Most importantly, I know how he thinks, how he moves. Because I’ve done a lot more than just play soccer with Adler Beck. My body is already attuned to his every shift. I can anticipate his movements before he makes them based on subtle tells most would miss. Thanks to his admission earlier, I know he has all the same advantages when it comes to me. We practically mirror the other’s movements. I spin; he turns to block me. I feint left; he goes right. I gain ground; he forces me back.
I’m so caught up in the complicated dance I startle when Coach Taylor blows her whistle. I drop Beck’s gaze as soon as we stop moving.
“Well, that was—that was something. Good work, you two. Hart, Thompson, you’re up next.”
I jog back to the end of the line, avoiding every gaze aimed at me.
Especially his.
Exhaustion and my dark mood keep questions at bay for the remainder of the day. Just because no one says anything to my face doesn’t mean I can’t hear the whispers, though. They grow exponentially more annoying when we head to dinner, mostly because it’s the first time all the CFOC attendees are in one place. Gossip contained to individual fields has its first chance to flow freely.
The lodge’s dining hall is set up buffet style, with massive trays of food being warmed by kerosene candles. Tables aren’t assigned, but I head for one toward the back right, and the rest of Lancaster’s team follows me. I set my water bottle on the varnished wood and head for the rapidly forming line. I end up behind Samantha Cole, the captain of one of Lancaster’s chief rivals. Despite that, we’ve always been friendly off the field, as evidenced by the warm grin she gives me.
“Hey, Scott.”
“Cole,” I reply, grabbing a plate and a roll of utensils.
“I don’t suppose you’ve suddenly started missing the net?”
“You’ll find out when we scrimmage,” I respond, helping myself to some salad.
She sighs. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“Smart choice.”
“Hey, some of us are hitting the pool tonight, if you want to hang,” Samantha says as we shuffle along in line to the poutine.
“Sure, sounds fun,” I reply, studying the gray sludge covering the potatoes apprehensively.
Samantha misreads my interest. “I’ve been dreaming about these since last year. The chef said it’s the ketchup they add to the sauce…”
“Scott!” I groan when I recognize Coach Taylor’s voice calling my name and abandon my spot in line to walk over to where she’s standing a couple dozen feet away, next to the drink dispenser.
“Yes, Coach?”
“Do I need to be worried about you this season?” Coach Taylor fills a plastic cup with ice and then water, all while staring at me expectantly.
“Worried?” I echo.
“You were distracted all day.”
I don’t deny it. “Everyone has off days.”
“They do,” Coach acknowledges. “But I didn’t think the player who showed up to my practice with the flu last winter believed in off days.” I flush, and Coach’s voice softens a bit. “I’ve never had to place pressure on you, Saylor. Because you put it on yourself, and you excel. You’re heads and shoulders above any other player I’ve ever coached. I don’t want—”
“Hi, Elaine!” I look to the left and have to swallow a groan when I see Mackenzie Howard has appeared alongside us.
“Mackenzie.” Coach acknowledges her with a slight dip of her head. I can’t help but notice she doesn’t look thrilled to be addressed by her first name.
Mackenzie Howard is the current star of the women’s professional soccer league. She’s two years older than me, on a professional team, and takes great pains to remind me of both every time we interact. I typically find some way to mention the national championship Lancaster won my sophomore year. Against her alma mater her senior year.
“Saylor, how nice to see you,” Mackenzie says. “Can’t believe you’re a senior now! Two years on the Wolves have just flown by.” Yup, right on cue.
“I know!” I reply in the same upbeat tone. “Seems like just yesterday we were beating you in the national championship.”
Coach Taylor’s lips twitch.
“Everyone is so excited to see where you end up next year,” Mackenzie states. “You know—” She stops speaking abruptly then waves her left hand. “Beck!”
