First Flight, Final Fall

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “You could have a little more sympathy this morning,” I retort.

  “Even less. We all woke up at the same time. I’m ready to go.”

  “Start driving yourself, then!”

  “No way. Watching you all race around is too much fun,” she replies as the sound of running footsteps continues to echo upstairs as Anne and Emma hurry about. “Especially hungover.”

  “Can you at least check if Jenny is here to pick us up?” I ask.

  “She wasn’t a minute ago—holy shit.”

  “What?” I reply, quickly lacing up my left sneaker. “Is Jenny not here? I still have a headache, but I can just—” I glance up as I grab my right shoe and freeze in place.

  Because the sight of Adler Beck walking into my living room is not one I ever expected to see.

  He’s wearing a tracksuit, all black with Kluvberg’s logo embroidered in white. A jacket is tossed across the top of the leather weekend bag he’s carrying. He must have taken a red-eye to be here this early, but his are perfectly blue, without any dark circles.

  “What are you doing here?” I choke out.

  “I got your gift,” Beck states.

  I stare at him. Thanks to the copious amount of tequila I consumed last night, it takes me a minute to realize he’s talking about the painting I sent. “A thank you note would have sufficed. You didn’t need to fly across the Atlantic,” I reply.

  “If you’d answered any of my calls, I wouldn’t have had to,” Beck retorts.

  Shit.

  “I didn’t—I’ve been busy,” I reply lamely.

  He scoffs. “So have I. But I answered yours.”

  “I know.” The call with Beck at my father’s wedding is burned into my memory. “I wasn’t—wasn’t sure why.”

  “Why what?”

  “Why you were calling.”

  “Answering would have been one way to find out,” he snaps. “I wanted—want—to talk to you, Saylor,” he replies, in a tone that suggests it should be obvious. If he were anyone else, it would be.

  “But why? You were so mad when you left Canada.”

  “You’ve had weeks to think about it and you can’t figure out why?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself,” I retort. “I’ve had other things to think about these past few weeks, okay?”

  “What is going on down—” Emma comes to a screeching stop when she enters the living room with Anne right behind her. “Holy shit,” she says breathlessly. “Am I hallucinating?”

  “If you are, I am too,” Anne replies.

  “Me three,” Cressida calls from the entryway.

  Beck turns and starts walking away, and this time I don’t let him.

  “Beck!” I call as I scramble after him, quickly shoving my foot in my right sneaker and following him with the laces still untied. He’s already reached the front steps by the time I catch up with him. I can see Jenny’s silver SUV loitering along the curb with more of my teammates inside. The chances of anyone on the team not hearing about this just disappeared. “Beck, don’t walk away from me again. You can’t keep showing up unexpectedly and dropping bombs like saying you want a relationship and never give me any fucking time to react!”

  Beck spins around to study me, and I have to force my body to keep from shivering. It feels more like winter than fall.

  “Are you going to say anything?” I finally ask.

  “I was waiting for you to.”

  I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I can’t have this conversation right now! I have practice in…” I check my phone. “Three minutes. Fuck. I’m making all the seniors late. But it’s only two hours, and then we can talk, okay?”

  “Okay,” Beck responds, and I let out a sigh of relief.

  “Okay. There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry, and—”

  “Saylor?” I look away from Beck to see my dad and Sandra walking toward the house. Crap. I totally forgot they were coming over. “Just stopping to say goodbye,” my father says unnecessarily, looking at Beck curiously.

  I think longingly of the days when my life at Lancaster were uncomplicated. I sigh and walk down the rest of the steps, wrapping my arms around myself.

  Wordlessly, Beck hands me the jacket he has draped over his bag, and I slip it on. “Thanks,” I mutter. He doesn’t respond. “Um, thanks for coming,” I say louder to my dad, who’s stopped a few feet away. I’m not sure what else he’s expecting. I’m in no way emotionally equipped to handle a heart-to-heart right now.

