First Flight, Final Fall

by C. W. Farnsworth

“No, I can do that in Germany,” Beck responds, smirking as he sits back up.

  I scoff as I sit up too, brushing bits of tire off the backs of my legs. The skin feels textured now, with dozens of tiny indentations marring the ordinarily smooth skin.

  The shift in position is accompanied by a change in expression. Beck looks serious now. Earnest. Maybe even a little uncertain. Almost vulnerable. Or, as vulnerable as someone who radiates confidence simply by breathing can look.

  “I came because I feel this way around you even when we’re just staring at the sky,” Beck continues. The words are a leisurely confession. Languid and slow. But there’s also an honesty that resonates in every syllable.

  “Feel what way?” I ask, because this doesn’t seem like the right moment to rely on body language and subjective meanings. You only need to watch one romantic comedy to know that’s usually the catalyst for some amusing misunderstanding. Except I’m not laughing. Beck isn’t either.

  “Like we could be doing anything in the world and it would still be as thrilling as skydiving.”

  I snort. “I will never go skydiving. Do you know how many people break their legs? I wouldn’t be able to play for months!”

  “I don’t want to go skydiving with you, Saylor. I want to be the person you rely on when you’re acting like you can do everything on your own.” His words remind me of my dad’s, and I push back the same way I did at the wedding.

  “I can do everything on my own,” I insist.

  “There’s a difference between wanting to and having to,” Beck replies sagely.

  “Jesus. Did you read a self-help book on the flight here or something?” Beck doesn’t respond to that quip, and that’s how I know he means the words. Means them now, at least. “Relationships hardly ever last.”

  “Which you know from the many you’ve been in?”

  “I didn’t need to get nailed in the face with a soccer ball to know it was going to hurt,” I retort.

  That earns me a wry smile. “You’re equating me swallowing my pride and flying almost four thousand miles to being on the receiving end of a wayward kick?”

  “You’re Adler Beck.” My words are matter of fact.

  “I know.” He looks bemused by my statement.

  “Practically every woman in the world is in love with you. That’s what? Over a billion people? Probably some men, too? My teammates, my sister—who very recently thought soccer was measured by touchdowns, by the way. Any relationship is tough. Us? It would be a mess, a disaster everyone would know about and feel entitled to talk about. I’m not interested in being known for nothing but my involvement with you.”

  “We don’t get to pick and choose how others see us, Saylor,” Beck snaps. “You’re judging me for shit I have no control over.”

  “Well, you certainly haven’t spent the last few years avoiding the spotlight.”

  “I’m not going to apologize for my past.”

  “I’m not asking you to! I’m just telling you it means I’d be a fucking fool if I…”

  Beck stands and starts walking away.

  For the second time today, I chase after him. “It would be really nice if you could cut it out with the taking off,” I snap when I catch up. “I thought you came all this way to talk—you can’t even make it through a full conversation.”

  “Well, I got a little sick of being criticized. Figured I’d wait at your car while you got changed.”

  “I’m not changing. I’ll deal with the team inquisition later.”

  “Is that my fault, too?”

  I sigh as we reach the fence encompassing the field. “I’m not trying to blame you for anything, Beck.” No response. “How long are you staying for?”

  “No idea. I didn’t think this trip through, clearly.”

  Shit, shit, shit. He came all this way, and I can’t seem to stop fucking it up. “I could give you a tour of campus?” I ask tentatively. At this point, I’m expecting Beck to want nothing from me but a ride to the airport.

  “Hey, Scott!” I turn to see Kyle Andrews jogging over. I list off a long and impressive array of profanities in my head. “Reliving your game yesterday? Heard it was fucking epic—holy shit. You’re Adler Beck.” He glances between me and Beck twice. “This is Adler Beck.”

  If I were in a better mood, I would laugh.

  “Holy shit,” Kyle repeats. “You’re—I mean, man. I’m a huge fan! We always watch the Kluvberg games. I can’t believe—I wish…” Kyle glances around like he’s waiting for someone to appear with a camera to commemorate the moment.

