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CHAPTER TEN
The next few weeks fly by. I guess that’s what happens when you attend an elite soccer camp that believes in only one day off a week. It’s exhausting in the best way, since playing is how I’d choose to spend every hour if I could.
My fellow Scholenberg attendees are tired, too. Even Olivia is too drained to make as many snarky comments. Each day, Coach Weber finds a new way to challenge us. It’s a lot, and none of the other girls are sneaking around with a German soccer player on top of an already draining schedule.
Ellie is definitely suspicious about how I disappear early some mornings and in some evenings. Most Sundays.
I’m not sure why I keep lying to her. I like Ellie. She wouldn’t tell anyone about Beck if I asked her not to. But if I tell her about him, I know she’ll have questions. Questions I’ve never minded answering about a guy before. Questions I don’t know how to answer in this instance.
My phone vibrates on the table that sits beside Beck’s king-size bed, startling me from the relaxed haze I was enjoying. I went for a run first thing, showered, and then ended up here. We had sex—twice—and I haven’t moved since. I was very close to dozing off.
Reluctantly, I drag my arm off the cloudlike mattress to grab my phone. It’s a text from Ellie asking where I am.
I’m running out of excuses.
I tell Ellie I’m shopping for some gifts to bring back to the States, then toss my phone away.
“Something wrong?”
I glance over at Beck, who’s lying beside me.
“No. Everything is fine,” I answer, then focus on his body. We’ve had sex so many times, I’ve lost track. But Beck, naked, isn’t really one of those sights you get used to.
There are other guys I’ve slept with more than once, but those were sporadic hook-ups spanning weeks, sometime months, and always corresponding with some huge bash on campus. Not almost every day for weeks.
Beck mutters something in German and climbs out of bed. I sit up on my elbows. Most of the time he sticks to English around me, but there are moments when he’ll revert to his native tongue. Beck pulls on a pair of athletic shorts and a Kluvberg T-shirt, and I mourn the loss of the view I was enjoying.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Beck glances at me, and I don’t miss the heat that flares in his gaze. Is it good for my ego that he still seems just as fascinated by my body as I am by his? Try fantastic.
“I forgot it’s Sunday,” is his explanation.
“Okayyy…” I reply, letting a question linger after the word, because that really didn’t answer mine. “Are you religious or something? Because I’m not sure God would approve of how we spent the past hour.”
Beck chuckles, shaking his head. “No, I’m not religious. My family does brunch once a month.”
I would have been less surprised if he said he was going to church. “Oh.”
“Do you want to come?”
“What?” I blurt. “To your family brunch?”
Beck nods.
“Will—uh—will your parents be there?”
Normally, meeting two professional soccer players is an opportunity I would jump at, but they’re not just retired footballers. They’re Beck’s parents. I’ve never met a guy’s parents before. And it’s the fact that I want to, that I’m curious about meeting the people who raised him, that has warning signals singing out in my head.
“At their house? Yes, I think so.”
I choose to ignore his sarcasm. “Won’t that be weird?”
He shrugs. “Doubt it. I’ve brought girls over before.”
Other women would probably wilt in response to that comment, but it prompts a rush of relief for me. I don’t want this—us—to be remarkable to him.
“Okay, sure. Attire is casual?” I ask, nodding to his own outfit.