  Beck takes over, stepping forward and holding a hand out to my father. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Scott. I’m Adler Beck.” There’s no flash of recognition on my dad’s face, and for once I’m glad he’s never taken any interest in soccer. This moment is awkward enough already.

  “Marcus, please,” my dad responds, shaking Beck’s offered hand.

  “And you must be Sandra?” Beck asks, shifting his gaze to her. She nods.

  My dad’s eyes flash to mine, and I flush. It’s now pretty obvious this isn’t just some booty call I was shoving out the door.

  Beck makes it worse when he adds, “Congratulations. From what I’ve heard, it was quite a wedding.” I wince at his thinly veiled reference to my phone call.

  “Thank you,” my father replies. “Married life is pretty great so far.” It’s a sweet sentiment, and it also makes me want to vomit.

  “Did Saylor give you a full recap?” Sandra asks, curiosity burning bright in her voice as she glances between us, obviously trying to discern our relationship. I wish her luck because I’m unclear on it myself. He could have taken off, and yet he stayed to make small talk with my dad.

  “Nope. I just heard a lot about the bridesmaid dress,” Beck responds.

  I’m torn between wanting to strangle him and smile. He’s making things with Sandra and my dad a hundred times worse. My dad’s looking a bit curious now as well, but it’s almost worth it to see the lighthearted, joking side of Beck that has been glaringly absent from our last few interactions.

  I intercede. “It was really nice of you guys to stop by, but I actually have practice, so…” The words remind me that half my team is watching this conversation take place.

  “Yes, of course. We should get going.” My dad hovers for a moment, and then steps forward and gives me a hug. “I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Okay,” I reply.

  Sandra gives me a quick hug as well. They both say goodbye to Beck then head toward the car parked across the street.

  “You didn’t have to do that,” I tell Beck.

  “You met my parents,” he replies.

  I nod. “I have to get to practice. I’ll be back in a coup—”

  Beck cuts me off. “Can I come?”

  “You want to come to my college soccer practice?”

  Beck nods. “Um, I guess so.” We’ve had random spectators at practice before: parents, friends, siblings. Never any world-famous soccer phenoms. “Let me grab my gear and keys. That’s my car there.” I nod toward the black sedan parked in the driveway. Beck heads toward it as I hurry inside.

  Anne, Cressida, and Emma are all standing just past the front door when I walk back in.

  “Care to share anything?” Emma asks as I dart into the living room to grab my abandoned cleats and soccer bag. I quickly bend down to tie my right shoe’s laces and grab my car keys from the hook by the door.

  “He just showed up.”

  “Yes, that much I actually figured out for myself, Saylor,” Emma rolls her eyes. “I meant—”

  “We’re going to be super late,” I interrupt. “I’ll see you guys there.”

  “Wait, you’re driving yourself now?” Anne questions.

  “Yeah, he wants to come.”

  “Adler Beck is coming to our soccer practice?” Cressida shouts.

  “Apparently.” I rush back outside before any of them have a chance to say anything else.

  Beck is leaning against my car. “It’s unlocked,” I tell him as I toss my bag in the
back.

  He climbs in the passenger seat without comment. I twist the key in the ignition, and the engine flares to life. Loud pop music blares through the speakers, suggestive lyrics pounding our eardrums. I think I catch a ghost of a smirk as I turn the volume down and reverse out of the driveway. Jenny’s car is still loitering along the curb waiting for my housemates to depart the house, and I zoom past the SUV.

  It’s a short trip to Lancaster’s sports complex. The few minutes feel like hours in Beck’s presence, though. I can’t believe he came all this way. At least at CFOC I knew why he was there.

  There is no reason why Adler Beck should be headed to a Lancaster women’s soccer practice.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t answer any of your calls,” I finally say. It’s the truth, and not only because it’s landed me in the predicament of showing up at practice with Adler Beck in tow.

  “Are you?”

  “I mean, at the very least, I could have saved you some money on airfare.”