  I take pity on him. “Beck, this is Kyle. He’s on the men’s soccer team.”

  “I’m the captain, actually.” Kyle gives me a side glance.

  “Wasn’t sure if you wanted to take credit for going one and three,” I say sweetly.

  Kyle glares at me, but it morphs into a worshipful expression when Beck holds out a calloused palm and says, “Nice to meet you.”

  Kyle looks a bit dazed as he shakes Beck’s hand and I chuckle. “As entertaining as watching you completely lose your cool is, we’ve got to get going.” I start walking, and Beck follows. “If you want that tour of campus, we should probably do it now, before Kyle tells the whole school you’re here,” I tell him.

  “He a friend of yours?” Beck asks.

  “I guess.”

  “Good friend?” He’s fishing, and we both know it.

  What I don’t know is why I answer the way I do. “No, I haven’t been very friendly lately.” Distance, Saylor, I chide. I’ve never slept with Kyle, and I think Beck knows that. I also think he knows I just admitted to the fact that I haven’t been with anyone else since him. Not something I planned for him to have any inkling of.

  His response is an anticlimactic nod as we walk along Lancaster’s central path. It’s a Sunday, so campus is pretty quiet. Just a few overachievers hustling to the library, too concentrated to give us more than a second glance. Still, I’m not willing to take any chances.

  I duck into the student center, which houses study rooms, along with the post office, a smattering of offices, and the campus store, my current destination. Beck follows me, looking around the open space containing every item you could imagine Lancaster’s logo being embroidered on.

  I don’t think I’ve been in here since I visited campus for my recruitment trip. Being on a national-championship-winning team, I’ve been plied with more free Lancaster apparel than any one person could wear. I find the hat section easily, grabbing a navy one and heading up to the register.

  “Good morning,” the middle-aged woman says pleasantly.

  “Morning,” I respond. “Just this, please.” I set the hat on the countertop.

  The phone next to the register rings. “One moment,” the woman says, lifting the receiver. After listening to whatever is being said, she covers the speaker. “Stephan! Can you cover the register?”

  A baby-faced boy with brown hair appears from around a t-shirt display. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Wow. You’re Saylor Scott, right?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I reply. There’s a sound of amusement to my left, but I don’t look over at Beck.

  “Uh, you don’t need to pay for this,” he tells me.

  “It’s fine,” I reply.

  “No, I mean it. If my supervisor knew you’d come in and I made you pay… seriously, take it.”

  “Fine,” I say. Arguing doesn’t seem worthwhile. “Thanks.”

  He nods eagerly.

  Beck laughs as we leave the store. I shove the hat at him. “Shut up,” I grumble.

  He pulls the tag off and puts the ball cap on. The sight of Beck in a Lancaster University hat sends a pang of yearning through me. What would it be like if Adler Beck had just been a guy in one of my classes? If he was just a hot guy who’d sat next to me? Not a world-famous one revered, beloved, and fantasized about?

  “I kind of wanted to go to university,” Beck informs me as we leave the student center and start walking alo
ng the brick path that cuts through the center of campus.

  “It’s not all that great,” I tell him. “Classes, essays, exams? I’d rather just play soccer.”

  “Really? I’ve never gotten that impression from you.”

  In one of my more mature moves, I stick out my tongue at him. He grins, a carefree expression that transports me to the German wilderness and a penthouse apartment simultaneously.

  We head inside the building that houses the public relations department. It has the same brick, ivy-covered exterior as every other academic building here.

  We pass the stretch of hallway that houses professors’ offices and advance farther into the building. I pop open the door for one of the lecture halls.

  “Here’s what the not-fun part of college looks like,” I inform Beck.

  He moves forward to look inside, but instead of moving around me, he moves into me. Suddenly every muscular inch of the front of his body is pressed against mine, and I pull in a quick breath. Lust hits me with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer.

  “You better cut that out, or this is going to be a short tour,” I warn.

  “If you’ve seen one classroom, you’ve seen them all, right?” Beck asks, giving me a sexy smirk that makes the heat already pooling in my belly simmer. He yanks me around the corner inside the hall and forget any seething. I’m at a boil.

