Beck unzips my dress tantalizingly, sliding his hands along the newly revealed skin. He hums with approval when he realizes I’m not wearing a bra, and I gasp when he begins playing with my breasts. He whispers in my ear again, and I’m cracked open. I’m weightless and thoughtless as wave after wave of pleasure washes over me.
I roll over on my side, splayed across the leather surface like a jellyfish. My limbs certainly feel gelatinous.
“Do you have food?” I ask Beck when I can move again.
“Not any you’ll like,” he replies. All I can see is his white teeth gleaming as he leans forward and licks my nipple. One palm slides down my stomach, and I decide food can wait.
My stomach rumbles loudly, and Beck pauses. He lets out a half-laugh, half-sigh.
“I’ll see what I have.” He sits up and heads into the bedroom, flicking on lights as he goes.
He returns in a pair of athletic shorts and tosses me a t-shirt, which I pull on. I follow him into the kitchen, perching on one of the four stools that line the marble countertop.
“What have you got?”
Beck strolls over to the fridge and opens the door, leaning against the edge. It’s disturbingly domestic and surprisingly sexy. He grabs a few plastic containers and slides them down the counter to me. “Here you go. They’re all labeled.”
I grab one and tilt it upward. Salmon and rice—pass. “Do you have ice cream?”
He studies me.
I grin. “You do.”
Beck reaches out and snags the prepared meals, sticking them back in the fridge and replacing them with a cardboard carton from the freezer.
“I knew it!” I crow.
“It’s plain chocolate. I don’t think Germany sells mint chocolate chip,” Beck informs me as he pulls out spoons.
I have to swallow a few times before I can manage to say, “I knew I liked it here.”
Beck takes a seat beside me, and we eat spoonfuls of ice cream in companionable silence. My phone rings a couple minutes later, shattering the peace. I slide off the stool to grab it out of the clutch I abandoned on the floor alongside my dress.
It’s Hallie. I silence it and return to my seat next to Beck. He doesn’t ask, but I feel obligated to say, “My sister. I’m avoiding her calls.”
“How come?” No judgment.
“I’m supposed to pick out my bridesmaid dress.”
“Why haven’t you?”
“I don’t know.” It’s bullshit, and Beck knows it.
“Do it now,” he suggests.
“Right now?”
He nods.
“I would need another drink for that to happen.”
I’m treated with a smirk that makes me wish we were still on the couch. Beck rises and grabs a clear glass bottle from the freezer, followed by two shot glasses. He sets them both in front of me and fills them to the brim with what smells like vodka.
“I don’t have any gin,” he confirms, grabbing one glass.
“What kind of club owner are you?” I question.
“One who merely put up the seed money for a friend and is now focusing on practicing penalty kicks.”
I laugh. “Touché.”
“Prost.” Beck raises the glass.
I repeat the toast, and he laughs.
“Prost,” Beck corrects.
“That’s what I said!” I insist.
He rolls his eyes and downs the shot. I follow suit, sticking my tongue out when the liquor burns a trail down my throat.
“Gah.” Yup, vodka.
“Shop away,” Beck tells me, grabbing a stack of papers piled on the corner of the counter and sitting back down on the stool beside me.
“What are those?” I ask.
“Work. I’ve got a few endorsement offers in the works.”
“Don’t you have people who handle that for you?”
“Ja, but I’m not going to have them sign me on for anything without looking it over myself.”
“What are—”
“Saylor.” He skewers me with a single look. “Shop.”
I huff out a sigh, but Beck’s focused on his papers. Aside from me studying the profile view of his chiseled features, he’s not going to be much of a distraction. I unlock my phone and start scrolling through clothing sites. Eventually I start shifting on the stool, trying to find a more comfortable position. These clearly weren’t designed to spend a protracted amount of time on. I end up wiggling my legs across Beck’s lap so I can stretch out some. He doesn’t even look up from the papers he’s highlighting.
I turn back to my assignment. It sounds so easy: pick out a pretty dress and send it to Hallie so my father can buy it. Not just easy, fun. I spend most of my time in athletic clothes, but I enjoy dressing up for certain occasions. It’s what this occasion represents that has me faltering. It’s the outfit I’ll be wearing when my father gets remarried. I’ve never harbored any fantasy that my parents might reunite, but I guess I thought my dad would stay single. I thought he, Hallie, and I would remain in the roles that, while not healthy, have been comfortable. Expected.
A stepmom and an attempt at a whole family is uncomfortable and unexpected.
I planned to look through a couple options and choose the one I hated least, but it’s been close to an hour by the time I announce, “this one.”
“I like it.” Beck’s barely paying attention as he glances at the phone screen. But he’s still here, on the stool beside me, with my legs draped across his. It’s the antithesis of my worries about the wedding. Sitting next to him in a kitchen that looks like it should belong to a Michelin-starred chef, I feel completely content. Like I could stay on this stool forever and it wouldn’t be long enough. When the reality is, I’ll never perch here again.
And I know that’s why I took so long to decide on the stupid dress.