Shit on a stick. I look down at my plate as I hear steps approach. They must know each other from the last Olympics. Of course, that sends me spiraling into speculation about just how well they know each other. I banish the thought from my brain as quickly as it appeared. I already know I’m part of a pool—a very large pool—of women who have slept with Adler Beck. Who cares who I’m treading water next to? And… clearly I’m far too fixated on Samantha’s swimming invite.
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look, I chant to myself. So of course, I look. His gaze is fixated on me already; I try and fail to convince myself I’m suddenly feeling flushed because of the heat the side of the ice dispenser is radiating.
“Saylor.” He addresses me and ignores Mackenzie, and I hate how much that matters to me.
“Beck.”
“Oh, you two know each other?” Mackenzie questions, looking back and forth between us. I’m guessing calling Beck over was meant to be a power play on her part.
“Yes,” Beck replies simply.
The weight of his eyes on me is crippling. “Are we good, Coach?” I ask, eager to flee.
“We’re good, Scott,” Coach Taylor confirms. “No shenanigans tonight, all right?”
“Of course not,” I reply hastily.
“That’s what you said last year,” Coach replies, but her smile is amused, not annoyed. “Enjoy your dinner.”
I grasp the opportunity to leave. “You, too.”
The line is gone, with only a few stragglers still getting food. I rejoin where I stopped, plopping a small amount of poutine on my plate before moving farther down the line. I’m transferring some roast chicken when I hear Mackenzie’s voice again. She’s sliding her plate down the buffet, chattering about some endorsement deal. Beck is following her but doesn’t seem to be paying particularly close attention. I don’t let myself look for long enough to confirm. I finish serving myself chicken, scoop some rice, and grab a fork. When I turn back around, Beck is spooning some poutine on his plate.
“That’s got ketchup in it,” I blurt.
Beck looks up at me. Really looks at me, and I forget we’re standing in a glorified cafeteria in Canada. “Thanks.”
I shrug. “I may not want you here, but anaphylactic shock seemed harsh. I don’t exactly think there’s a hospital around the corner. Unless they drove like you, no one would ever get you there in time.”
I’m revealing far too much about the knowledge I’ve retained concerning Adler Beck, but he doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, he appears entertained by it. “Don’t go crazy with the compliments.”
“That wasn’t one.”
“Yes, it was.” Beck sounds very, very confident about that, and I hate he has a right to be. I’m notoriously forgetful when it comes to things like dates, names, and favorites. But I remembered Beck is allergic to tomatoes. He leans past me to grab a fork, and it’s closer than we’ve been in weeks. “Don’t forget I know you, too.”
The words are almost a taunt, and they propel me into motion. I stride past Beck toward the rows of tables, dropping my plate down next to my water bottle and sliding into my seat across from Emma. She raises both eyebrows in a silent question, but I don’t answer, jumping into the conversation about our scrimmage tomorrow. We’re scheduled to play Montclave College, which is one of the better teams here. Assuming I can stay focused, we shouldn’t have any problem beating them.
After dinner, there’s a speech by one of the organizers filled with words like “dedication,” “perseverance,” and “discipline.” Words I’ve heard in pep talks and read on posters in locker rooms more times than I could count.
They’ve never been a reminder I needed.
And the only reason I need them now is nodding along to something William York—Britain’s best hope of a world championship—is saying. I do a quick scan of the rest of the table of clinic leaders. They’re all athletes I recognize. CFOC really pulled out all the stops this year.
The speech ends with a plea to act professionally amongst our peers, and then we all file out of the banquet hall.
“On that note, Samantha Cole invited us to the pool,” I announce to my teammates.
“Better plan than the campfire last year,” Cressida scoffs as we enter the elevator. There might have been a minor incident with some smuggled liquor. “I’m in.”
“Meet back here in a few?” Emma suggests as we reach the hallway containing our rooms. Everyone agrees, and I follow her into ours, feeling a burst of foreboding as the door swings shut and latches.
She whirls around as soon as it does. “Okay, spill.”
“I already did. I slept with him while I was in Germany.”
