Surrounding Kluvberg.
Surrounding Beck, its most notorious player.
The one measly article with a photo of us at CFOC is nothing compared to the media circus that would erupt if it came out that we were in an actual relationship.
I step out of the shower. Steam swirls around as I squeeze excess water out of my hair and then wrap my towel around my torso. I’m gathering my dirty clothes to dump in the hamper when the bathroom door bangs open.
“Hello! Occupied,” I say as Cressida barges inside, followed by Anne. “What is going on?”
Anne shuts the door a lot more quietly than Cressida opened it.
“Answers, Saylor. Start talking!” Cressida demands.
“Answers to what?”
“Adler Beck was in our kitchen when we got home!”
“Yes, I’m aware,” I drawl.
“Is he staying here?”
“I think so… we haven’t really covered logistics yet.”
“You’ve been off together all day!” Cressida exclaims.
I shrug. “It didn’t come up.”
“Kluvberg’s in season,” Anne points out. “Isn’t he missing stuff to be here?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked,” I admit. The first sentence is a cop-out. I know he must be. I have commitments seven days a week during the season. He’s a professional athlete. Playing soccer is his job. There’s no way Beck’s not missing something by flying across the Atlantic. “Could we discuss this after I’ve gotten dressed?” I request, gesturing down at the small puddle that’s forming at my feet.
The door opens, and Emma joins the party. I groan, leaning my head back against the shower door.
“What’s she said?” Emma asks eagerly.
“Absolutely nothing,” Anne supplies.
“Because there’s nothing to tell!”
Cressida scoffs. “Yeah, right. I never bought the ‘It was just sex’ line because you acted so weird about it, but there’s definitely something else going on.”
“I don’t know what’s going on! We haven’t talked about it yet, and even when we do I’m not going to give you a fucking transcript. I can ask him to get a hotel if you don’t—”
Emma gapes at me like I just suggested we streak across campus naked. Except we did that sophomore year and she didn’t look nearly as horrified. “Don’t you dare. I’m having ‘I slept in the same house as Adler Beck’ engraved on my tombstone.”
“Morbid. And creepy,” I add as I push through them to the bathroom door. “I’m going to get dressed. Let’s not do this again.”
Beck is still on the phone when I re-enter my room, so I don’t say anything. I don’t even make eye contact, just get dressed and flop down on my bed. I open my laptop and glance over at him. He’s staring out the window, listening to whatever the person on the other end of the line is saying. I turn my attention back to the marketing project I was planning to spend the afternoon on.
My phone vibrates on my bedside table a few minutes later. I yank the charging cord out and roll onto my back to read the latest message. It’s from Emma. All clear down here.
“Wir sehen uns dann,” Beck says, which I’m surprised to realize I recognize as a farewell. I didn’t think I’d retained any of my meager German. I hear him stand and walk over to my bed. The mattress dips as he sits.
“Long phone call,” I comment.
“Ja,” Beck responds. “My coach was… checking in.”
“Did you tell him you were coming here?”
He pauses. “We talked before I left.”
I drop it. “Emma had a study group over earlier, but they’re gone now. Do you want to shower? Or food?”
“Yeah, both would be good.”
“Okay. I’ll make something.” I close my laptop and roll off the bed. “Towels are in the closet.” I head out into the hall before he can say anything. I don’t know what Beck’s coach told him, but he seems more withdrawn now. Reticent. I’ve been so focused on my own emotions, I haven’t considered how it might feel if Beck is the one who walks away.
If he decides this isn’t worth it.
That I’m not worth it.
Anne is the only one in the kitchen when I enter it. “Hey.” She looks behind me at the stairs. “Whe—uh, where’s Beck?” I can tell she’s trying to sound nonchalant, but she falls spectacularly short.
“In the shower.”
Anne nods jerkily. “Speaking of, sorry about the bathroom ambush.”
I snort. “It’s fine. Where are Cressida and Emma?”
