I close my eyes, feeling alcohol and confusion course through me.
We won today.
I played the best game of my college career.
Everything I’ve spent the past fifteen years working for is falling into place. I’m well on my way to accomplishing the lofty goals I set for myself a long time ago.
I should be downstairs celebrating with my teammates or in my bedroom celebrating with Drew.
But all I can think about is him.
Chapter Fifteen
“Nice face art” is how Emma greets me when I stumble into the kitchen the following morning. “That pattern looks a lot like our bathroom floor. Oh, wait…” She taps her chin with her index finger, making an exaggerated expression of confusion.
I pass her to fill a mug with steaming coffee. “Yes, I spent the night sleeping on the bathroom floor, and it was just as uncomfortable as it sounds. Can we please move on?” I reply, holding my face over the mug so the warm molecules waft upward to cling to my face.
“Sure—as soon as you share why you spent the night locked in the bathroom.”
“Well, I don’t know if you know this, but sometimes when you drink a lot of alcohol, it makes you feel like you might throw up. And I thought the best place to do that would be in the bathroom. So that’s what I did, and then it seemed like too much work to get back to my bedroom.”
Emma rolls her eyes at my sass, but then turns serious. “Are you okay, S? You’ve been acting weird.”
“I’m fine,” I say emphatically, taking a large sip of coffee. The bitter, hot liquid trickles down my windpipe in a rapid stream.
“Oh-kay, then.”
I make scrambled eggs as Cressida and Anne both tramp downstairs. We all eat and then pile into Anne’s car to head to practice. Since we had a scrimmage yesterday, all we have is circuit training in the gym. Which is good, because I’m not the only one who is hungover. Most of the team greets me with bleary eyes and tired smiles.
Emma’s doing leg presses beside me when I finally voice the question that’s been percolating in my brain all morning. “When did you hook up again after Connor?” I ask her, referencing the frat boy she dated on and off most of junior year.
“Hello, left field,” she replies, glancing over at me.
“Forget it.” I shift my gaze back to the muscles of my thighs as they bunch and stretch.
“Oh my God! Did he ask you to find out?” she questions.
“Of course not,” I scoff. “Like I would tell him, even if he did. I was just wondering.”
“It was a month, I think. Jackson Smith. Oh wait, no, Colby Summers. I remember because he did this thing with his tongue where…”
“I don’t need details, Emma.”
“You asked.” I don’t reply. I sort of did. “Why did you ask?”
“Just wondering.” I feel Emma’s eyes on me, but she doesn’t say anything else. We move on to the pull-down bar, then the Ergometer, and then we’re done.
The whole team gathers around Coach Taylor. She talks through tomorrow’s itinerary and reminds us about the Canadian Football Organization Camp this weekend. Better known as CFOC, it’s become an annual tradition during the past three years at Lancaster to separate the end of our preseason and start of the regular season. Each team invited only has eleven slots—the starting squad. I know Cressida, Anne, and Emma will all be on the list alongside me before Coach Taylor finishes rattling off the names.
The prospect of leaving Lancaster for a few days is a welcome one. Maybe it will help me recalibrate.
Then again, leaving the country was how I ended up in this constant state of uncertainty and annoyance in the first place.
“I wonder if we’ll see a bear this year,” Emma speculates from her seat beside me on the bus as we chug toward CFOC.
“I hope not,” I reply, keeping my gaze trained on the Canadian wilderness. Leafy trees flash by, shadowed by craggy peaks.
“Come on, that moose was so cool!”
“The moose was cool,” I admit. “It was also an herbivore.”
“I could save you from a bear. We’d play it totally cool.”
“I wouldn’t trust you to save me from a squirrel,” I retort.
“Well, this is a low point in our friendship,” Emma replies, letting out an exaggerated sigh.
I hide a smile as we pull up outside the wood lodge that houses the participants in CFOC. Lancaster sponsors many clinics throughout the year, but this one has always been my favorite. Tucked away amidst freshwater lakes and towering pines, it’s definitely the most scenic. It draws players from the best programs in North America, meaning it’s a chance to settle old scores and start new rivalries each year before the season officially starts.