“Yeah, well aware of how you dropped that bomb during laps, S. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before.” There’s some hurt mixing with incredulity. Out of all my friends, Emma’s the one I’ve always shared sexual exploits with, both incredible and underwhelming.
I can’t share the truth: that I needed to forget Adler Beck, and telling her would have made that impossible. So, I share a morsel. “I thought it would be weird. You’ve got a poster of him on your wall!”
“Exactly why you should have told me! Having sex with Adler Beck is one of my life goals. I had a whole plan for how to approach him at the next Olympics!”
I head over to my duffle bag and start changing into my bikini. I’ve never felt jealous of Emma before, even though she’s got the perfect family, but I know she’s serious. Emma’s just as bold as I am; it’s part of why we’re such good friends. Given the chance, she would proposition him. The thought forms a knot of anxiety that drops in my stomach like a lead brick.
“Okay, we’ll get back to that,” Emma states decisively when I don’t say anything. “How was—”
“Emma, I really don’t want to talk about it, okay?” I interrupt, using a serious tone I rarely employ off the field. “I’d say I’m sorry about not telling you, but I’m really not. If anything, this conversation has made me wish I never did.”
Emma huffs. “You were never going to tell me?”
“Honestly, probably not. I had no idea he’d show up here as some sort of guest coach.”
To be honest, I’ve never really understood the role of the clinic leaders here. Especially this year. In the past, they’ve mostly been female players a few years into their professional careers who have suggested new drills to run.
“He didn’t coach shit. Just stared at you.”
I don’t touch that comment, just pull sweatpants and a sweatshirt on over my swimsuit. “Ready?”
Emma sighs. “Yeah.”
We head out into the hallway. Everyone else is already waiting for us as we enter the elevator and then make our way through the maze of beige carpeting to the section of the hotel that houses the pool.
The walled-off area is swirling with steam and excitement when we enter. There are a couple hundred attendees at CFOC this year, and I’d estimate at least a quarter of them are in this space relaxing on loungers, sitting in the hot tub, or standing in the pool that maxes out at five feet.
There’s a game of water basketball already underway, and I quickly shed my clothes to jump in and play. I’m well aware I’m using sport as an escape right now, which is nothing new. It’s definitely healthier than other options.
The game lasts for about a half hour before it dies down. I’m eager to continue playing, but I’ve also swallowed more chlorinated water than I ever wanted to. Everyone else starts to trickle out of the pool and then out of the room.
“517, ladies! We’ve got booze!” one girl calls out, prompting some scattered cheers. I pull myself up on the edge of the concrete but leave my legs dangling in the water.
“We’re headed up.” Cressida appears beside me, already dressed. “Do you want us to wait for you?”
“No, I’m good. Go ahead,” I tell her.
She nods, and pretty soon I’m the only one left at the pool. For the first time since seeing Beck, I’m alone.
I knew I would probably see him again. Eventually. There are a lot of soccer players in the world. Few at his level; the level I hope to reach. That was meant to be some distant encounter.
Not here.
Not now.
Not while I still care.
By the time I stand, my feet are pruned, and my unsubmerged skin is dry. I towel off and then slip back into my sweatshirt and sweatpants. The weight of my phone feels like an anvil. I sink down onto one of the lounge chairs and pull it out of my pocket, biting on my bottom lip as I deliberate.
I text him. Are you up? If he’s on a German schedule, it’s the middle of the night.
His response is immediate. Ja.
We never finished playing earlier. Not my best line, but he still replies instantly.
Meet you on field 12.
Heart pounding, I weave my way back down the hotel halls and through the lobby. Technically we have a curfew that went into effect an hour ago, but any authority figures should probably be more concerned about the rager happening in 517 than me taking a walk outside.
The automatic doors glide open, providing me with a soundless exit—into a deluge of water. It’s not raining out—it’s pouring. I’m soaked after a few steps and debate turning back, but I press on. Between the pool and the downpour, it’s not like I can get any wetter at this point.