  “I think my male athlete salary will manage to cover it.”

  “Or some more magazine covers.” The words are out before I’ve thought them through. I feel his eyes on me, and I’m glad I have the excuse of looking at the road.

  “You’re a slow driver,” he comments.

  “Law-abiding,” I correct.

  “Slow,” Beck insists.

  “Well, not everyone can get themselves out of a ticket the way you can. I’m not famous.”

  “Yet.” The words are matter of fact.

  His confidence in me, his belief that I’ll one day be well-known enough that a random traffic cop knows who I am despite the dim, flickering spotlight on women’s sports means more than I can put into words. So, I just agree. “Yet.”

  I veer left into the athletic facility’s parking lot a minute later. Jenny’s SUV is nowhere in sight.

  Not wanting to lose any of the ground I gained, I grab my soccer bag, throw my door open, and step outside into the chilly morning. Beck follows my lead, unfolding his long, lean frame from the passenger side and following me toward the main doors.

  A swipe of my student ID lets us inside the building, and as soon as we pass through the lobby, I point toward the stairs. “You can watch from up there.”

  I keep walking toward the entrance of the field before Beck has a chance to respond. My nerves are stretched taut, tensed to the point of breaking. This day is not progressing at all how I expected it to.

  It was supposed to start with an early morning practice and end with finishing the marketing project I’ve been putting off all week, but I’m not wed to a schedule. Unexpected events are ordinarily easy for me to navigate.

  Adler Beck’s startling appearance feels more like I was dropped in the midst of a maze.

  I breeze onto the field, noting most of the team is already gathered in the center of the field. I drop my bag and head toward the huddle, resisting the urge to glance up at the window that overlooks the field as I do. The window that looks out from the observation room I sent Beck to.

  “Scott! Care to tell me why half my starters are ten minutes late?” Coach Taylor barks.

  “Sorry, Coach. They should be here soon. It’s my fault. I had an unexpected delay.”

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  I hear whispers behind me, and Coach notices too.

  “Ladies! Anything you’d like to contribute?”

  “Sorry, Coach, it’s just, uh, Adler Beck is here,” one of the freshmen says. The words are wrapped in awe.

  Every girl on the team looks up to the observation room where I sent Beck. Reluctantly, I follow their collective gaze. He’s leaning against the wooden divider between the windows, typing something on his phone. He’s taken off his track jacket to reveal a white t-shirt, and he looks every inch the international football star he is. I feel Coach’s eyes on me.

  “Your delay, Scott?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “Hmm,” is the only response. Coach Taylor has a knack for saying a lot without actually saying anything at all. It’s a talent I’d love to mimic, but I know I’ll never be able to. I tend to opt for more blatant approaches when it comes to registering my opinion.

  Cressida, Emma, and Anne show up a few minutes later with the rest of our usual carpool, jumping into the warm-up routine we’ve already begun. I’m not sure if it’s an intentional response to the tardiness and pulsing excitement, but Coach Taylor barks out instructions that push the limits of my own fitness.

  Considering I’m one of the few players on the team I know adds to our already rigorous routines, that’s saying something.

  Or maybe it’s the tequila talking.

  Either way, I’m grateful for the distraction. Not only for myself, but also for the gazes I can feel bouncing between me and the upstairs window.

  We’re all part of one of the most competitive soccer programs in the country. Meeting legends in the sport is nothing new. However, they don’t usually look like the male specimen that is Adler Beck. And—I know this is the crux of the interest—they don’t normally have a connection to any of us.

  Lancaster didn’t arrange for him to come do a clinic with us.

  He’s here because of me.

  Practice ends, and I take a seat on the turf to stretch my tired muscles. The downside of the taxing practice is I had no time to plan out what to say to Beck. I hate the paralyzing feeling that accompanies uncertainty. I can feel it creeping over me right now, making my skin itch and my insides crawl.

  Especially when the source of the anxiety appears in the doorway.

