First Flight, Final Fall

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “Nope.” The word comes out a little too rushed, but Ellie doesn’t know me well enough to notice.

  She sighs with disappointment. “Damnit, I was relying on living vicariously through you.”

  “What?”

  “Again, I follow you, Saylor. You’re a hot-guy magnet.”

  “How was your day yesterday?” I ask, eager to change the subject.

  “It was fine. Uncle Franz is all excited about some exhibition match the team has coming up.”

  “Huh.” Switching topics to FC Kluvberg was not exactly what I had in mind.

  I keep scrolling through rows of courses, and then the screen freezes. I sigh, taking it as a sign I should stop. I’m already fed up. Standing, I stretch and then grab my sneakers.

  “I’m going for a run. You want to come?”

  “You’re joking, right?” Ellie asks. “It’s our day off!”

  I let lacing my sneakers up answer for me.

  “What about your knee?”

  “I’m cleared to jog. Not about to run a marathon.”

  “Have fun,” Ellie calls after me as I head down the hallway. I hear springs squeak as she flops back down on my bed.

  Several other girls are scattered around the living room when I walk down the stairs, all looking as relaxed as Ellie. They study me as I pass them in my athletic shorts and baggy t-shirt, and I sigh internally. I didn’t expect to leave here with lifelong friendships, but I’ve been here for over a week and there’s no sign of anyone but Ellie liking me at all.

  The four-story house that hosts Scholenberg attendees is centrally located, and it’s only a few blocks to the park I know is nearby. The streets are busy, filled with chattering locals and tourists alike. The scenery of the city still shocks me. Aside from a spring break trip to Mexico and a soccer camp in Canada, this is my first time out of the US. I’d seen photos of Europe before coming here, but those didn’t compare to the history permeating every step.

  The scarred cobblestones, ancient buildings, and colorful architecture are a far cry from the sleepy southern town I grew up in, or the college town Lancaster is located in. The scent of street food and the chatter of foreign languages fill air still damp from rain the sky expelled earlier. Watery sunshine peeks through light gray clouds here and there, extending misty fingers that trickle down to the damp street.

  The crowds extend to the park that’s my destination. I can see them milling about when I’m still a block away, unbothered by the overcast day. Even the park is a work of art. Wrought iron gates mark the entrance surrounded by trimmed topiaries. Carved concrete balustrades and oak trees line the walkway that opens into a plush spread of grass dotted with lollygaggers reading or napping. Past it, there’s a massive marble fountain sending shifting sprays of water upward toward the cloudy sky.

  I start jogging along the gravel path as soon as I pass through the open gates. Once I reach the fountain, I realize the park is much larger than I initially thought. It’s a green oasis in the center of the city. There’s a playground, dog park, snack bar, and some soccer fields. I stop at a bench to retie my left lace, which has become nothing more than a loose loop.

  “Of all the parks in all of Germany.”

  My stomach lurches, torn between sinking with dread and jumping with excitement. I finish tying my sneakers and look up. Adler Beck is standing at the opposite end of the bench, wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and an inscrutable expression.

  “Did you just make a Casablanca reference?”

  “Ja.” One German word I’ve mastered.

  “Ironic. But I get the sex symbol status now,” I remark dryly.

  “Sure it wasn’t when you were humping me last night?” Beck crosses his arms and leans against the closest tree trunk, surveying me superiorly; like I’m a peasant in his kingdom.

  I glare at him. Both because I’m genuinely annoyed by that comment, and to cover my surprise. In my experience, one-night stands are like fight club: unremarked upon. If I ever saw Adler Beck again, I fully expected him to ignore me. I fully intended to ignore him—to not mention our time in a tiny storeroom.

  “Oh, that was you?” I tighten my ponytail.

  Beck grins. Fuck, he’s good looking. The kind of gorgeous that hijacks thoughts and hormones. “I’d be happy to take some clothes off so you can confirm.”

  I snort. “Pass. Plus, it was too dark to see much.”

