First Flight, Final Fall

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “Yes.” Walter’s lost a little bit of his bravado suddenly. Either it’s because we’re in front of his peers, or because Beck is present. Since he’s had no trouble tossing sass at me in front of the other kids until now, I’m pretty sure it’s the latter. Which only annoys me more.

  “And who am I?”

  Walter looks at me with confusion. “Saylor,” he mutters.

  “Am I a girl?”

  “I guess. A grown-up one.” I almost smile at that but force my face to remain serious.

  “Do you think I can play football as well as this German grown-up boy?”

  Walter manages another bout of petulance. “No.”

  I grin, grabbing a ball from the mesh bag set on the sidelines. “Watch this.” I drop the ball and start dribbling. Belatedly, I realize I maybe should have clued Beck into my plan a little bit more, but all of a sudden, he’s there, right beside me. A spin, and he’s blocking my path to the goal. He’s not guarding me as aggressively as I know he’s capable of, but I’m having to work for every inch of ground I gain.

  He doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Maybe he’s annoyed with me for turning this into a spectacle.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that everyone on the field is watching us. Thankfully, the photographers departed after a half hour. I can only imagine the headline that might accompany a picture of this.

  Beck steals the ball from me but dribbles rather than steps over, and that’s when I know he’s playing along. He’s not going to hand this to me, but he’s going to let me prove my point. Help me, even.

  I spin, and he jostles his forearm against my lower back. A textbook stop and go, and he’s behind me. I don’t hesitate, sending the ball flying. It wallops the white netting with a satisfying smack I imagine being the equivalent of a mic drop. I turn to see every single kid has their gaze laser-focused on me.

  Walter looks appropriately abashed, but more importantly, Mila is beaming. I walk back toward the kids, meeting Beck halfway.

  “Thank you,” I tell him quietly.

  He walks alongside me silently for a few seconds. Then, “I was wrong before.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” I reply. “About what?”

  “You would know what to do with a kid.”

  The annoyance I felt when he told me he hoped he hadn’t knocked me up was nothing compared to the swell of emotion those nine words prompt. If I were the sentimental type—which I’m not—they might have even made a crack in the plaster my heart is encased in.

  My phone won’t stop vibrating on Beck’s bedside table. After the soccer camp ended, I went with him to drop off the station wagon, and then we ended up in his bed. I finally grab it and answer.

  “Hello?” I mumble. If this is Hallie calling me to talk to Matthew Jr. again, I’m going to kill her.

  “SAYLOR! OH! MY! GOD!” Emma shouts.

  “Emma?” I drape an elbow across my eyes. “What is it?”

  “You met Adler fucking Beck and didn’t tell me?”

  “What?” I ask, shedding some of the orgasmic haze I was enjoying.

  “Cress just showed me an article with photos of you at some soccer field with kids. With Adler Beck.”

  Dammit. “Yeah,” I admit. “He was at a soccer camp thing I went to.” And is currently lying three feet away. Naked.

  “And?! Did you talk to him?” Emma screeches.

  “Barely,” I lie.

  “He didn’t fall for the infamous Saylor Scott charm? The one that makes men profess their love outside in the middle of the night with a full choir?”

  “That happened once,” I reply.

  “Once more than it’s happened to the rest of us,” Emma shoots back.

  I roll my eyes, then remember she can’t see me. “I’m taking a nap. I’ll talk to you later, okay?” I hang up before she can answer and start scrolling through some of my other notifications. “I’ve got to go,” I inform Beck.

  He’s got one elbow tucked back behind his head, lounging in the streaks of sunset that sneak between the half-drawn shades. Ellie’s latest text contained five question marks inquiring about my whereabouts. Sometimes just one won’t do.

  “Everyone wants to go to a beer garden. It’ll be weird if I skip it. Plus, we’re good here, right?”

  “I mean, I could go for a fourth round.”

  I roll my eyes as I pull my sports bra back on, followed by my tank top, thong, and shorts. “Keep telling yourself that.”

