I tear my eyes away from Beck when Coach Weber starts talking, splitting us up by our positions for warm-up drills. My insides feel fizzy; electrified. The thrill of being back out on the field is a potent rush, and it washes away the weird effect Adler Beck’s presence seems to have on me.
None of the exercises are anything I haven’t done before, and I’m relieved to realize my muscle memory is perfect. My feet follow the expected motions automatically, and I lose myself in the satisfaction of executing each drill perfectly.
Finally, Coach Weber blows her whistle. “All right, ladies. Scrimmage time.”
I’m the recipient of more than a few side glances. Everyone else has already played together. Not me. Rather than buckle under the weight of expectations, I shift from foot to foot, allowing competitive fuel to spread through my warmed muscles as I pull on a yellow pinny.
We don’t have a chance to strategize with our temporary teams, but it doesn’t matter. My teammates know what to do or want to test me. Alexis passes to me as soon as she receives the ball, and I’m more than ready.
I imagine a stream of smoke following me as I sprint down the field. Kluvberg has cleared off the pitch, but a few of them are still loitering along the sidelines. Stretching, drinking water, enjoying the view. Who cares? Not me. I’m focused on nothing aside from sending the sphere I’m dribbling down the field into some white netting. I spin around a defender, feint left, and then I see it: an opening that leads directly to my goal—literally. I’m cleared for full activity. No restrictions. I send the soccer ball flying with every ounce of power my leg can muster.
The black and white ball leaves the protective cradle of my feet and flies. Straight and direct and true. Faster than any of the defenders. Faster than the goalie. I know it will make it as soon as it separates from my foot, but it’s no less gratifying to watch it smash into its destination.
I had something to prove today.
I just did.
I turn, only to be mobbed by yellow pinnies. I accept my teammates’ praise with a grin. This isn’t a pickup game at a barbecue. The women I just sprinted around and scored against? Some of the best athletes in the world.
Not only can I still play, but I’m also still good.
Ellie’s the last one to melt away, following a final squeeze. She’s beaming, and I’m touched by her support. I know it’s exacerbated because of my strange behavior earlier. She thinks this is a triumph over an injury that could have ended my career, and it is. But it’s also a less noble victory.
I was showing off.
For everyone else who scored a coveted Scholenberg invitation.
For Coach Weber.
For Adler Beck, who’s leaning against the advertisement-splashed divider that surrounds the perimeter of the field. Watching our game with an inscrutable expression and crossed arms.
The scrimmage commences again. Time always seems to pass differently when I’m playing, rushing by in measures of kicks and sprints, rather than seconds and minutes. It doesn’t feel like it’s been the appropriate measure of any of those when Coach Weber blows her whistle, signaling the end of the game.
“Nice work, everyone. Get changed, and then we’ve got a team lunch.”
“Team lunch?” I whisper to Ellie as we head back toward the tunnel.
“Forget about lunch. You kicked ass, lady!”
“Well, what did you expect?” I ask her, pulling my pinny over my head as we enter the locker room. “Adler Beck is not the only one who lives up to the hype.”
“Um, speaking of which, I saw him staring at you.”
“Spectators tend to watch the player with the ball,” I reply.
“I’m just saying. You’re totally his type.”
“What type is that?”
“Gorgeous.”
I shrug off her compliment. “Now that I can play again, I’m focused on nothing but soccer. I’m sure Adler Beck has got plenty of women to keep him occupied. I won’t be one of them.” The words are assured. Based on Ellie’s disappointed sigh as we reach our lockers, she believes me.
I wish I was as certain.
My phone buzzes just as I return to my locker from the showers. I scan the messages as I pull on a clean tank top and shorts. One stands out. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Ellie.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve—uh, just going to grab something.”
“Okay.” She accepts my nonspecific answer despite a less than Oscar-worthy delivery. I sound like a freshman trying to sneak out of the house in high school. Not that my father was ever home to listen to any lies.