“Trying to fix the television before Twenty-Five to One is on.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course.”
“Don’t think I didn’t see you watching last week,” Anne replies.
“It was impossible to ignore. I didn’t think it was physically possible for someone to cry that much.” I open the fridge door to survey the contents.
“Are you making dinner?”
“Yeah,” I reply, pulling a package of chicken out of the fridge.
“What about Spaghetti Sunday?”
“Beck’s allergic to tomatoes.” Anne makes an annoying humming sound. “Don’t start, please.” I sigh.
“Just saying, you gave Natalie a peanut butter granola bar during play-offs.”
“She just doesn’t like peanut butter for some absurd reason. That wasn’t life-threatening.”
Anne hums again. “Still. You forgot.” She pauses. “You guys would make a cute—well, actually more like insanely gorgeous couple.”
I don’t say anything as I dump chicken in a baking dish and turn on the oven. Anne takes the hint and starts talking about our game on Tuesday instead. Cressida and Emma return to the kitchen, still bickering about whatever is wrong with the television.
It feels like an ordinary Sunday night.
Until the sound of footfalls comes from the stairwell. I keep my gaze fixed on the potatoes I’m peeling, only glancing up when I hear him enter the kitchen.
When I see him, I’m hit with a wave of lust and longing powerful enough to knock me over. Beck strolling into my kitchen wearing athletic shorts and a t-shirt with wet hair is something I want to happen more than just this once.
Emma and Cressida keep arguing in an overdone attempt to act casual, and Beck saunters over to my side. “You’re cooking?”
“Mm-hmm.” I set aside the last peeled potato and make eye contact with him. He holds my gaze as I probe, trying to get a read on his current mood.
Nothing.
I can’t discern a damn thing.
We just stare at each other. Unfortunately, Beck has one of those faces that looks better the longer you stare at it. I get lost in those azure depths, so adrift I startle when Anne says my name.
“Saylor?” she repeats.
“Yeah?” I tear my gaze away from his.
“The timer just went off for the chicken.”
I grab the potholders off the counter and pull the pan out of the oven. Juice bubbles and crackles in the bottom of the dish, and the surface of the meat is crispy, cooked to a perfect shade of light brown. I grab the meat thermometer from the drawer to check, but I already know it’s done. Once I confirm it is, I transfer the chicken onto a plate, fill the pan with potatoes, and stick it back in the oven. Then, I start on the salad.
“Can I help?” Beck asks quietly.
Without looking at him, I slide a cucumber his way. “Chop this.”
He does, and the rest of dinner is ready shortly thereafter. We all sit down, and my three housemates sure don’t have any shortage of things to say. They chatter about such a range of topics I can barely keep track.
One minute I’ll tune in and it’ll be about bunnies as pets, the next high-waisted bikini bottoms. I’m at a loss for the connection between those two. Dinner is good—if I do say so myself—but I’m barely cognizant of what I’m tasting. I’m hyperaware of Beck sitting a foot to my left. He mostly seems amused by the endless commentary.
We finish eating, and Cressida offers to do the dishes.
“It’s fine, Cress. I know you want to watch the show. I’ll clean up.”
“What show?” Beck asks, speaking for the first time since we sat down at the table.
“Twenty-Five to One!” Emma exclaims. “Have you seen it?”
I snort and Beck glances at me. “What is it about?” he asks.
“It’s a reality television show about finding love,” Cressida replies.
“Filled with unnecessary drama and toxic personalities, and fueled by too much alcohol,” I add.
“Do you watch it?” Beck questions.
“I mean, sometimes. If it’s on…” I hedge.
“She watches it,” Emma confirms, and I glare at her.
“Okay, let’s watch it,” Beck states.
I glance at him. “Seriously?”
“Why not? I’m definitely not playing Clue with you again.”
I fight the smile, I really do. But I don’t win. “Okay, let’s watch it.”