  Beck rolls upright and pulls his boxer briefs back on to follow me to the door of his apartment.

  We’re halfway across the living room when there’s a knock. I shoot Beck a questioning look as he overtakes me and pulls open the front door.

  There’s a woman with black wavy hair and perfectly proportioned features standing on the opposite side of the doorway. And I recognize her. She’s a Russian tennis star who’s dabbled in modeling.

  “Alesandra.”

  “Beck,” she purrs. I can practically see the pheromones flying.

  “Looks like you’ll get your wish,” I tell Beck with a scoff, brushing past him to head out into the hallway.

  “Saylor,” he calls after me.

  “Bye, Beck.” I wave a hand, but don’t look back as I walk down the carpeted hallway. My eyes remain fixed on the gleaming floor of the elevator as soon as the doors ding open.

  Anything to avoid facing the fact that Beck having sex with someone else bothers me.

  That’s a problem only denial can fix.

  Chapter Twelve

  This. This right here is what I live for. The smell of freshly cut grass. The feel of warm sun saturating my skin. The sound of labored breaths surrounding me.

  I spin, shoving against Olivia as I fight to make some progress up the field. She grunts as my elbow makes contact with her stomach, but keeps pressing. Finally, I pull free—only to be greeted with the sound of Coach Weber’s whistle. Followed by another long pull.

  “That’s it,” she announces. I stop with my foot on the ball, pulling in deep breaths of oxygen to replenish my bloodstream.

  That’s it, and not just the end of the game or the end of practice for the day. That whistle signaled the end of Scholenberg. Today is our last day. The final of fifty-six days—eight weeks—just drew to a close.

  The women surrounding me look just as taken aback. We’ve reached the end of the marathon. A finish line we all knew was coming. Saw coming. Prayed would arrive for weeks.

  Crossing it feels different. Instead of relief, I feel perturbation.

  “Get cleaned up. I’ll see you all tonight,” Coach Weber announces. Scholenberg is hosting a final group meal before we all go our separate ways tomorrow. I head toward the tunnel with the rest of my teammates but pause when I hear my name.

  Coach Weber calls out to me, and it’s a mirror of our first day here.

  “Yes, Coach?”

  I turn and return to the field, only stopping when I’m a few feet away from her.

  “I had my doubts about you, Scott,” Coach Weber declares.

  “Oh?” I reply. There are other things I would ordinarily say in response to that but nothing I would dare utter to someone I respect as much as Christina Weber.

  “I knew you were talented. I expected you to skate on that, especially after an injury. But… I was wrong.” She gives me a rare smile. “You’re the most dedicated—not just talented—player I’ve ever coached. That will take you far, you understand me? You’ve got confidence on the field, but I also get the feeling not many people have told you this. Some players are talented. Others work hard. But it’s rare—extremely rare—to have both, to never lose the drive to be better. Keep at it, and there won’t be anyone left to surpass, Scott. I’m expecting to one day be known by nothing aside from the fact that I coached you for a summer.”

  I gape at her. No one has ever heaped anywhere close to the mountain of compliments she just dropped on me. I just completed the most competitive soccer progra
m in the world, and one of the most famous female footballers in the world is telling me she expects her legacy to encompass nothing but coaching me. And she’s completely serious. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Christina Weber these last eight weeks, it’s this: if she has a sense of humor, she guards it closely, and she doesn’t dole out false compliments.

  “Uh—I—wow,” I stammer. “Thank you.”

  “See you tonight.” She pats my shoulder and then heads toward the tunnel.

  I remain on the field, savoring my last moments on this rectangle of grass. It hits me harder than I imagined it would—the fact that these are my last—as I stroll toward the center of the expanse. I drop down on the middle line and stare up at the cloudless sky.

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here when a shadow falls across my face. Somehow, I know who it is before I shade my eyes to squint upward.

  “What are you doing?” Beck inquires.

  I could ask him the same thing. Instead, I reply, “Stargazing,” shifting my eyes back to the sky.

  There’s a whoosh of air to my left as he drops down beside me in the center circle.