“First clinic starts in an hour,” Coach Taylor announces from the front of the coach bus we made the trek from the airport in. “Get changed, get settled, and don’t be late.”
Emma files out into the aisle and I follow, trailed by the rest of our teammates. Cressida yawns widely as we pass through the automatic doors that lead into the lodge. It’s welcoming and homey, with a fire crackling behind the reception desk that makes me feel like it’s winter rather than barely September. There’s a massive chandelier hanging in the center of the lobby, constructed from antlers. I notice Emma eyeing it and grin.
We get checked in and head upstairs. Emma and I are sharing a room, and Cressida and Anne are across the hall. Emma swipes the plastic card against the keypad, and we head inside the room. It’s your average room, except with woolen blankets covering the bedspread and prints of snowy mountains on the walls.
“Bye-bye, summer,” Emma mumbles, flopping down on the buffalo print covering her bed.
I set my duffle bag on the dresser and unzip it to grab my cleats and shin guards. “All good things must come to an end.”
“Did you change your major again? Philosophy this time?”
I stick my tongue out at her and flop down on my bed. “Is it just me, or are these blankets actually really comfortable?”
“It’s just you,” Emma replies. “Mine’s scratchy.”
“I’m taking this back to school.” I pat the tartan pattern I’m lying on.
“Brilliant plan. They’ll never notice,” Emma mutters.
I choose to ignore her sarcasm, closing my eyes and snuggling against the soft wool. What feels like mere minutes later, there’s a knock at our door.
Emma murmurs something unintelligible. I drag myself vertical and stagger over to the door. I blink through sleepy eyes to see Anne and Cressida standing in the hallway.
“Told you they’d be asleep,” Anne informs Cressida.
“Last time I don’t bet against you, Scott,” Cressida tells me. “Let’s go. Clinic time.”
I grab my gear from the heap on the floor, and Emma hobbles out of bed. We all trudge down the hallway, bumping into teammates and competitors alike. CFOC’s headquarters are a mere hundred meters from the entrance to the lodge. It’s essentially a rectangular building constructed of galvanized metal siding meant to withstand the harsh winter. From past trips, I know the layout already. The first floor contains equipment rooms, a small kitchen, and lots of locker rooms, while the second floor is all offices. The paper posted on the front door states they have assigned Lancaster Locker Room five and Field three. I lead my teammates into the square room. It’s minimalistic, with locker-lined walls and a couple of scarred wooden benches.
Emma, Anne, and I are the last ones to leave the locker room. Cressida went ahead with an impatient sigh. Punctual as always. We’re about to exit the back doors that lead out onto the fields when I realize what I’m missing.
“Crap, I forgot my pinny. I’ll catch up to you guys.” I hurry back down the hallway, grabbing the white mesh jersey and pulling it on over the skin-tight polyester sports shirt I’m already wearing. I jog back to the exit leading to the fields, bursting through the doors.
Field three is the second one on the right. I can
see everyone has already gathered in the center, so I quicken my pace to a slow run as I near the group. Teammates part as I near, flanked by players from other programs assigned to the same first clinic. Some I recognize, some I don’t.
“Sorry, Coach, I—” I freeze like I was just confronted with the bear Emma was talking about earlier. “What are you doing here?” The words are out before I’ve filtered them.
Before I remember my familiarity with Adler Beck is supposed to extend no further than one brief meeting at a children’s camp.
No one says anything as we stare at each other. Somehow, in the last month, I forgot how heartbreakingly perfect his face is. How one stubborn lock of blond hair flops forward. How his presence makes my blood fizz and my heart pound.
Beck’s the one who breaks the deafening silence. “Nice to see you, too, Saylor,” he replies. He’s mastered the art of dry humor, so I’m pretty certain I’m the only one who catches the sarcastic undertone. I’m definitely not the only one who catches his acknowledgment that we seem more familiar than two people who met briefly once would be.