  “Yeah, it was. Bit of a shame.” Beck surveys my body with blatant lust, leaving trails of goose bumps in the wake of his gaze. My athletic shorts reveal my long, toned legs, but my baggy Lancaster Soccer t-shirt leaves a lot to the imagination. Beck’s scrutiny makes me feel indecent in the casual apparel, like I should have shown up at the park in a snowsuit.

  I study him back. The chiseled cheekbones. The short, messy blond hair peeking out the sides of his hat. The ropes of muscles winding along his golden forearms. Looks that have landed him on the covers of dozens of magazines—most of which couldn’t care less that he earned the mouth-watering physique and sun-kissed complexion by spending hundreds of hours repeating the same motions over and over again on a soccer field.

  “What are you doing here?” I finally ask, breaking our staring contest.

  “It’s a public park.”

  “I know. You seem like the pretentious type who would only go to a private one that restricts entry the way your club does.”

  Beck raises one dark blond brow. “Oh, my club restricts entry?”

  I shrug. “Some people seem to find me charming.” He snorts. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “You seem like the type who might get needing to exercise without your teammates watching every move you make.”

  I think it’s a compliment? It’s also accurate, which is unsettling. “That’s a bit presumptuous of you.”

  “You don’t like people making assumptions about you? That’s a bit hypocritical of you.”

  “Fine, you’ve made your point,” I snap.

  “If we were making assumptions, I’d say you don’t seem like the friendliest person.”

  I snort. “That’s a polite way of putting it. Others have gone for ‘cold-hearted bitch’ right out of the gate.”

  Beck’s lips quirk. “I’ve gotten ‘heartless bastard’ a couple of times.”

  “There are still women foolish enough to think you’re looking for a long time and not a good time?” Every article I’ve ever read about Adler Beck has made some mention of the fact that he’s a player off the field as well as on it. I get wanting to sleep with the guy—especially after last night—but going in expecting a happily-ever-after seems purposefully naïve.

  That question earns me a full smile. “Evidently. I’ve never gotten the impression from my university mates that they feel any different. Must be an American thing?”

  I’m temporarily distracted by the reminder that Beck has friends who are in university, that he’s technically just a year and a half older than I am. I view Adler Beck differently than I would any other guy close to my age. He’s more worldly. Larger than life. Not to mention insanely famous.

  He’s also waiting for an answer. I shrug. “I think it’s more of a challenge thing. Guys aren’t interested in a relationship until the girl makes it clear she’s not. At least in my experience.”

  “Hmmmm.”

  I raise both eyebrows. “I’m misreading the complicated male psyche?”

  “No. I just think you’re selling yourself short.”

  “I doubt it. I’m plenty confident.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Beck comments. There’s a dry undertone to the words that’s almost humorous. Almost admiring. “I’m going to play for a bit. If you want?” He nods to the stretch of soccer fields lining the far side of the park. There are a few younger kids playing on one, but the other two are empty.

  I gape at him. “You want to play soc—football?”

  He smirks. “Uh-huh.”

  “You didn’t exactly seem thrilled to be
playing together last time.”

  There’s a shrug. “You caught me off guard.”

  “You said I caught Otto off guard,” I correct.

  “Did I?” There’s a new, teasing lilt to his voice. It’s the closest to a sense of humor I’ve seen from him, and I decide I like it. Worse, I’m intrigued by it—curious to know what there is to Adler Beck besides fame, wealth, and looks.

  “Okay, let’s play.”

  Beck walks toward the farthest open field, and I follow, falling into step beside him. Usually, my interactions with the opposite sex are fairly straightforward. I’m used to guys paying attention when I walk by, plying me with suggestive lines. So far, Adler Beck has ignored me, fucked me, and invited me to play soccer with him. The middle action is the only one I might have anticipated, but last night definitely did not go down the way I ever would have imagined it might.

  “You’re here with Scholenberg?” Beck asks.

  “What’s that?” I quip.

  He ignores my sass. “You know they give you access to the field. You didn’t need to sneak in.”