Chapter Eleven
Every single one of my temporary teammates is in the kitchen when I walk in, still rubbing sleep from my eyes. I halt abruptly. “Good morning?” It’s not even eight; way earlier than I want to be up on a Sunday. What are they all… oh. “Seriously?” I ask Ellie, who is closest to me.
She smiles serenely as she sips from a mug. “Good morning.”
I sigh as I open the fridge door to grab some orange juice. If they all want to watch me make breakfast half-asleep, they can feel free to observe.
But I’m only one sip into my juice when I hear Alexis exclaim, “He’s here!”
Shit. I was banking on him running late. I glance at the clock on the stove. I’m not even late; he’s early.
“What is that shit car he’s driving?” Alexis questions. I grab a breakfast bar and then follow her path over to the window to look outside. Beck’s adjusting some bags of soccer balls in the trunk of a wood-sided station wagon. I swallow a laugh. Damn him.
“I’ll see you guys later.” I grab my cleats from their usual position next to the door and head outside. It’s the perfect temperature. There’s a whisper of warmth in the air, but none of the heat and humidity I’m ordinarily greeted by.
“Nice car,” I comment as I approach.
Beck glances up and sends me a devastating smile. “Glad you appreciate it. Wasn’t exactly easy to find one. Not even a soccer mom would be caught dead in this, according to the car shop guy.”
“I didn’t think Germans had a sense of humor,” I comment, studying the admittedly ugly car. But it’s not just a joke. It’s one of the sweetest things anyone has ever done for me.
“How would you know? You can’t understand a word of what we’re saying,” Beck retorts.
I roll my eyes as I climb in the passenger side.
I didn’t think to ask where the camp is being held, but it becomes pretty evident exactly where we’re headed as Beck races along the road at his usual rapid pace. He makes the trip from the Scholenberg house to Kluvberg’s field in half the time it ordinarily takes the program van to trek the dozen blocks.
I may not have known our destination, but Beck
did. Which means he got this car to drive for mere minutes. I try not to dwell on that as he parks in the lot reserved for players conveniently located next to the stadium. There’s a massive coach bus taking up one side of the lot, and the other side houses about a dozen cars.
A group of men lean against one of them, turning their attention to Beck as he climbs out of the driver’s seat. One of them calls out in German and laughs, making me think it was a comment about the car.
I come into sight, and attention shifts from the vehicle to me. There are four of them: Otto, two men I’ve never seen before, and the one I encountered when I got lost in the stadium my first day.
My personal GPS greets me first. “Hello. Stefan Herrmann.”
“Saylor. Nice to meet you,” I respond.
“Have we not already met?” he asks. I feel Beck’s eyes on me.
“I guess we have,” I reply. “Nice to see you again, then.”
He smiles, crinkling the corners of his gray eyes.
One man I’ve definitely never met spits something out in German. It’s a flurry of unfamiliar words. The only one I identify is “Kaiser.” It also sounds like there’s a mention of a banana and mulch, but I seriously doubt that’s correct, mostly based on Beck’s reaction. He barks something back that causes the man to shift his gaze to the ground sullenly.
I learn the one who spoke in German is named Ludwig, and the final member of the group is Fischer. He’s the oldest of the group, probably in his mid-thirties. Everyone grabs equipment from the back of the wagon, and then we start toward the entrance that leads directly onto the field.
“What did he say?” I ask Beck in a low voice.
“Something rude he won’t be repeating,” he replies in a clipped tone, striding ahead through the open gate.
Well, all right then. I let him pull ahead and try again on a more malleable target.
“Remember me?” I smile at Otto.
He smirks. “You are not easy to forget, Saylor. Do you have permission today?”
“Seems that way. Boring, huh?”
“I don’t think anyone would call you boring.”
That wasn’t what I meant, but I dive into the reason I instigated this conversation. Otto’s admiring tone is probably a better bet than any segue I could have come up with.
“What did Ludwig say?” I ask Otto. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, which confirms it was about me.
“I don’t think he meant offense,” Otto mumbles.
Yeah, right. “I’m just curious.” I flash him my most dazzling smile. “Something about bananas? And mulch?”
Otto’s lips quirk. Then there’s a long pause. “Bananenbieger is doing something stupid or pointless. And lustmolch means sex crazed. He said there’s only a female player here because Kaiser can’t resist pretty women.”
I bristle. The only reason I’m here is because I’m sleeping with Adler Beck, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a damn good soccer player, one who’s most definitely capable of teaching some kids to dribble.
The field is the busiest I’ve ever seen it. Energy radiates and resonates across the broad expanse of grass. I can only imagine what it’s like during one of FC Kluvberg’s home matches. There are children everywhere, far more than I was expecting, and about a dozen adults. I see Beck’s parents talking with an older man sporting a bushy shock of graying hair. There’s also a line of photographers with cameras along the side of the field.
I should have been expecting reporters, but I wasn’t. Adler Beck coaching children will probably be front-page news.
I forgot he’s famous.
Completely, totally forgot. It’s no longer how I view him. It’s a strange realization, but not as bizarre as the very obvious reminder that he is.