  “It’s the middle of the day,” he observes.

  “I like a challenge.”

  “Are you upset about Alesandra?”

  A logical conclusion, since I’ve avoided him ever since. I track a puffy mass of condensed water vapor as it drifts across the brilliant blue backdrop. “No.”

  Beck doesn’t say anything for a while. We lay side by side, staring up at the sky.

  “What are you thinking about?” he finally asks.

  “How I spent two months in Germany and only learned two German words.”

  There’s a huff of air that could be interpreted as amused or exasperated. I don’t let my eyes stray from the sky to check.

  “I doubt it will matter once you return home,” Beck responds. He’s right, but the insinuation still smarts. I’ll never need to know German again. “You’ve got other talents,” he adds teasingly.

  I don’t flirt back. “I’ve got to go. I’ll hold the bus up.” I jerk upright, then shove away from the turf so I’m standing.

  Beck mirrors the first motion, but not the second. I study him sitting there. Sun-kissed skin. Azure eyes. Blond hair. His practice jersey covers the work of art that is his torso, but visible lines of muscle run the length of his forearms, bunching into defined biceps. The perfect portrait is framed by the famous arches of his home stadium.

  “Bye, Beck.”

  I’ve said those two words before, but they’re expelled differently this time. Finality has a bitter aftertaste that lingers in the air around us.

  “Bye, Saylor.” He mimics my minimalistic farewell.

  There’s more I could say. Regardless of his notoriety or appearance, I’ve always admired Adler Beck as a soccer player. This is my last chance to tell him that, but the past couple of months have forever vitiated any chance of me viewing him through a vacuum of just his athletic talents. I could thank him for the sex. For the glimpses into his world not portrayed on shiny covers. For making this trip not only about soccer.

  Instead, I turn and head for the tunnel without saying another word.

  I’ve always found it easier to say nothing unguarded at all.

  The dinner marking my final evening in Kluvberg isn’t held at another fancy restaurant. It’s held at a tiny beer garden tucked in the midst of the city. The more relaxed atmosphere serves as an accurate depiction of the shift that’s taken place amongst us attendees over the past two months. Pop music and reminiscing punctuate the air as we scarf bratwurst encased in pretzel buns and gulp beer. There’s a communal mood. Tonight, we’re not attendees of different universities without matching passport covers.

  Tonight, we’re teammates.

  For the first and final time.

  Halfway through her first beer—which is only relevant because I’m pretty sure it means she isn’t drunk—Olivia gives me a hug and informs me she hopes the rest of the American team isn’t as good as me at the next Olympics. Coming from her, that’s the equivalent of pledging lifelong devotion.

  Then, I get drawn into a dance-off to Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” with Ellie; a song that owns a permanent spot on my pre-game playlist, meaning I’ve got a full arsenal of moves to bust out as I toss my hair and lip-sync the lyrics. There’s no official winner crowned by the laughing onlookers, but I’m pretty certain it’s me.

  Breathless and thirsty, I return to the picnic tables. I gulp some water before switching to my glass of beer.

  Alexis is still in her same seat from dinner. “Did I see Olivia hug you?” she asks.

  I laugh and take another hoppy sip. “Yeah. See any pigs flying?”

  “What?” Alexis looks thoroughly confused, and I can’t say I blame her. It’s an expression I’ve never fully understood. If you were going to highlight the impractical nature of a farm animal leaving the ground, wouldn’t it make more sense to choose the heaviest one? Like a cow? Or a horse?

  “Never mind. How come you’re not dancing?”

  “I prefer to watch the rest of you act like idiots.”

  I grin. “Harsh. Come on, it’s our last night. You’ve got something better to do?”

  “Nope.” Alexis takes a sip of her own beer. “Kind of surprised you’re here, though.”

  She’s studying me closely. “I came here for Scholenberg. Where else would I be?”

  “With Adler Beck?”

  I scoff, mostly to cover the fact that the sound of his name hits me like lemon juice in a paper cut. “Things aren’t like that between us.”