“Thanks for joining us, Scott. I was just letting everyone know Adler will be serving as one of the clinic leaders for the next couple days,” Coach Taylor explains. “We have the good fortune of having his input first.”
Good fortune? More like my worst nightmare. I’m already having a hard enough time pretending he doesn’t exist. Forced proximity is not going to help.
“Let’s get warmed up, ladies. Drop off your belongings and then ten laps,” Coach Taylor instructs. Water bottles are tossed. Sweatshirts flung. Laces tightened. Coach heads to the edge of the field to set up a line of cones for what I’m guessing will be sprints.
Everyone moves but Beck and me. I adjust the mesh material I hurriedly yanked over my head, so it hangs correctly and take a step forward. “You knew I would be here,” I accuse. Not my best opener, but what else do you say to the former flame/world famous athlete/sex symbol you weren’t sure you’d ever see again? I’m at a loss.
Beck doesn’t deny it. “Ja.”
“You didn’t have anything better to do than attend a women’s soccer camp in Canada?”
Beck scoffs. “We were already here for a practice match. Kluvberg thought it would be good PR.”
“And you didn’t think the fact that I would be here might complicate things just a tad?”
“I didn’t see why it would. We’re good, right?”
Damn him. What the hell am I supposed to say now? No, we’re not good. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m going to be distracted imagining what’s under your tracksuit for the next two days. Hard pass.
“Yeah, we’re good. It’s still weird you’re here though.”
“Take it up with the organizers,” Beck says breezily. “They’re the ones who reached out to Kluvberg. What was I supposed to say?”
I scoff. “They didn’t make you come.”
“No?” An arrogant brow arches.
“Being here is beneath you, and you know it. It’s also a bad idea.”
“It is?”
“You know it is, Beck. We’ve had a…” I stop speaking as a couple players walk by closely in an obvious attempt to eavesdrop on our conversation. A sharp look sends them scattering like startled chickens. “A different type of relationship,” I continue in a quieter voice. “I can’t go back to seeing you as just a famous football player now.”
“Why not? I made suggestions when we played together in the park.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“We were playing around then, just the two of us. My whole fucking team is here. My coach. Not to mention players from every other reputable program in North America. This is my future we’re talking about. My career. My reputation.”
“You think I’m trying to jeopardize any of that?” Yup, there’s some of the anger I’ve been waiting for.
“Not purposefully,” I acquiesce. “But…” Fuck it. “Having you here is a distraction for me, okay?”
He doesn’t pounce on that admission the way I thought he would. Instead, his voice is earnest when he responds. “I can help you, Saylor. I know your style of play better than anyone else here.”
“Coach Taylor has coached me for the past three years. I think she’s equipped to give me feedback. And all of the clinic coaches have seen footage of us playing.”
“So have I.”
I scoff. “You watched hours of footage of every team attending in order to prepare to come here?”
“I never said I watched footage of anyone else.”
“That’s even worse! I don’t want special treatment, Beck.”
“What does me watching you play have to do with special treatment?” he snaps.
“You just said you only watched me play, not anyone else. That’s special treatment.”
“I watched it months ago. Didn’t have anything to do with CFOC asking me to do this clinic.”
That catches me off guard, but I don’t have a chance to respond. “Scott! You done socializing?” Coach Taylor calls.
I turn from Beck to see everyone else has begun running laps. I curse under my breath. I hate being called out at practice, at least for a mistake. I don’t mind the compliments. I could count on a couple of fingers how many times I’ve been chastised during practice. More than anyplace else, I stay focused on the field. Always. The fact that this lapse is due to Beck makes it all that much worse.
I jog to the edge of the field and then start really running, leaving Beck behind me. I garner more than a few curious glances from the other girls as we run circles around the field.
“Did your volunteer coaching gig with Adler Beck lead to some beef?” Emma questions, falling into step beside me.