Beck is clearly the authority figure here, and everyone, both adult and adolescent, falls into line when he starts rattling off a rapid stream of German. Since I can’t understand anything he’s saying, I study the crowd of children that’s gathered around him. I’d guess their ages range from ten to thirteen, but they’ve all got one characteristic in common: the adoring expression aimed at one Adler Beck.
Beck stops speaking, and there’s an abrupt flurry of movement as the large gathering splits off into smaller sections. Otto, Hermann, Ludwig, and Fischer all leap into motion, and I’m left trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Beck comes over to me.
“Take that group.” He points to the children on the farthest side of the field. “Just run them through some ball-handling drills.” Then, he leaves my side, presumably to coach his own group. I’m torn between appreciating his faith in me and wanting to call after him. It’s been nearly a decade since I was a middle schooler myself. I barely recall what my practices at that age contained.
But I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, so I grab a stack of cones and a bag of soccer balls, pasting on my most excited smile to approach the group Beck gestured to. They study me apprehensively as I approach. Out of the coaching options, I’m most definitely the outlier for several reasons.
“Hello, everyone!” I tell my little huddle, injecting the amount of positivity I imagine a kindergarten teacher might. “I’m Saylor, and I’m going to be coaching you.”
“Why are you speaking English?” one kid asks suspiciously.
Before I can answer, another boy asks, “Why does your voice sound funny?”
“I’m from the United States,” I reply, choosing not to share that I don’t actually know German. That seems like the sort of weakness I shouldn’t share. “Okay, so we’re going to start by dribbling through these cones and—”
“Boring!” a little girl, one of just two in my group, calls out. “We learned dribbling ages ago!”
These kids are brutal. “It’s important to know the fundamentals,” I reply evenly. “I’ll demonstrate first. Line up behind this.” I set one cone down like I’m Neil Armstrong planting an American flag on the moon.
There are some groans—and muttered German—but they all listen, lining up behind the orange marker. I set up three more cones in a straight line and then return to the first one.
“All right. I want you to dribble through on the first pass. Get as close as you can without knocking the cone over.” I dribble through, brushing the ball against each cone. “Then a roll and reverse.” I demonstrate, so I’m facing back the other direction. “Alternate between step-over and scissors on the way back.” I step in front, over, and behind the ball. Then, step over it, plant my foot, and pivot between the next set of cones. I execute another step-over, a second scissors, and then I’m back at the start.
The little girl who told me dribbling was “boring” is first in line. I’m used to people looking at me with envy—of my soccer skills, of the hot guy talking to me—but I’ve never experienced pure admiration from a child before. The awestruck look on her face makes me feel about ten feet tall.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Mila,” she replies.
“All right, Mila, you’re up first.” I pass the ball to her, and she traps it neatly, then executes the drill perfectly.
“Nice work,” I congratulate her. “Next.”
All twenty of my charges run through the drill twice. I correct a few of them on the first pass, but they all have it down by the second run-through.
“Okay. Next drill.” I switch up the cone formation so it’s in a large circle. “Dribble through at full speed. Knock over a cone or miss one and start over.”
“We did stuff like this ages ago,” one boy complains.
“What’s your name?” I inquire.
“Walter,” he replies sullenly.
“You can go first, Walter.” I smile sweetly.
He heaves out a sigh but does as I instruct. He runs through the drill perfectly. I keep my expression neutral but internally start sorting through drills I did in high school. Evidently, they’ve surpassed the middle school level.
I have them all run through the c
ircle twice and then announce we’ll be doing one-on-one. That perks the group up. No surprise the competitive spirit is strong amongst them.
Three duos run through the exercise, and then it’s Walter and Mila’s turn. I have a bad feeling about the coupling as soon as Mila dribbles toward the two cones I set up as the goal.
Walter jostles her and kicks the ball away. I retrieve it and return it to Mila. “Start again. No contact, Walter.”
He mutters something in German but doesn’t touch her as he kicks the ball away for a second time, taking advantage of their size differential.
“Try again,” I encourage.
“I can’t do it!” Mila says.
“Yeah, ’cause you’re a girl,” Walter taunts.
I ignore him. “Come on, Mila,” I coax. “Try it one more time.”
She does, but the ball slips from her foot at the last minute with no interference from Walter.
“Everyone knows girls can’t play soccer as well,” Walter mocks.
This little— I take a deep breath. “That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” the insolent kid insists.
Mila’s lower lip wobbles, and that’s what breaks me.
“Come on.” I turn on my heel and start striding toward the other end of the field where Beck is gathered with his group. Either they see me as some sort of authority figure, despite being female, or they’re just curious, because they all trail after me.
Beck sees me coming. He keeps talking, demonstrating a maneuver that has all of his charges transfixed.
I let my group meld with his and stride to his side.
“Who knows who this is?” I point to Beck.
They all just stare at me. I turn my gaze to Walter.
“Who is this?” I ask again. “This male player?”
“Adler Beck,” Walter replies peevishly.
“And is Adler Beck good at soccer?”
First Flight, Final Fall Page 13