  “They aren’t?”

  “No.” The word comes out harsher than I mean it to.

  “So, you’re done?”

  I nod.

  “Do you want to be?”

  I stopped dancing for a cold drink and somehow stumbled into a therapy session. “No. Yes. I don’t know.” I pause. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Of course it matters.”

  “I don’t—it was just supposed to be sex. I’ve never… cared. I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

  “I don’t think we get to choose who we fall in love with,” Alexis says softly.

  I rear back like she slapped me. “I didn’t say anything about love.”

  “So… your plan is to never see him again?”

  “I mean, I assume he’ll be at the next summer Olympics.”

  Alexis snorts. “Right.”

  “Scott! Get your ass out here for a second round!” Ellie shouts.

  “Be right there,” I call back. “It’s best this way,” I tell Alexis, draining the rest of my beer. “Cleaner.”

  I stand and return to the makeshift dance floor, losing myself in the music’s beat. But the pulsing bass doesn’t drown out my thoughts for long.

  Did I say I’m leaving tomorrow?

  Does Beck know today was the last day of Scholenberg?

  Did the goodbye I uttered sound as final to him as it did to me?

  I’m speeding toward the end of my time in Germany like I’m inside a car Beck is driving, and Alexis was right. I want to be spending the remainder of it with him.

  The night ends with a speech from Coach Weber. It’s quite different from her words to me earlier. She sticks to inspirational quotes and ends by telling us we’re one of her favorite groups. It’s a line I’m certain she’s included every year since she became head of the program over a decade ago, but it’s still nice to hear.

  The night winds down pretty quickly after that. The beer garden’s staff seem eager to see us go. Not only are we a boisterous group, but Scholenberg rented out the whole place. Our exit means they can shut down for the night.

  Ellie’s already concocting a plan to return to Submarine when we emerge out onto the street.

  “I’m going to head back to the house,” I tell her. “I’m exhausted and I’ve got an early flight.”

  “Fine,” Ellie agrees with a disappoi
nted sigh. “We can drop you off on the way.”

  “It’s fine. I’m just going to walk,” I reply. “One last look at the city, you know?”

  Ellie studies me for a minute, and I think she’s going to call me out on it. “Text me when you’re back,” is all she says.

  “I will. Have fun,” I encourage as I start down the street—in the opposite direction from the building I’ve lived in for the past two months. I’m already in Kluvberg’s most upscale neighborhood. It’s only two blocks from Beck’s apartment building.

  I hover on the sidewalk, staring up at the highest floor. There are a couple of lights on, not enough for me to tell if he’s home or just left them on earlier.

  It’s been almost a week since I was last here. Since a brunette bombshell showed up for the second shift. But neither of those things would matter if it was just sex.

  Heading inside Beck’s building would be about more than that.

  It would be about talking to him.

  Touching him.

  Simply being with him.

  For the first time in my life, I’m worried I might let it show that I care. That’s not a risk I can take for a final frolic in the sheets.

  I turn and start to walk back to the Scholenberg house, not caring that it’s begun to drizzle. Appreciating it, actually.

  It hides the fact that there was already water dripping down my cheeks.

  Chapter Thirteen

  My return to Lancaster University for the start of senior year is anticlimactic. The fourth time doing something is never the time remembered. At least, not the time I remember.

  Emma harassed our landlord into letting me move in early, so I head straight to our house from the airport when I land.

  The drive feels strange. The scenery isn’t what I’ve grown accustomed to seeing. Connecticut looks drab and uninspired after the majestic color of Kluvberg.

  The National croons “Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks” in my ears, the melancholy melody matching my mood. I haven’t taken my headphones out since I climbed in the waiting car outside the Scholenberg house fourteen hours ago. I needed to drown out the stupid, dangerous thoughts swirling in my brain by listening to others’ woes. Lacking the motivation to make my own playlist, I selected one entitled “Feeling Blue.” Fittingly, all it’s done is make me feel like climbing in bed and pulling the covers over my head.