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The rational thing to do right now would be to leave, so of course I take a step farther onto the field. Closer to Adler Beck.
He wants to show off? I’m really good at that game.
“Best out of five?” I suggest. I’m scalded by blue fire as Beck turns the full heat of his searing gaze on me. Evidently the last glare was just a warm-up.
Unfortunately for him, I’m flame retardant.
He takes a step back from the ball Otto has already returned to him, a silent acquiescence with an edge of challenge that’s shown in his slight smirk. God, am I sick of people—of guys—underestimating me. I’ve earned a reputation at Lancaster, but none of my credentials followed me onto this field the way his have.
I take more time setting up, focusing on ensuring each part of my posture is perfect before I send the ball into the goal. The back of the net bulges against the velocity of my kick’s momentum.
I allow myself a small grin as I flex the muscles in my calf. Otto looks both surprised and annoyed as he rolls the ball back to me. Penalty kicks are a challenge for any goalie, more of a test of the player’s skill than their own, but if he was considered good enough for Germany’s most elite club, then this is undoubtedly a blow to his ego.
FC Kluvberg only takes the best of the best. The athlete to my left is a prime example.
“Your turn, twenty-three,” I say as I pass the ball.
If I thought I could get away with it, I’d pretend I have no idea who Beck is. Unfortunately, he’s famous enough that I’d end up looking like the fool in that scenario, not him. Still, I refuse to feed his ego by using one of his worshipful nicknames, and since his number is prominently displayed on his practice jersey, I don’t have to admit I know exactly who he is outright.
Beck stops the ball without comment and executes another perfect kick that finds the back of the net. When Otto returns it, he sends it in my direction with a quick flick of his ankle.
I score another goal.
Beck’s expression remains carefully neutral, but Otto’s face shifts away from annoyance to reveal glimmers of awe.
I allow the tiny piece of myself, the part that has spent the last two months terrified my soccer career could be over, a brief moment to absorb the bizarre notion that I’m currently tied in a shoot-out with the youngest player to be voted “Most Valuable” on a national team as Beck finds the back of the net again.
Forcing myself to focus, I stop the ball he sends my way and send my own kick back to Otto. His fingers come within millimeters of the spinning ball, but it still lands safely behind the goal line.
Otto passes the ball back to Beck. He shoots it back courtesy of a powerful kick, only this time Otto brushes against the side of the ball, sending it skittering to the left and past the post harmlessly. I don’t say a word but glance over to see Beck’s hands are clenched into tight fists. Otto looks nervous as he hastily collects the ball and kicks it back to me. I let out a long exhale, determined not to let my focus waver or allow myself to dwell on the fact that I could potentially beat Adler Beck in a shoot-out. Talk about a surreal moment.
“Saylor?”
I turn toward the sound of my name as it echoes across the mostly empty field. Franz Anderson, one of the assistant trainers for the team and the reason I’m kind of, sort of, possibly allowed to be in here, stands at the end of the same tunnel Beck emerged from earlier.
“What are you doing?” Franz continues, glancing in confusion at Otto and Beck. I told him I was going to take a quick glance at the field. I guess this probably looks a bit different from that.
“Hi, Franz,” I reply. “I was just about to head out.” Unable to resist, I turn back to the ball resting in front of me and strike, sending it into the white netting with a satisfying smack.
Without another word, I spin and jog over to Franz. “Thank you. Beautiful stadium.”
Franz looks more confused than ever, but he nods. “Have a good night. Say hello to Ellie.”
“I will. Thanks.” I flash him a quick smile and then begin to walk back toward the gate I entered through earlier, resisting the urge to turn around and meet the blue eyes I can feel burning holes in my back.
As soon as I turn the corner, I strip off the itchy polyester polo, grateful for the extra breathability of the sweat-wicking tank top I’m wearing underneath. Not only was it uncomfortable, the polo didn’t exactly have the incognito effect I was hoping it would.
I drop the sweaty top in the laundry hamper that sits next to the stack of clean shirts I borrowed it from. I still feel overheated, like I swallowed a lump of coal that’s radiating relentless heat in every cell and cranny. Wish I could replicate this everlasting ember during Connecticut’s chilly winters.
It’s over ninety degrees today, but that’s not entirely to blame for the inferno inside me. Neither is the thrilling realization that I might not be a retired athlete at the ripe old age of twenty-one. No, it’s the thought of azure eyes and a chiseled jawline that’s got flames flickering.
No idea why.
Okay, that’s a lie.
But I’ve got bigger life goals than becoming another notch on the post of the king-sized bed Adler Beck probably sleeps in.
No matter how long any residual flush lasts.