I step outside the locker room. The hallway is empty. Right or left? The text from a German number I’m assuming belongs to Beck was as vague as my answer to Ellie. Just a Come outside.
I’ve barely made it more than ten feet down the hallway when he appears, opening a side door that blends in with the walls painted with Kluvberg’s signature shade of royal blue. Beck beckons me inside, and I comply, surveying the tiny storage closet with a critical eye.
“Seriously? What is it with you and small—”
He cuts me off by shoving his tongue into my mouth and then walking me backward until cool cinderblock presses into my spine. I forget about any back pain when he tucks his fingers under the hem of my shirt. Swallow my complaints about his choice of venue when he trails his fingertips upward through the droplets of residual water still clinging to my skin from my hasty shower.
Beck breaks our kiss so he can growl in my ear. “Do you know what I was thinking about when I was watching you play?”
“World peace and what you ate for breakfast?”
His rough palm reverses course, sliding back down my stomach and dipping inside the waistband of the athletic shorts I’m wearing. Thank God I just showered, or a very unsexy belt of sweat would have greeted him.
“Doing this,” he whispers in a low, sexy rasp that further ignites the heat already rippling through my body. I lean my head back against the cinderblock, biting down on my bottom lip as he fingers me. Watching him watch me. Imagining him imagining doing this to me. “Come for me, Saylor.”
I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to unhear the sound of Adler Beck murmuring my name, wrapped in layers of lust. I’m not even touching him, merely riding his hand while he does all the work.
And his direction isn’t necessary. Heat is already unfurling inside of me, spreading so quickly and thoroughly I couldn’t douse it even if I wanted to. It’s the natural physical response, but I’m more wrapped up in it mentally than I normally would be. I’m aware of—actively thinking about, actually—who is touching me. I’m not just enjoying the pleasure. I’m luxuriating in it, savoring every second of contact.
Adler Beck has the type of presence you couldn’t forget you’re in if you tried. Being the sole recipient of his full attention is a heady feeling.
I’m drunk on it—intoxicated—like I’ve just rapidly downed a few shots of gin. Maybe that’s why I sink to my knees as soon as the ecstasy begins to wane. I tend to be the selfish, non-reciprocating sort when it comes to oral sex, especially when there’s a cement floor involved—but the allure of having Adler Beck at my mercy is too tantalizing to resist.
“Fuck.” He swears as I yank down his mesh shorts and boxer briefs. There’s a lot packed in those four letters. They slide out of his mouth like they’re coated in dark chocolate and dipped in smooth whiskey. Anticipation tastes delicious.
“Are you sure this isn’t what you were thinking about?” I tease as I stroke his substantial length and wet my lips.
“Not while you were playing,” he replies. “But I’ve definitely thought about it.”
I’m lacking many things. Confidence is not one of them, but the knowledge that Adler Beck has fantasized about me doing this gives my ego a pretty epic boost, even as I appear nonchalant. I lick him like a dick pop and am rewarded when his hips jerk closer. He may have the height advantage right now, but I’m in
complete control of this moment. Of him. I can’t copy his command while my mouth is full of his cock, but I don’t need to. He comes quickly, with a gruff groan that makes my toes curl inside my sneakers.
I stand, wincing a bit when the blood rushes back into my calves. My hair is no longer dripping wet, but it’s still damp from my shower, and I pull it up in a messy ponytail to have something to do with my hands, and to hide any evidence of Beck’s effect on the strands.
I don’t know quite what to say to him. I always have something to say. It may be brash and blunt, but the words are there. I’m not embarrassed. I’m not awestruck. I’m just… unsure. It’s like something shifted between us, which is ridiculous. We’ve had sex twice already.
This was a continuation.
A regression.
A remnant of lust.
I have a type: hot and athletic. The fact that Adler Beck is hotter and more athletic than most is irrelevant. Any straight, single woman with a pulse would have done what I just did.