The water coating everything glints under the natural light of the moon and the artificial ones lining the path that leads from the lodge to the fields.
I see Beck long before I reach him. The lamps don’t extend past the first field, so I have to rely on the moonlight as I walk toward Field twelve. The rapid raindrops falling blur the entire landscape together, with the exception of Beck and the shape of the soccer goal to his left.
Uneasily, I realize it’s a remarkably accurate portrayal of what my life has looked like ever since he jogged out of that tunnel.
“I didn’t realize it was supposed to rain,” I say when I stop at the edge of the field beside him.
“It wasn’t,” Beck replies. “Ready?” He tosses the ball tucked under his arm down onto the grass. Rather than bouncing, it rests in place in the middle of one of the many puddles that have formed, and I eye it dubiously.
“Yeah. I’ve got to take my shoes off, though. They’re literally filled with water.” Beck watches me pull off my socks and sneakers with an unreadable expression. “What?” I finally ask.
He shakes his head once and yanks off his own. I head after the ball, and he follows me.
We start playing, and I’m fairly certain we must look ridiculous. Both of us were already soaked, and pretty soon we’re both splattered with mud as well.
We’re less evenly matched than we were earlier, and I know it’s because of me. I’m not fully focused. There’s no one watching us. Judging me.
I don’t think about technique or angles or strategy. I think about keeping the ball moving through and around the puddles dotting the ground. I watch ribbons of rain run out of Beck’s hair, I study the intensity in his blue eyes, and I don’t move away when his warm body jostles mine; the contact somehow searing through the waterlogged layers we’re both wearing.
Beck’s ahead by two goals when I finally collapse on the soggy ground. I’m sweating underneath my swamped clothes, but the rain washes the perspiration away immediately. Beck drops beside me, breathing heavily.
“Did you see the interview I did?” I ask, with no preamble.
“Yeah, I did.” Beck’s voice gives no indication of his thoughts on the topic.
“It just came out, and then I felt like he was judging me for being ano
ther one of your fangirls, and I felt obligated to explain.”
“It’s fine, Saylor.” After a couple minutes of silence, he adds, “It would have been nice if you’d ever told me that yourself.”
“Told you what? You know I’ve watched footage of you playing.”
“That’s different than knowing you watched that game. That it’s part of the reason you pursued football!”
“I watched your first championship game, along with approximately five hundred million other people. It made me feel like less of a nutcase for focusing on nothing but soccer. Happy now?”
Beck mutters what I would guess is a German profanity. It sounds like a word he’s said around me before. There’s a pregnant pause. “Otto hung a sign that says, ‘Saylor Scott’s Inspiration’ above my locker,” Beck states.
A reluctant grin tugs at my lips. “That’s kind of funny.” It’s also nice to know he didn’t totally erase me from his life the way I’ve tried to remove him from mine.
“I thought so, too,” Beck admits. “Not that I’ll ever tell him that.”
We fall into silence, watching more and more water gather on the surface of the field as the soil loses its ability to soak any more liquid up. Thunder rumbles in the distance, suggesting the worst of the storm is far from over. I’m soaked and sweaty. The ground is hard and muddy, and yet I don’t move. I don’t feel any inclination to, and Beck doesn’t seem to, either.
I don’t know how long we remain sitting before Beck stands and offers me a hand. It could have been mere minutes, or hours that have passed.
Time has ceased to exist.
I grasp his palm, and his firm grip propels me vertical at the same moment I start to stand on my own. The combined velocity sends me crashing into Beck’s chest.
I pull back slowly.
“Saylor—” Beck starts, but I don’t let him finish. I kiss him. Partly because actions always seem to serve me better than words, and mostly because I want to. For once, we’re not racing toward something more. This kiss is the meal, not just the appetizer. There’s no nearby bed we’re about to fall into. Waterlogged clothes aren’t easy to grope or caress through.
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