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Emma files out into the aisle and I follow, trailed by the rest of our teammates. Cressida yawns widely as we pass through the automatic doors that lead into the lodge. It’s welcoming and homey, with a fire crackling behind the reception desk that makes me feel like it’s winter rather than barely September. There’s a massive chandelier hanging in the center of the lobby, constructed from antlers. I notice Emma eyeing it and grin.
We get checked in and head upstairs. Emma and I are sharing a room, while Cressida and Anne are across the hall. Emma swipes the plastic card against the keypad, and we walk inside. It’s an average hotel room, except with woolen blankets covering the bedspread and prints of snowy mountains on the walls.
“Bye-bye, summer,” Emma mumbles, flopping down on the buffalo print covering her bed.
I set my duffle bag on the dresser and unzip it to grab my cleats and shin guards. “All good things must come to an end.”
“Did you change your major again? Philosophy this time?”
I stick my tongue out at her and flop down on my bed. “Is it just me, or are these blankets actually really comfortable?”
“It’s just you,” Emma replies. “Mine’s scratchy.”
“I’m taking this back to school.” I pat the tartan pattern I’m lying on.
“Brilliant plan. They’ll never notice,” Emma mutters.
I choose to ignore her sarcasm, closing my eyes and snuggling against the soft wool. What feels like mere minutes later, there’s a knock at our door.
Emma murmurs something unintelligible. I drag myself vertical and stagger over to the door. I blink through sleepy eyes to see Anne and Cressida standing in the hallway.
“Told you they’d be asleep,” Anne informs Cressida.
“Last time I don’t bet against you, Scott,” Cressida tells me. “Let’s go. Clinic time.”
I grab my gear from the heap on the floor, and Emma hobbles out of bed. We all trudge down the hallway, bumping into teammates and competitors alike. CFOC’s headquarters are a mere hundred meters from the entrance to the lodge. It’s essentially a rectangular building constructed of galvanized metal siding meant to withstand the harsh winter. From past trips, I know the layout already. The first floor contains equipment rooms, a small kitchen, and lots of locker rooms, while the second floor is all offices. The paper posted on the front door states that Lancaster was assigned Locker Room Five and Field Three. I lead my teammates into the square room. It’s minimalistic, with locker-lined walls and a couple of scarred wooden benches.
Emma, Anne, and I are the last ones to leave the locker room. Cressida went ahead with an impatient sigh. Punctual as always. We’re about to exit the back doors that lead out onto the fields when I realize what I’m missing.
“Crap, I forgot my pinny. I’ll catch up to you guys.” I hurry back down the hallway, grabbing the white mesh jersey and pulling it on over the skin-tight polyester sports shirt I’m already wearing. I jog back to the exit leading to the fields, bursting through the doors.
Field Three is the second one on the right. Everyone has already gathered in the center, so I quicken my pace to a slow run as I near the group. Teammates part as I near, flanked by players from other programs assigned to the same first clinic. Some I recognize, some I don’t.
“Sorry, Coach, I—” I freeze like I was just confronted with the bear Emma was talking about earlier. “What the hell are you doing here?”
The words are out before I’ve filtered them.
Before I remember my familiarity with Adler Beck was supposed to extend no further than one brief meeting at a children’s camp.
No one says anything as we stare at each other, exacerbating the awkwardness. Somehow, in the last month, I forgot how just how heartbreakingly handsome he is. How one stubborn lock of blond hair flops forward. How his presence makes my blood fizz and my heart pound.
Beck’s the one who breaks the deafening silence. “Nice to see you, Saylor,” he replies.
I’m pretty certain I’m the only one who catches the sarcastic undertone. I’m definitely not the only one who catches that we’re more familiar than two people who met briefly once.
“Thanks for joining us, Scott. I was just introducing one of the guest coaches for the next couple days,” Coach Taylor explains. “We’re lucky to have his input.”
I nod dumbly, still in shock.
He’s here. Not in Kluvberg. Here, right in front of me. Close enough to touch. To talk to.
“All right.” Coach claps. “Get warmed up, ladies. Ten laps.”
Water bottles get tossed. Sweatshirts flung. Laces tightened. Coach heads to the edge of the field to set up a line of cones for what I’m guessing will be sprints.
Everyone moves except Beck and me. I adjust the mesh material I hurriedly yanked over my head, so it hangs correctly. “What are you doing here?”
People are staring, angling looks this way. I’m too distracted to care.