Beck tucks himself back into his shorts, and I readjust my own outfit so it’s not obvious I was just groped in a closet.
“I have to go. We’re having some sort of team lunch.”
Beck doesn’t say anything as he follows me out. Why would he? We just had a hot closet hook-up. He got his gratification. Doubt he had any plans to follow it up with scintillating conversation.
I head back into the hallway—the hallway that’s no longer empty. Alexis is standing at the water fountain, filling up a plastic water bottle. She smiles when she sees me. It quickly shifts into a shocked expression that informs me Beck must be right behind me.
I sigh and start walking down the hallway, back toward the locker room. I’m barely halfway there when I hear the slap of cleats against the cement floor. I knew she’d follow me. What else is she going to do? Stand there and toss accusations at Adler Beck? No, I’m her target, and she homes in on me like a Saylor-seeking missile.
“You were in a closet. With Adler Beck.”
I hate it when people state the obvious. “What gave it away? Me leaving a closet with him right behind me?”
She ignores my sarcastic tone. “What were you doing with him?”
“Taking inventory,” I droll.
“Saylor.”
“Are you fishing for sex tips? Go read an article in Cosmo.”
I don’t know what she possibly thought I was doing with Beck in a closet, but she manages to look even more surprised. “I mean—you were…” I guess Brits are known for being repressed when it comes to certain topics.
“Yeah,” I tell her briskly. “Can you keep that to yourself?”
“I—uh, I mean yeah, I can, but…”
We’ve reached the door to the locker room, and I open it and stride inside. A glance over my shoulder reveals Alexis trailing in after me, still looking scandalized. Hopefully no one notices. There’s not ordinarily anything all that sordid about a trip to the water fountain.
On the way to the team lunch, Sandra calls, just like Hallie said she would. I only answer because I recognize the area code from my hometown. It’s a brief conversation full of awkward pauses. The gist? I need to choose a bridesmaid dress. Black is the only requirement.
We pull up outside the restaurant just after she informs me of the color choice, and I use it as an unashamed opportunity to end the conversation quickly.
The team lunch is exactly what I expect. Scholenberg rented out some swanky restaurant that makes me feel very out of place in my casual athletic attire. Ellie sits next to me, chattering away about how epic the scrimmage was. I nod along and watch Alexis out of the corner of my eye. She still looks a little dazed. Is my hooking up with Adler Beck really that much of a shock to her? I didn’t think there would be anyone who has met me or read a single article about Beck who would actually be surprised. Excluding the shock value of his fame, I guess.
Maybe I should have assured her it was a onetime thing.
Except it wasn’t.
Chapter Eight
“I thought you’d wear something else.” That’s how Beck greets me the following weekend when I reach him. He’s standing at the front entrance of the park whose bathroom we sullied, leaning against one pillar that marks the entrance.
“You look nice, too.” I roll my eyes. Thank God I only changed my outfit twice. Okay, five times. Only because his text last night was insanely vague. I don’t know if he knows Sunday is Scholenberg’s day off, but it seemed like an intentional choice to text me on a Saturday night. All he said was: Park tomorrow?
I replied: To play?
And he responded: No. But dress comfortable. I suppose I should just be grateful he finally sent me more than two words at a time. Prior to last night’s text, our only correspondence was his request for me to meet him outside the locker room at the stadium.
“I told you to wear comfortable clothes,” he reiterates unnecessarily as I pause a couple feet away.
“I know, and that’s all I wear. This is comfortable.” I gesture to the green cotton dress and Converse sneakers I’m wearing.
“Okay.” Beck looks dubious but starts walking toward the street. Away from the park.
I follow him over to a shiny black sports car parked along the curb. I snort as I survey the seamless lines. “Of course this is the car you drive.” It practically screams sexy millionaire.
“You don’t like it?” Beck asks, feigning disappointment. At least, I think it’s false.
“I would be more impressed if you drove a wood-paneled station wagon,” I inform him.
