First Flight, Final Fall

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “Hello, Matthew,” I state, feeling ridiculous. I have many talents. Conversing with a baby that’s a mere dozen weeks old is not one of them. “Your mother has lost it.” Hopefully Hallie is listening. “I think your father has more sense, but to be honest, I’ve never really talked with him enough to tell. You’re lucky you can just sleep through everything now. Enjoy that. It gets worse. Soon you’ll have to—”

  “Could you wrap this conversation up and order?”

  I know that voice. That superior, silken tone with the slightest whisper of a German accent. A timbre that manages to caress one syllable and then send the next one hurtling through the air like a sharpened blade.

  I’m very surprised to encounter Adler Beck in this small coffee shop, but I don’t let my face betray the slightest hint of it as I slowly turn to face him. Damn him, he looks as alluring as usual. Smarmy and arrogant and sexy.

  Arms crossed.

  Eyebrows raised.

  “Conversation may be too generous of a term, actually. If I’m not mistaken, you’re talking to an infant, by the sound of things?” Condescension drips from each syllable.

  I haven’t given a single thought to whether I might encounter Beck again since I left him in the park’s bathroom—where it would be; what I might say. Mostly because I didn’t think I would, which I obviously need to stop assuming. But if I had considered seeing him, my first choice of venue would not have been a coffee shop crammed with under-caffeinated patrons staring at him, with my nephew gurgling in my ear.

  I don’t deign to respond. I spin back around and then continue to prattle on about every meaningless thing I can think of. I’m halfway through the long list of my least favorite German foods when Hallie picks the phone back up.

  “You’re still on the line?” She sounds surprised. “I figured you would have hung up ages ago.”

  “That was an option?” Truth is, I would have done exactly that if not for the sarcastic German standing behind me. Which is probably why Hallie replies with a hint of suspicion.

  “It’s more like your trademark, Saylor.”

  I prove her right by hanging up. At least I mutter a goodbye first.

  “Sure hope I didn’t knock you up,” Beck comments in a conversational tone as I slip the phone into the pocket of my shorts.

  “Excuse me?” I whirl back around, injecting every bit of ire I can into the two words. I misheard him, right? Surely, he’s not that much of a….

  “You clearly would have no idea what to do with a child.”

  Nope, he is that much of an ass.

  “You hardly seem the paternal type yourself,” I retort. To my horror, Beck talking about us procreating has me imagining the accompanying action involved in populating the planet with little soccer stars, and that’s got me feeling flushed. Damn him and his massive dick.

  “Never said I was,” Beck drawls, giving me a lazy smirk. I make certain he sees my eye roll before I spin back around to order my iced coffee. Except they don’t sell iced coffee in Europe, according to the barista.

  It takes several minutes to haggle a latte and a cup of ice. Those minutes feel more like an hour thanks to the overly amused, self-assured athlete standing right behind me. Mores such as personal space or manners seem to be foreign concepts to Beck. The former faux pas would be a lot easier to enforce if my own body didn’t enjoy the proximity quite so much.

  I finally step to the side and allow him to order to his own drink, fiddling with the display of granola bars next to the register. There’s the same pulsing sensation resonating inside me I experience when I haven’t exercised; like a caged animal. Except, I already went for a run this morning.

  As I study the list of ingredients on one bar, I eavesdrop on Beck’s conversation with the barista—well, on the tone of it since I can’t actually understand a word they’re saying. She obviously didn’t spot him hovering behind me or realize who he is because she’s a shocked, fumbling mess now. He has to repeat his order three times, during which she drops five cups. I think she’s going to faint when he hands her his credit card and their fingers brush. And yes, I’m the creeper studying their interaction that closely. It takes even longer for Beck to order than it took me to explain the foreign concept of cold coffee when it’s eighty degrees outside. I’m guessing there would probably be more disgruntled customers if it wasn’t the Adler Beck holding up the line.