  “We can’t do this here,” I pant, as the door slams shut and his hand creeps under my shirt.

  “You sure about that?” The words are a whisper against my skin. A dare.

  No, I’m not. The chances of anyone walking in on us are slim. There’s no class scheduled in here today, and most people don’t just wander into empty classrooms. But there’s a chance. If I’d paid attention during statistics sophomore year, I might know what percentage, but Beck’s hand wandering across my ribcage makes any mathematical calculations impossible. Even if I knew an equation.

  “Beck,” I whisper as he reaches my breast. I arch against him, barely managing to stop a moan from crossing my lips. Yeah, I won’t be the one stopping this.

  Based on the bulge in Beck’s pants, he’s not feeling particularly inclined to pump the brakes either. It’s been weeks—I know exactly how many—since we were this close to each other. Since he was inside of me. No matter what my brain says, my body wants this. Badly. I’m soaked by the time Beck’s fingers make the journey south to feel between my legs.

  Just like our first time together, I don’t let him linger. We’ve crossed the boundary into where this feels inevitable, but just because I’ve accepted that doesn’t mean I’ll stop to dawdle. I’ve got his cock out and aimed before I realize what’s missing.

  “Do you have a condom?” I tear my lips away from Beck’s.

  “Oddly enough, I didn’t imagine fucking you in an empty classroom when I boarded the plane,” Beck replies.

  Oh, good. He’s lucid enough to employ sarcasm, while I’m a panting mess risking suspension or expulsion by fucking an internationally renowned athlete in what is, and I hope will remain, an empty classroom.

  I fight through the Adler Beck haze. “Right. Because we never have sex. You tend to ask permission before giving me a goodnight kiss and use phrases like ‘Gosh darn, dear,’ too.”

  Beck wrestles with a grin. His lips win. “‘Gosh darn, dear’?”

  “I grew up in the South,” I snap. Heat is still racing through my veins with no other outlet. I yank my shirt down, and Beck makes himself presentable as well.

  But we remain against that wall, just staring at each other. I re-memorize the way his face looks this close and in person.

  The freckles scattered on his cheeks.

  The faint scar slashing the edge of his left eyebrow.

  The way the blue of his eyes grows lighter closer to the pupil.

  It’s only when I recall the fact that I slept on the living room floor last night and got ready this morning in approximately five minutes that I jerk away from the wall to end his perusal of my appearance. It’s stupid. He knows what I look like, but I care what Adler Beck thinks of me, whether he finds me attractive.

  I care a lot.

  “We should keep going,” I tell him.

  “Ja,” Beck agrees.

  But he doesn’t move.

  Neither do I.

  “Okay,” I finally manage. “Let’s go.”

  We head through the building, ending up back outside. This morning’s wind has dissipated, allowing for a little more warmth to permeate the air. I guide Beck through the rest of campus, and then we end up at the parking lot where I left my car.

  Neither of us says anything on the drive. The tour served as some sort of unspoken truce between us. Now, I’m not sure how to bring up any of the heavier subjects hovering in the air.

  The driveway is empty when I park in it, suggesting no one else is home. Beck trails me up the path and inside.

  “Wow,” he remarks when we step inside the kitchen. The remnants of last night’s drunken slumber party combined with this morning’s hurried departure have made it a sight to behold. He picks up the half-empty tequila bottle. “Wild night?”

  “Not by your standards.” I grab a few dirty glasses and set them in the sink to clear some counter space.

  “You might be surprised,” Beck replies, taking a seat at the kitchen counter. “I haven’t been going out much.”

  “Mmmm,” I hum as I transfer some plates to the dishwasher, although I think that comment was his way of responding to my “friendly” remark earlier. “Is the season going well?” Soccer and sex have always been the two safe topics between us, and we already covered the latter with abysmal results.

  “We’re playing decent.”

  “So, you’re undefeated?”

  Beck flashes me an arresting grin. “One draw.” I scoff as I throw away the desiccated lemons from Emma’s cocktail. “You had a good game yesterday?”