We all migrate into the living room. Cressida plops down on the recliner. Emma takes a seat on one side of the couch. Beck settles on the opposite end. I take a seat closer to Beck, but toward the middle. Then Anne comes out. I’m surprised. She’s never watched before. Then again, Adler Beck’s never been in our living room watching it before. Her presence means I have to scootch farther down the couch.
Closer to Beck.
Our thighs press, then our sides, then our shoulders. Acute, self-conscious awareness pulses through me, and it’s ridiculous. Absurd. I’ve been a lot closer to Beck than this, but somehow being pressed against him in front of my friends feels more intimate.
The show starts with an elaborate montage replaying last week’s most scandalous events.
“That’s the guy they’re all fighting over?” Beck whispers to me incredulously as the new episode starts.
“Yup,” I reply. “Not your type?”
Beck chuckles, and I lean a little closer to feel his chest vibrate. “Nope. Yours?”
“I prefer blonds.”
“Karl will be disappointed.”
I laugh softly. “Are he and Sophia still dating?”
“No idea. I made my opinion about him pretty clear. He’s not exactly a popular topic of conversation.”
“It’s sweet that you’re protective,” I say quietly.
“Is it? Because I made my opinion clear after he spent brunch staring at you. Because he spent brunch staring at you.”
I look up at him. He’s staring at the television screen. “Yeah, it’s sweet,” I murmur. I look away, back at the screen, which is currently depicting a hot-air balloon ride over a field of wildflowers. “This is even more ridiculous than the helicopter last episode,” I say at a normal volume.
“I thought you weren’t watching last episode,” Emma replies from the opposite end of the couch.
“I just wanted to see if Madison ended up getting on it,” I respond. “I mean, who plans a helicopter ride for a woman afraid of heights?”
“He didn’t know she was afraid of heights,” Cressida defends.
“Well, maybe he should know that about the person he’s supposedly falling in love with,” I retort.
“Like her allergies?” Anne comments beside me. I don’t think anyone else hears, but I scowl at her anyway.
The hot-air balloon lands in the field, and the couple disembarks to discover a picnic that’s already been prepared. “Seriously? How unrealistic,” I grumble.
“Saylor! I can’t hear what they’re saying,” Emma complains.
I sigh as I settle back into the soft cushions. I watch as the lead and his current date make contrived conversation, biting back more sarcastic comments. And then Beck’s left hand settles on my knee, and I lose all sense of what’s happening on the television. I glance over at him, but his attention seems to be on the show. His thumb traces small circles on my skin, and zings of arousal shoot up my thigh.
I bite my bottom lip and shift closer to him. His right arm slides down my back, dipping underneath the hem of the crewneck sweatshirt I put on after my shower. I’m not wearing anything underneath besides a bra, and he discovers that.
Rough callouses scrape against my lower back as his palm drags across the skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. I arch against him involuntarily, and Anne’s pretty much got the center of the couch to herself. I’m partly on the cushion, mostly on Beck’s lap. He keeps rubbing his hand against my skin but doesn’t venture any farther north.
It’s an innocent touch, but there’s nothing virtuous about the wetness pooling between my thighs. Beck’s eyes don’t waver from the television, which makes it even hotter. Either he’s completely oblivious to the effect his touch has on me, or he’s actually paying attention to the show.
After a few more minutes, Beck’s hand stills. It remains on the small of my back, searing into my spine and radiating heat through my whole torso. Once I get my libido under control, I snuggle closer so my head is resting on his chest.
I stopped paying attention to the show a long time ago.
Now, I’m focused on nothing but Beck. I slip my hand underneath his shirt, and he inhales sharply. I revel in the knowledge that I’ve still got some power over him, too, as I close my eyes. I block out the sound of the annoying commentary on the television and focus on the sensation of being held by Adler Beck.
The next thing I’m aware of is whispers.
“… leave her down here?” Cressida’s voice.
“She spent last night on the floor. This is an upgrade.” Emma this time.