  He finally moves to the side. To my side. He’s standing much closer than you’d ordinarily stand next to a fellow patron, even in a coffee shop this size. He’s close enough for the distracting scent of his body wash, cologne, or maybe just his laundry detergent to wash over me. Roasting coffee beans and freshly baked pastries are replaced by a fresh, tangy smell that transports me to the woods in a rainstorm. Wow, I really need caffeine. Or to distract my brain from the aggressively arousing aroma.

  “Don’t you have an assistant who fetches your coffee?” I ask Beck testily.

  “I have an assistant, yes. But it seemed silly to call her to the coffee shop I was walking by on my way to the stadium so she could order for me.”

  I’m about to comment on how some customers in this coffee shop—especially me—would have appreciated it when I’m hit with a disturbing realization. “You’re on your way to the stadium?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Why do you think? I’m supposed to be there in…” I glance at the clock hanging behind the counter. “Crap. Fifteen minutes.”

  “It’s not that far of a walk,” Beck drawls.

  “I know, but I hate being late to practice. Plus, you’re the reason I’m behind schedule.”

  All that accusation earns me is an amused smirk.

  “Here’s your ice and latte,” the barista tells me, not taking her eyes off Beck as she sets both in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, hastily pouring the hot liquid over the ice. I don’t really account for basic scientific principles as I do. The ice crackles and hisses as the steaming coffee hits the stack of cubes before they promptly dissolve, sending the now lukewarm coffee over the rim of the plastic cup. “Shit.”

  I glance around for some napkins, but Beck’s the one who snags a stack and sticks them underneath the cup. The exasperated sigh he releases takes away from what would otherwise be a thoughtful action, but I still feel obligated to mutter, “Thanks.”

  By the time I’ve cleaned up the mess I made and successfully transferred the rest of my coffee atop what little remains of the ice, Beck is having his drink handed to him. I’m tempted to ask the barista for more ice, but she looks frazzled enough already. Tepid will have to do. And of course, I’m now stuck exiting the coffee shop with Beck right behind me. I was hoping I’d be able to put at least a block between us before he departed for our mutual destination. No such luck. My only option to gain any lead would be to sprint. Doing so would place my coffee in peril again, not to mention I’m wearing flip-flops to show off my vivid pedicure.

  Side by side it is.

  There are a couple double takes as we start down the street, but Beck slips on a pair of sunglasses as we walk along, which make him look a little more like an insanely attractive guy and less like a world-renowned soccer superstar. Meaning there are stares, but no autograph requests or photos. Getting kicked out of Scholenberg for trespassing on Kluvberg’s field would be nothing compared to anyone at Lancaster seeing a photo of me with Adler Beck.

  “So, who was the baby?” Beck asks, seemingly oblivious to the attention we’re garnering. The attention he is garnering, rather. I look like the poster child for American tourist in my baseball cap and the Statue of Liberty t-shirt Emma bought me.

  “He belongs to my older sister.” I take a long gulp of coffee.

  “Are you two close?”

  “Yes. No. Sort of,” I blurt, caught completely off guard by his question. What does he care if I’m estranged from my sibling or calling her every twenty minutes? I’m not a sharer, and I never encourage sharing. Which makes
my next couple words a surprise. To me. “Are you?”

  “Close with your sister? No, but I’d love to meet her.”

  “She’s married and inherited the morals in the family. I meant yours, obviously.”

  “We get along fine.” A vague answer to rival my own.

  I don’t press, turning my gaze ahead to watch the imposing shadow of Kluvberg’s stadium appear in the distance.

  “She’s younger,” he states.

  “What?”

  “My sister. She’s younger than me.”

  “Okay… not sure if that’s her fault.” His tone implies it is.

  There’s a ghost of a grin. “Obviously. But it means she gets all of the perks and none of the pressure.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s never played football. Never had to deal with the expectations. I mean, do you have any idea what it’s like to walk on the pitch and see your parents sitting there, expecting you not to fuck up their legacy?”