  I shrug. “Access sounds boring.”

  Beck’s lips stay in a flat line. His sense of humor sure didn’t last long.

  We reach the edge of the pitch, and Beck pulls his gym bag over his head and drops it, unzipping it to reveal a smorgasbord of equipment. All he grabs is a soccer ball, tossing it out onto the grass.

  Some nerves start to appear. This isn’t just a guy I met at a club last night and slept with in a storage closet. This is the guy who is worshiped for a lot more than his appearance and resulting sex appeal. Adler Beck is good at soccer. Really good. The kind of talent that comes around once in a generation—once a century. His parents were both successful, but Adler Beck is revered on a staggering scale. He’s beloved. He was winning international championships when I was attending high school games where half the participants were stoned, and he’s far from a washed-up has-been at twenty-two.

  I know he’s better than me. I’m used to being the best on the pitch.

  I stride farther onto the field, expecting him to follow me. He does, dribbling as though it’s second nature to him. Which it is, I guess. Aside from our shootout, I can’t recall the last time I played against a guy. Middle school, maybe? I think one of the club teams I played on was co-ed.

  Beck doesn’t ask me if I’m ready to play or stop for a face-off. He just keeps dribbling along, forcing me to back up or else let him pass. He looks light years away from how he did when he first approached me, his movements as carefree and easy as his expression. Either playing has the same freeing effect on him as it does on me, or he was as apprehensive about how to act around me as I was about him.

  Beck grins as I do my best to mirror his movements. I’ve watched enough footage of him playing to know a few of his moves, but he’s not exactly pulling out all the stops right now. We’re barely jogging. When he finally spins to get around me, I’m ready. I snake my foot between his, knocking the ball into my possession. There’s a nod of acknowledgment that lets me know I passed some test. It also tells me he’s still underestimating me.

  We weave up and down the field, neither of us allowing the other to score, but guarding each other loosely. It’s… fun. I can’t recall the last time I played soccer so casually. So carefree. Normally, I’m showing off—for coaches or teammates, to preserve the reputation I’ve carefully constructed; to smash expectations. Based on his comment earlier, I realize Beck feels the same. The spotlight on him is a thousand times brighter.

  He blocks me from scoring again, and this time I don’t let it go. I press him, broaching the invisible boundary between us. Beck responds with a speed and dexterity I would have been expecting if he hadn’t spent the past half hour lulling me into a false sense of complacency. He steals the ball back, literally pulling it out from under me. I barely have enough time to twist so I can protect my knee before I collide with the ground. The impact doesn’t hurt, but it’s unexpected. Breath whooshes from my lungs like a deflating balloon.

  I lie there for a few seconds, readjusting my bearings from vertical to horizontal.

  “Fuck, you all right?” Beck bends down beside me.

  “I’m fine,” I reply, twisting around and leaning back on my hands. My left palm is stained green, but that’s the worst of it.

  “You’re sure?” He scans my body, either looking for visible injuries or taking the opportunity to appraise me up close.

  “I’m sure. Nothing for you to kiss better,” I tease.

  Beck’s blue eyes snap back to mine. “Nothing?”

  Forget any casual comradery. Heat spreads across my skin like a flame. Tension stretches between us like a taut string. I don’t say anything, just study his face as it grows closer and closer to my own. The kiss starts as a whisper. Beck barely brushes his lips against mine. The tease of friction is tantalizing, sending shivers slithering down my body. I scoot closer instinctively, deepening the contact. Soft warmth turns wanton and urgent. Then, nothing.

  I bite my bottom lip, studying Beck and trying to figure out why he pulled back so abruptly. He stands and holds out a hand. I grasp it, and he yanks me to my feet. Not harshly, but not gently either. I’m tugged to the right, toward a grove of spruces.

  I’m about to protest the rough handling when I see a small building ahead. A line of people protrudes from one side, ordering from a brightly colored menu displaying photographs of soft pretzels and lemonade. Beck pulls me to the opposite side and pushes open a metal door with a familiar symbol on it.