I open my eyes and glance to the right. Beck’s already looking at me. “Hey, sleepy. You missed some drama.”
“He sent Madison home!” Emma exclaims.
I sit up and stretch. “I don’t even know who that is.”
“The hot-air balloon girl,” Cressida supplies.
“Guess there are worse things to be known by if you’re on a dating reality television show,” I comment, standing.
“I’m going to bed,” Anne says, yawning. “Practice earlier kicked my ass.”
“Imagine how terrible it would have been if we lost yesterday,” Cressida comments, heading toward the stairs after her.
Emma follows.
It’s just me and Beck in the living room.
“Ready for bed?” I ask.
“You obviously are,” he replies.
Except I’m not. I’m tired, sure, but the hunger I repressed earlier is suddenly raring back to the surface. I don’t act on it now, though.
I head toward the stairs, and Beck follows. The upstairs hallway is empty, and I enter my room, shutting the door behind us.
I yank my pink sweatshirt over my head and swap out my sweatpants for a pair of sleep shorts, feeling Beck’s eyes on me the whole time. He strikes just as I’m pulling a tank top out of my dresser.
“Do you know what I’ve spent the past hour thinking about, knowing this was all you had on underneath?” he asks, pressing up behind me.
I push my hips back against his. “Maybe you should tell me.”
Soft kisses trail along my shoulder, and I moan when he reaches my neck. Loudly. Desire floods me, so potent and all-consuming I can’t think straight.
Warm hands slide up my stomach, and I buck back against him as they reach my breasts. “I was thinking about doing this,” Beck murmurs against my neck, before sucking on some of the sensitive flesh.
I’m so close to coming from that alone it’s embarrassing. I struggle, trying to turn around so I can touch him more. His arms pin me in place. “Beck,” I whimper, rubbing against him. I roll my neck so I can see him better, and he responds with a blistering kiss.
I was overwhelmed before; I’m drowning now. Sinking through ecstasy and euphoria. His tongue is urgent, seeking immediate entrance and plundering once it’s granted.
Beck kisses me urgently, fervently, fiercely. I squirm, still desperate to touch him. He still doesn�
�t let me. “What are you doing?” I whisper.
“Skydiving,” he responds, and I get it. This sweeping, exhaustive feeling feels a lot like I imagine jumping out of a plane might. The inability to think about anything else. The overwhelming sensation. But just because I can conceptualize it doesn’t mean I’m ready to leap. It’s not an athletic undertaking I can train for.
“I’d rather do this,” I suggest, gyrating against his very obvious hard-on.
Strong arms drop, and I’m finally able to twist around and look at him. All the emotion has drained from Beck’s face, leaving behind nothing but that same stoic expression that blocked the June sun on Kluvberg’s field. “That’s not the best idea.”
He walks to the right side of the bed, sliding under the covers before I have the chance to blink more than twice.
Excuse me, what? Call me vain or a sex goddess, but that’s never happened before.
Never.
The fact that it happened with Beck makes it that much worse.
I swallow the painful lump in my throat and turn off the light before slipping under the covers myself, making a point to scooch as far away from the other side of the bed as possible.
The thin cotton sheets and down comforter prove to be an ineffective barrier against ravening thoughts, however. I don’t know how long I lie on the mattress for, but it’s not long enough for endless pondering to wear my brain out.
I finally slip out of bed and head downstairs. Anne has an extensive tea collection, so I might as well try a cup.
At this point, I’m pretty sure the only thing that will knock me out is a few shots. But I’ve got morning practice, and I made a vow that Adler Beck would never interfere with my performance on the soccer field.
An oath that was far easier to keep back when I’d done nothing but beat him in a shootout.
I’m filling the kettle with water when a familiar timbre sounds behind me. “What are you doing?”
“Making tea,” I respond, turning the tap off with a little more force than is strictly necessary. The hardware wobbles its way back into place. Another thing for our landlord to never get around to fixing.
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