  “No, I don’t,” I reply honestly. “My dad’s idea of exercise was walking from the couch to the fridge for a beer. He couldn’t win a gold medal for anything except ‘Absentee Parent of the Year.’” Yeah, didn’t mean to say that. “I hope you’re not spouting this ‘woe-is-me-I’m-a-famous-athlete’ narrative during interviews,” I tease, trying to distract him from my confession and lighten the mood.

  “Nope. We covered that during media training when I was ten.”

  “Ten?” I gasp. I know the European football system is a far cry from the American one, but media training before middle school seems obscene.

  Beck shrugs and shoots me a smirk. “Feel bad for me now?”

  “Give me a minute to summon some sympathy.”

  He snickers. “Yeah. Guess I’ll just keep making the best of it.” The words are followed by an exaggerated sigh.

  “Yeah, I think the entire world is aware of how you ‘make the best of it.’”

  “Well, you are.” The words drip with innuendo that makes my skin sizzle.

  I open my mouth to respond but snap it shut when a security guard steps out of the booth to the right of the gate, interrupting the fence that surrounds Kluvberg’s famous stadium. I was so focused on our conversation I didn’t realize we’re practically atop it. The whole reason I walked was to appreciate the scenery, and I missed most of it.

  Beck lets out a rapid stream of German and then the man responds, giving him a friendly smile as he waves both of us through the gate. Every other time I’ve entered the stadium this way, the guard made me swipe my temporary badge. And go through the metal detector. Yeah, definitely not feeling any sympathy toward the plight of being Adler Beck right about now.

  My phone rings right as we enter the stadium. “Fuck,” I grumble, and Beck shoots me a curious glance. “Hi, Dad.” What is he doing up at this hour? He doesn’t have an infant to feed.

  “Saylor. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. Is something wrong?”

  “No, everything is fine. I just—”

  “I’m running late for practice. I’ll call you later.” I hang up, immediately compiling a list of possible reasons for his call. The last time we talked on the phone was in March when he told me he was getting married. We mostly communicate through Hallie. The wedding can’t be off though, or she would have just told me.

  Beck, grabbing my phone from my hand, snaps me out of any speculating. “Hey! What are you doing?”

  “The chances of us running into each other a fourth time seem slim, don’t you think?”

  “What makes you think I want to run into you again?” I retort.

  His only response is a devilish smirk and passing my phone back to me before he turns to the right.

  I head in the opposite direction, down the hallway toward the room we meet in for film. A dark-haired girl is approaching the stairwell from the opposite end of the hallway. Annie? Ali? I’m terrible with names, and I can’t recall hers. It’s the second week, but I haven’t been spending as much time with everyone else, thanks to my knee.

  “Hi, Saylor,” she says as we draw closer. Her voice is sweet and shy, with a distinctive British accent. And she knows my name, which makes it worse; especially since she’s the first person aside from Ellie to acknowledge me here.

  “Hey,” I reply. “Ready for film?”

  She lets out a little laugh. “Not looking forward to it, to be honest. I’d rather be out on the pitch. Though I’m guessing you get that more than anybody.”

  “Yeah,” I agree.

  “How’s your knee?”

  I slant a side glance her way as we enter the stairwell. It’s an innocent question that could also be construed as fishing for weakness. Injuries are ordinarily kept under wraps for just this reason, but not participating in anything more strenuous than sit-ups was bound to raise some suspicion. Not to mention the knee brace I’ve been wearing around the house. “All clear.”

  “Glad to hear it,” the girl replies. Her tone sounds genuine, but I don’t fully drop my guard. “My cousin plays in the States. Said you’re absolutely insane on the pitch.”

  I don’t say anything at first, just keep walking down the stairs. False modesty has never been my forte. “You must not be terrible, if you’re here.”

  “Saylor!” We emerge from the stairs, and Ellie’s waiting in the hallway. “Hey, Alexis.”

  I was right about the A, at least. “Hey,” I reply.

  “What happened to you this morning?” Ellie asks.