  “You need to work on your left touch still,” Beck informs me as he walks over to where I’m stretching, loudly enough for most of my teammates to hear.

  “I only take advice from footballers who have won a gold medal,” I retort. I know Germany getting silver two years ago is a sore spot.

  Beck grins, and it’s an easy, carefree one that adds a dash of nostalgia to the complicated feelings swirling inside of me. It’s been a while—a lot longer than just since I departed Germany—since there was any easy banter between us, since everything wasn’t seeped in secret feelings and hidden meanings.

  “Nice to see you, Adler.” Coach Taylor approaches to shake Beck’s hand. I drop my gaze back to my calves to finish stretching.

  “You too, Elaine,” he responds.

  “Wasn’t expecting it to happen quite so soon,” Coach says.

  “Me neither,” Beck states.

  Coach nods, and then shifts her attention to me. “Good work today, Scott.”

  “Thanks, Coach.”

  Coach heads off the field, followed by the last of my teammates finally trickling off as well. I’m unenthused by the prospect of facing them in the locker room, but I’ll have to deal with their questions eventually.

  “So, I should probably…”

  “Want to work on that left touch?” Beck asks, tossing my ball in the air with a practiced flick of his toe and bouncing it on his knee.

  “You want to play?”

  “Something else you had in mind?”

  A flirty comment referring to some of the other activities I think about involving him is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. “I don’t want to play games with you, Beck.”

  The ball bounces three more times then falls to the ground. I’m mentally patting myself on the back for acting the part of an adult, not a sex jokester, so it takes a moment for his next words to sink in. Or more specifically, their tone.

  “Seems like all you do is play games, Saylor.”

  I suck in a sharp breath. “That’s not fair.”

  “You sail along doing whatever you want, whenever you want to do it, and don’t bother to think about how it might make anyone else feel.”

  I jerk back like he just slapped me. “Excuse me? Let’s not pretend you’re doing all of humanity some sort of personal favor by chastising me. You’re mad at me and—”

&nbs
p; “I didn’t come all this way to fucking chastise you, Saylor. I knew you’d never face it, any of it, and—”

  “Are you calling me a coward?” I snap.

  “I wasn’t the one to leave Germany without saying a proper goodbye,” Beck shoots back.

  “What did you want me to say?” My voice is no longer just angry; it’s also loud, echoing through the enclosed expanse of field we’re standing on.

  “Something!”

  “I figured you’d be too busy posing for magazines to notice I’d even left,” I retort. “Oh, wait, that’s exactly what happened!”

  “I think I made it pretty clear I’d noticed at CFOC,” Beck replies.

  “Saying ‘I don’t know’ wasn’t an easy answer for me,” I tell Beck. “I know you think it was, but it wasn’t.” He doesn’t say anything, so I forge ahead. “Whenever any other guy has asked me how I felt about him, I’ve always known. Sometimes I’d hedge around it, tell him I was too busy with soccer or wasn’t looking for anything serious. Most of the time I wouldn’t. But the point is, I knew. I don’t know anything when it comes to you, Beck, except you’re the best sex I’ve ever had. But you’re more than that. You always have been. And I didn’t know how to express that to you. I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

  “You’re supposed to know,” Beck replies quietly. “You think I’ve ever told anyone else I want a relationship? You think it was easy for me to say that, knowing you’d probably run in the opposite direction?”

  I bite my bottom lip, studying him. Then, I grab his left hand and start hauling him toward the exit door. I only manage to pull him a few feet before he halts.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just trust me,” I implore. “I want to show you something.”

  He doesn’t say anything but lets me lead him through the door that leads out to the soccer stadium. His strides pick up a bit once it comes into sight, realizing our destination. I hop the fence, and he mirrors me, trailing me out to the center line. I flop down on the turf, and he studies me for a minute before lowering himself down beside me.

  “This is why I came,” he says quietly, so softly I almost don’t hear the words.

  “To stare at the sky?” I ask, as I do just that.