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“No idea,” I tell him honestly. Yup, there’s definitely some amusement in his expression now. “Maybe you should spend less time managing your club and more time practicing penalty kicks.”
I went there, and the flash of surprise on Beck’s face makes it clear he didn’t think I would.
I turn to look at him fully for the first time, enjoying watching him decide how to respond. Defend or ignore?
“Otto’s young.”
I smirk. Or blame the goalie. “He blocked one of yours,” I’m quick to point out.
“You caught him a bit off guard.”
“I can’t think of a single game I’ve played in that went the way I expected it to.”
“I meant that you’re American.”
“I wasn’t talking all that much,” I respond cheekily, finally finding some footing in the conversation. I’ve never fished for a compliment in my life, but for some reason I really want Adler Beck to acknowledge he means my appearance, not my nationality.
Eyes the exact color of the clear sky after a storm flit away from my face, down the dress I’m wearing, and back up. “Hard to ignore that accent,” he remarks.
Fine. He’s a worthy competitor off the field, too. Adler Beck doesn’t just have confidence; he oozes charisma. It exudes from every invisible pore, clogging the surrounding air with cockiness.
“The only player in the club over ninety is me.” Grudging, barely discernable respect is hardly noticeable in his tone, but I catch it.
Adler fucking Beck checked my conversion rate.
“You looked me up?”
“Mm-hmm.” He takes another sip of beer.
I mastered the art of appearing indifferent a long time ago, but the knowledge that Adler Beck took the time to check my stats is surreal—not that I have any intention of telling him that, or saying I’m impressed he found my conversion rate based on nothing but my first name. My soccer stats aren’t exactly splashed across the internet the way his are.
Thirty seconds of silence pass before Beck speaks again. I start counting, simply for something to do.
“You here alone?”
“No, with a teammate from home. She’s at Amnerallons and came for a visit with new friends. I needed some… I came to grab a drink.”
“What did you order?”
“Gin and tonic.”
Beck turns and says something in German. I look behind me to see the bartenders are now rushing about. Maybe he really does own this place. Or maybe they’re just responding to the presence of the world’s most famous footballer. In seconds, a glass filled with bubbly, clear liquid and topped with a lime wedge appears before me.
“Tha—” Beck swipes the glass mid-word. “What are you doing?”
He doesn’t reply, just starts walking to the left, clutching what I assume is my drink. Foolishly, I follow him. He takes an abrupt right and heads down a short hallway. Then pushes open a side door and gestures for me to enter first. I walk into what must be the stock room.
Glass bottles and brown boxes line shelf after shelf after shelf, the small space barely illuminated by the solitary lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Beck grabs a blue bottle, opens it, and adds a generous splash of its contents into the glass he’s holding.
Silently, he holds it out to me. I take the glass and sip some of its contents. Lime, botanicals, and pine hit my tongue, followed by the aftertaste of fizz.
“It’s good,” I inform him.
“Good.”
Beck doesn’t move. Neither do I.
I hold his gaze, suddenly very aware—excruciatingly aware, in fact—that the two of us are in a room alone. Together. There shouldn’t be any familiarity between us, but I know what he’s about to do before it happens.
