciate the fact that I’ll be spending the next two months in one of the oldest cities in Europe for the first time.
A canal runs to my right, constrained by mossy banks and filled with stagnant, clear water that reflects the pastel exteriors of the buildings lining its shore. Pointed steeples tower in the distance. Wooden boxes line the street, overflowing with bright blossoms and exuberant greenery stretching mossy fingers toward the stone road.
Up ahead, the narrow path opens to a bustling square. There’s a market taking place, consisting of wooden booths displaying a staggering array of products for purchase. Striped umbrellas shade jam, cheese, honey, flowers, and meats, along with every variety of fruits and vegetables imaginable.
A church bell tolls out a booming, commanding sound. I look to the left to see one of the majestic cathedrals Europe is famous for. It’s a far cry from the small, white-washed chapel Hallie got married in two summers ago.
The building itself is a work of art; the exterior so detailed and purposefully crafted it seems impossible to even attempt to catalog the complicated texture and dazzling architecture. The cathedral fits perfectly with its timeless surroundings while simultaneously completely overshadowing them.
I stare for a while, trying to reconcile how this building just exists. Sitting here the same way it has for hundreds of years. It also serves as an amusing litmus test for distinguishing tourists from the locals. Those manning the booths barely glance up at the magnificent church, while everyone else is gaping upward or snapping pictures.
Eventually I move on, stopping to buy a soft pretzel from one booth and then continuing along the same street I was walking along before. It veers left after a hundred yards, transitioning into an arch bridge that crosses the canal.
The building situated immediately on the opposite side reminds me of the cathedral I just left. It’s comprised of the same dark gray stone and has the same emanation of majesty, but everywhere on the cathedral was pointed steeples and sharply carved edges; this building is rounded. Circular windows, ornate arches, and a domed ceiling are the most prominent examples.
There’s a steady flow of foot traffic heading in and out of the stone structure, and I fall in line behind a couple speaking what I think is Spanish. I’d ask them where we’re headed, but my Spanish is no better than my German. Plus, I receive an answer as soon as we walk into the cavernous lobby.
It’s some sort of museum. There’s a long counter that spans the center of the room, covered with pamphlets. Chattering tourists are grouped around signs displaying clock hands in various positions. I can’t recall the last time I was inside any sort of museum—probably elementary school, if I had to guess—but that’s not why I pause just inside the front doors. It’s the stark contrast between the exterior and the interior that has me stalling to a stop.
The outside was a grimy gray, weathered by years of exposure to harsh winters and—as I can attest to personally—sweltering summers. The interior is white.
Blinding, austere, striking white. The total absence of color is jarring. I feel like I was just dropped inside a snow globe.
I walk deeper into the museum, disregarding the tour groups and pamphlets. I assume there’s an admission cost, but no one stops me as I pass through the winter wonderland into a cement hallway that matches the aged exterior. Priceless oil paintings hang on walls that look straight out of a medieval castle.
I veer left into the first gap in the wall, which turns out to be a small gallery. There are about ten people in the tiny room, all looking entirely absorbed in the artwork displayed. I don’t think anyone who knows me would describe me as an art buff. I took an art history class freshman year and was bored to tears; mostly because the class was filled with pompous overachievers. You know, the type who swishes red wine in the glass and talks about notes of cherry and wood.
Suffice it to say, I’m not one to drop terms like brushwork or composition in casual conversation. But the room is absent of any know-it-all commentary, so I take the time to lean close to each painting and study the intricacies.
There’s no sign of the sort of abstract pieces hung in modern art museums where you look at one line of paint on an otherwise blank canvas meant to portray the human experience and think I could have done this.
Many of the paintings portray scenes like the ones I just saw outside: cobblestone streets, canals, and cathedrals. Others show countryside scenes with sheep, streams, and distant mountains.
I move into the connected room. This one has more variety. There are a few vineyards, some sailboats, lots of portraits of people I don’t recognize, and one painting I spend a long time staring at. It’s simple: a field of wildflowers. Shades of green grass and purple flowers. The level of detail is masterful. I feel like I could reach out and touch the blades and petals. The artistry is exquisite, but it’s also got an intangible quality to it, as though the entire painting is a mirror or a mirage. There are smudges and smears you have to look closely to see, and they mar the scene, keeping it from being too perfect. The longer I look, the more I see.
It’s a puddle.
Simply a reflection of a perfect scene.
Once I realize that, I move on. I’ve just entered the next room when my phone rings, earning me dirty looks from everyone else already inside this gallery. I struggle to pull it out of the snug athletic shorts I’m wearing, and the sound grows even more obnoxious when it’s free from the spandex. It’s Hallie.
I end the call, only for it to ring again immediately.
The middle-aged woman standing closest to me mutters something in German that sounds decidedly unpleasant. Then again, I’ve yet to hear anything said in German sound pleasant. Any term of endearment might as well be a scolding.
I duck out into the hallway and answer my phone with a whispered “Hello?”
“Why are you talking so quietly?” Hallie shouts. And I mean sho
uts. Her voice is audible enough to catch the attention of the security guard strolling about, making certain none of us attempt a heist. He gives me a stern look and points to the door marked Ausgang.
I sigh and follow his silent command, pushing through the door that exits into a sculpture garden.
Immediately, I mourn the loss of air conditioning. “Why are you screaming? You just got me kicked out of the museum. It’s sweltering out.”
“Museum? You’re at a museum?”
“Uh-huh,” I reply, taking a seat on one of the cement benches and kicking at the pebbled path. “I can’t play.” The words taste bitter on my tongue. “Figured I might as well explore Kluvberg.”
“That’s awesome. Good for you.”
I roll my eyes. I should have known. Hallie’s always been disturbed by my focus on soccer. Me attending a soccer camp and instead expanding my cultural horizons is practically her dream come true.
“Are you settling in okay?” she asks, raising her voice to a bellow at the end.
I pull the phone away from my ear. “Why are you yelling again?”
“Sorry,” Hallie replies at a normal volume. “We’re at the park. They’re mowing one of the soccer fields and I can barely hear when they pass by.”
I remember those soccer fields, but I don’t voice the memory. Instead, I ask, “Why are you calling me if you’re at the park? Isn’t it still super early there?”
“Yes.” Hallie sighs. “Guess that’s why they’re mowing. Matthew wouldn’t sleep and Matt has an important meeting this morning. I needed to get out of the house.”
“Huh,” I reply. Hallie’s always been selfless, whereas I don’t even remember what Matt does for work. Something in finance?
“So, are you settled?”
“Yes.” If you count the suitcase I unzipped.
“We’re going to Dad’s for dinner tonight,” Hallie says without preamble.
“Have fun.” I trace the patterns carved into the bench’s surface with my free hand.
The half-hearted sentiment earns me another sigh from Hallie. “Last week he said he hadn’t heard from you since March.”
First Flight, Final Fall Page 3