  “Yeah. Three zip against one of our main rivals. Northampton. They were at CFOC.” I pause. “My dad came.”

  “I figured that was why he was here,” Beck replies. “How was it?”

  I lean against the now-clean counter. “I don’t know. It’s nice he made an effort. But it was weird, you know? Sharing this part of my life with him. Having him here. Him seeing me play. Meeting my friends.”

  “You can’t expect to go from no relationship to a perfect one in a single visit,” Beck replies. “And it doesn’t have to be all or nothing. Let him in as much or as little as you want.”

  “I don’t know what I want,” I whisper, and I’m no longer talking about my dad.

  “Yeah, I know,” Beck replies. His tone is dry, and I know he isn’t anymore, either.

  “Hello! Anyone home?” Emma’s voice echoes from the entryway, and then she appears in the doorway to the kitchen, with Cressida right behind her. They both stop and stare.

  I straighten and sigh. I have no idea how long Beck is going to stay, and at this rate it will take us a week to get through a full conversation about anything meaningful. “Hey, guys. Um, this is Beck. Beck, this is Cressida and Emma.”

  Beck smiles. “Nice to officially meet you. I’ve heard a lot about you both.”

  Neither Emma nor Cressida say anything; they just gape at him.

  “Don’t make it weird, guys,” I say.

  Beck’s phone vibrates against the countertop. “Sorry, I have to take this,” he tells me. He grabs the phone and starts a rapid stream of German.

  “Hey, Emma? Can we come in?” a voice calls from the direction of the front door.

  My head whips to the left. “Who is that?”

  “One minute!” Emma calls out. “If you’d answered any of my texts, you’d know.”

  “My phone died,” I respond. “I normally charge it overnight, and there wasn’t exactly a cord on the living room floor.”

  “Well, if you had charged it then you would know I agreed to host study group because this may or may not be the first time I’m att
ending it and I’m hoping they’ll give me the old notes,” Emma informs me. “You disappeared after practice and weren’t answering!”

  “Why are they all outside?” I ask.

  Emma sighs. “I said we had a party last night and hadn’t tidied up.” She surveys the room. “Thanks for cleaning.”

  “Like you were going to do the dishes,” I reply.

  “I would do the dishes! You won’t let me do the dishes!” Emma responds.

  “Because you always leave—”

  “Could you guys argue about this later?” Cressida interrupts.

  “Fine. I’ll go hide upstairs in my own house,” I say, heading into the living room. Cressida and Emma trail behind me. Beck’s leaning against the back of the couch, still jabbering away in German. When I hold a hand out, he wrinkles his brow in confusion, but he lets me pull him upright, then lead him up the stairs, down the hall, and into my bedroom. He looks around curiously before taking a seat in my desk chair. I make a series of hand gestures I hope convey my plan to shower and head across the hallway to do just that.

  I stand under the pulsing spray and try to figure out what the hell I’m going to do about Beck. I can’t give him a garbled I don’t know this time. I owe him a yes or no. But what should be a straightforward affirmation or dissent is anything but simple.

  I know I have feelings for Beck.

  I stopped viewing him as a mere hook-up a long time ago. I just don’t know what these feelings are. I was hoping they’d just disappear, and they haven’t. But Beck was right earlier. I never would have done anything about it.

  Never would have flown halfway around the world and shown up at his apartment.

  Never would have pressed him on his feelings for me.

  I have no idea if I’m ready for a relationship, or how to know if I am. Does me not knowing mean I’m not? I had friends with “boyfriends” in middle school, but I’ve never called a guy my boyfriend. Not even close. I’ve had no interest. I either friend-zone a guy, or I sleep with him. Beck was supposed to remain in the second category, but the lines got blurred.

  I let them blur.

  There’s no easing into anything when it comes to me and Beck. Not only because of who we are as individuals, but because he’s Adler Beck. There may be some interest in me at Lancaster or among the niche few who follow women’s soccer, but even if I hadn’t spent two months in Germany, I’d be well aware that the mania surrounding the European football league is a different beast entirely.