  I’m expecting the park’s bathroom to be grimy. Unkempt. Smelly. But, like nearly every other public place I’ve visited here, it’s spotless. It even smells like freshly squeezed citrus.

  Not that Beck gives me much time to appreciate it. Or any time, really. He kisses me hungrily as soon as the door swings shut, picking up right where we left off on the grass. I respond just as eagerly. Because when a hot, single guy kisses you, it’s the natural response.

  Because when he sucks on my bottom lip, it feels like fireworks are going off inside of me.

  Because I want to, and it’s just sex.

  And that’s how I end up sleeping with Adler Beck for a second time.

  Chapter Six

  Four days later, I leave the house earlier than usual. I got the all-clear on my knee yesterday, and tomorrow’s the first day I’ll be practicing in Kluvberg’s stadium with the rest of the Scholenberg attendees. Today is our weekly film day. There’s a bus that shuttles us the dozen blocks to the stadium, but I prefer walking. I’ve grown surprisingly attached to the scenery of Kluvberg, and it’s a beautiful day.

  Halfway into my walk to the stadium, I come across a tiny coffee shop I decide to duck into. Just as I’ve joined the line, my phone rings. I sigh when I see the name flashing on the screen. I thought being in a different time zone than Hallie would be a respite from the family check-ins. Thanks to my nephew’s erratic sleep schedule, they’ve only become more frequent. There have only been a couple days she hasn’t called since I arrived in Germany.

  “Hello?” I drone.

  “Don’t sound too excited, or I might call more often,” Hallie replies dryly.

  I exhale again. “More often? I’m not sure if that’s even possible. I thought you’d stop mothering me now that you have your own child.”

  “Most people enjoy having others check in on them.”

  “Or you want to pass on information about more wedding shit you know I don’t care about.” That’s been the main topic of our past few conversations: our father’s upcoming wedding.

  Hallie doesn’t deny it. “There’s not much new to report. Sandra doesn’t want to make a fuss. All that’s left to decide on is the flowers.”

  “Not make a fuss? But you only get married—oh, wait, this is her third marriage, right?”

  “Saylor,” Hallie chastises, a clear note of warning resonating in the tone.

  “I’m right. I distinctly reme
mber her mentioning her second husband at your wedding.”

  “You ‘forgot’ her name when Dad told us he was getting married, but you remember she was married twice before?”

  “She only said her name once. The second husband came up multiple times.”

  Hallie lets out a long sigh, but I can hear the amusement hidden deep beneath the irritation. “She’s going to call you tomorrow about the bridesmaid’s dresses, okay?”

  “Hold up—I’m supposed to be in the wedding? What happened to not making a fuss?”

  “He’s our dad, Saylor.”

  “Barely,” I mutter. Harsh, but true. I’ve had more meaningful conversations with the man who owns the corner convenience store one block from campus than my father. I haven’t seen him in person since Hallie’s wedding—two years ago. Haven’t talked to him since he called to say he was getting married—four months ago.

  “He’s happy. Happier than I’ve seen him since…” She doesn’t utter the words, but she doesn’t need to. “Just don’t… complicate things.”

  “Don’t complicate things? That’s your advice? Poor Matthew Jr. These are the pep talks he has to look forward to?”

  Hallie ignores my heavy sarcasm. “I’m glad you brought that up. Let me grab him. It’s good for him to hear his family’s voices.”

  “Wait, what? Are you kidding? He’s a baby. He’s—Hallie? Hallie!”

  The line is silent. I huff an impatient breath as I study the coral color I painted my toes last night. Against the bright blue of my flip-flops, the color seems too gaudy. Clownish. Garish. I should have stuck with the paler shade of pink I was originally planning on.

  “Okay, he’s on,” Hallie helpfully informs me, since the line sounds no different than it did before, seeing as the other end of the phone call is still silent, albeit with my three-month-old nephew supposedly being held nearby.