Beck raises both brows. “That what your family has?”
“Not exactly.” Along with my trust and respect, my mother absconded with the beat-up minivan I spent the first five years of my life being shuttled around in. My dad has driven around in his company’s loaner cars for the last sixteen years, trading in for the newest sedan model every now and again. It was the kids with intact families who were dropped off in old wagons.
My tone doesn’t match his teasing one, and I watch a flash of realization appear that suggests Beck noticed. Thanks to the media, I have a general sense of what Beck’s upbringing was like: elite soccer academies and snazzy parties. Neither of my parents are famous athletes, so he doesn’t have any of the same insight into my background.
Maybe he thinks I’m embarrassed about it.
Maybe he thinks I don’t want to share anything personal with him because he’s Adler Beck and this is nothing but a bizarre blip in both our lives.
Or maybe he’s more astute than I thought, because he asks no further questions; just climbs in the driver’s seat. I slide into the passenger side, inhaling the clean aroma.
Beck’s car smells like him. Manly. Musky. With a rich undertone of expensive leather.
I study the spotless interior. My car is always littered with hair ties, empty water bottles, and spare shin guards. Beck’s looks like it was driven off the dealership lot twenty minutes ago.
“Where are we going?” I ask skeptically. An outing was not what I expected. I didn’t know what to expect, which is mostly why I showed up. I was curious.
“You’ll see.”
I hate not being in control, but I don’t press for more details. Instead, I snap the seatbelt into place. “Isn’t it blasphemous to drive an Italian car when half the country considers you their Kaiser?”
“Wow. You learned one German word.”
I roll my eyes. Admittedly, I’m not doing much to dispel the self-centered American stereotype. Every other Scholenberg attendee is bilingual. At least.
“And it’s a lot more than half.”
“Miraculous your ego fits inside this shoebox,” I mutter.
“To answer your question, it’s common knowledge that Germany produces the best soccer players and Italy builds the best cars.”
“Sure you didn’t just want to buy the most expensive car in the world to show off the pay disparity between male and female athletes?”
&n
bsp; “Oh, I didn’t buy this car. They gave it to me for free.”
I glance over at him. “Seriously?”
“Uh-huh,” Beck responds, flicking on the blinker.
I roll my eyes then mostly keep my gaze fixed outside as we whizz along the streets. Beck drives the same way he does everything else: aggressively and assuredly. Not that I’m complaining. We’re outside the city limits in minutes, flying along mostly empty roads as civilization disappears behind us.
When he finally exits off the highway, it provides no indication of our destination. Just another tree-lined road. Oddly, I don’t mind the uncertainty. I figured Beck wanted to meet me in the park bathroom again. Leaving the city is unexpected and exciting.
When he pulls over, it’s in a dirt parking lot. The outrageously expensive car gets turned off, and Beck climbs out, stretching. I scramble out the passenger side to survey our surroundings. It’s just greenery. Trees, shrubs, saplings, sprouts, grass, weeds. Nothing the least bit interesting.
“Is this a pit stop?” I ask.
“This?” Beck asks incredulously, sweeping his left arm in an indication I should take in the scenery.
I’m more focused on the bulge of his bicep, but I humor him. “Okay, it’s a nice view. Let’s keep moving.”
Beck smirks. “This isn’t the view.” He points upward to a peak that seems really far away. “That’s blocking the view.”
“You’re planning to go hiking?” I surmise.
Beck nods.
“Why did you let me wear this?” I pinch the skirt of my dress as I tug it to the side to emphasize my attire.
One corner of those luscious lips lifts upward. “I believe we already covered your wardrobe choice.”
I huff out an exasperated breath. “Comfortable and climbing aren’t the same thing, Beck!”
He shrugs. “You’re wearing sneakers. You’ll be fine.”
“I just got fully cleared to play again. One wrong step and I could break an ankle!”
“What do you mean you just got full clearance to play again?” Beck inquires.
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