  I shrug. “Went for a walk. Got a coffee.” I hold up the mostly empty cup as evidence.

  “All right. We’d better get in there.” Ellie heads toward the door that leads to the same room we met Coach Weber in the first day.

  The seat formation is the same, too. So is the silence when I enter with Ellie and Alexis behind me.

  Coach Weber is already at the front, setting up the projector next to the whiteboard she’s already drawn out a play on. I feel her steely gaze on me as I make my way to one of the few free folding chairs. Ellie plops down on the one beside me. To my surprise, Alexis takes a seat on my other side.

  It feels good to have another ally, especially since I doubt our scrimmage tomorrow will earn me many new friends. None who aren’t on my assigned team, at least.

  But I’m not appreciating Alexis’s presence as Coach Weber starts the first video or listening to her point out strategy on the field.

  I’m thinking about my conversation with Adler Beck.

  Chapter Seven

  “Kluvberg is going to be at the field today,” Ellie informs me as she sits opposite me at the kitchen table the next morning.

  “What?” I look up from my phone, where I’m texting Cressida.

  She nods. “Uncle Franz said they have some sort of charity exhibition match coming up. They’re changing up their practice schedule this week. Superstitious about playing on the field before the game or something.”

  “Huh.”

  Ellie rolls her eyes. “Of course you’d be this nonchalant about it. Adler fucking Beck is going to be on the same field as you, Saylor.”

  I don’t tell her it won’t be the first time. Or the second. “He’s not the only player on Kluvberg, Ellie.”

  “Uh, he sort of is. I got to meet him at an event with my uncle last year, and he lives up to the hype.”

  I shovel another bite of yogurt and granola in my mouth to avoid having to respond.

  “Ladies, let’s go!” One of the Scholenberg organizers appears in the doorway, and we all start hustling out of the house to the van idling at the curb. I drop my bowl off at the sink on the way.

  An unexpected knot of trepidation tightens in my stomach as the van rolls to a stop in front of the massive stadium. I twist the hem of the sweat-wicking tank I’m wearing, trying to settle the nerves.

  Ellie catches the slight movement from her seat beside me. “Your knee will be fine.” She pats my thigh comfortingly.

  I smile in acknowledgment
of her assurance, although I’m acutely aware my knee is not the reason I’m anxious about being here. I should be excited. I got a clean bill of health two days ago. This is my first time practicing with the team in the stadium—my chance to show off what I can do.

  All I’m focused on is what Beck might do if I see him.

  “Saylor?” Ellie says. I look up to see all the rows before us have cleared. I’m blocking her in and holding the rest of the bus up.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, standing and shuffling out of the cramped seat to head down the aisle. I need to pull it together. Immediately. I’ve never let a guy distract me on the field. I have no intention of starting now.

  We head to the locker room. It’s my first time not heading down two floors. Since the stadium isn’t currently being used for professional play, we’re in the visitor’s locker room. I’ve played at plenty of nice schools, and Lancaster didn’t spare any expense with its own facility, but I’m acutely aware that Kluvberg’s stadium is on a whole other level when I step inside the locker room. My visits here before—both clandestine and expected—didn’t illuminate any of the luxury tucked underneath the cement risers and metal seats. Every surface gleams. The scent of pine lingers in the air.

  “Hurry up, ladies.” Coach Weber appears at the front of the space, looking like her usual stoic self. It puts an immediate end to any dawdling.

  I find an empty locker and quickly pull on my shin guards, socks, and cleats. Once I’m fully suited up, I follow Ellie out through the main tunnel. Each step teases more of the field before me, until finally it’s fully revealed, spread out in a pristine sea of green. It’s the kind of view that never gets old; one steeped in importance and gravity. One you feel privileged just to take in because you know the caliber of the athletes who have had the opportunity to play on this expanse of turf.

  Just as Ellie already told me they would be, the entirety of FC Kluvberg is huddled at the opposite end of the pitch. Like a magnet, a certain blond player lounging toward the back draws my gaze.