The two girls running in front of us both slow their pace as soon as she says his name. Real subtle, guys.
“What makes you say that?” I reply, not looking away from the grass rapidly being swallowed beneath my long strides.
“He looks pissed.”
“He’s German—they always look that way.”
“Saylor.” Emma breaks out her rarely used, no-nonsense tone.
I sigh. “Fine. I fucked him at Scholenberg and told him he should leave just now. Happy?”
It’s a testament to how shocking this revelation is that Emma has some trouble staying upright. She stumbles a couple steps over absolutely nothing before managing to stay vertical and keep pace with me. I’ve told her some crazy things. We’ve shared some wild exploits. But based on her sudden balance issues, I’m guessing if I glanced up, she’d look pretty stunned.
“I can’t believe you fucked Adler Beck and didn’t tell me until just now,” she finally recovers.
I scoff. “Please. You suspected. He’ll sleep with practically anyone who flirts with him.”
“Did you flirt with him?” Emma questions, sounding dubious.
“I beat him in a shootout,” I respond.
Emma laughs. “Only you. Was the consolation prize your—”
“Ladies! If you have spare air to chat, you’re not running fast enough!” Coach calls out.
Groans fill the air, but I welcome the challenge, flexing my calves with every stride to give my movements an extra boost. Ten laps fly by at the accelerated pace. Next are push-ups. Then sit-ups. Followed by burpees. One girl throws up before we even hit sprints. Clearly her usual coach doesn’t believe in conditioning the way Coach Taylor does.
Every muscle in my body is burning by the time we get a water break.
“I should have pretended to be sick this morning,” Emma grouses. I roll my eyes as I stretch my calf and watch Coach Taylor talk to Beck. “Wonder what Coach is cooking up with your lov-ah?” She croons the last word like she’s Taylor Swift.
I shoot her a glare for that comment.
“Back on the center line, please,” Coach barks. “One line of defenders. One line of strikers.”
We all take our time wa
lking back to the center of the field in a blatant attempt to prolong the short break. I end up at the front of the strikers’ line.
“Scott, Morgan, you’re up.”
I dribble over to the cone that marks the start of the drill. Coach Taylor blows her whistle, and I easily spin and sprint around my assigned defender before sending the ball to the back of the net.
“Morgan! What the hell was that? Make Scott work for it! Scott, again! This time with Adams.” I line back up at the cone, and once again I easily skirt around my teammate and score. Coach Taylor sighs. “Henderson! You’re up with Scott. Stick to her like glue.”
I line up for a third time. Janie Henderson stays with me for about twenty feet, but then I feint right, and dart left, easily outrunning her. I score for a third time and expect that to be the end of it.
“Adler, can you please demonstrate how to properly mark a striker, since my defenders seem to have forgotten?” Fuckkk. I keep my gaze on the grass as I jog back to the starting cone.
I can physically feel the excitement thrumming through the assembled players as I hear footfalls approach me that must belong to Beck. Like me, they thought he was here in an observational role. Had I known that wasn’t the case, I would have let Janie keep me from scoring just now.
Finally, I can’t avoid it any longer. Azure eyes are already fixed on me as Beck stops about five feet away. He’s shed the light jacket he was wearing earlier, revealing the cotton jersey underneath that is the same shade of dark gray as the track pants he’s wearing. This is exactly why I wanted him to leave. I never get distracted on the field. But Beck? Less than five feet from me? I’m having trouble focusing.
We stare at each other. He’s looking at me like an opponent, and I’m finally able to do the same. Long after I should have started the drill on my own, Coach blows her whistle. I start to move, darting through the complicated pattern of footwork that shook off my past three defenders. Beck stays with me, just like I knew he would. Biologically, he’s both faster and stronger than I am. But this drill isn’t about speed or fitness; it’s about strategy. If this was any other top-tier male footballer, I probably still wouldn’t stand a chance. But it’s not. It’s Beck. Not only have I spent years watching him play and studying his technique, this is not the first time I’ve played with him. Against him.
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