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“Guest coaching.”
“Because you didn’t have anything better to do than attend a women’s soccer camp in Canada?”
He’s Adler Beck. His being here makes absolutely no sense. The guest coaches are normally former Olympians in their forties.
“Scott! Get moving!” Coach calls out.
I curse under my breath. I could count on a couple of fingers how many times I’ve been chastised during practice. I stay focused on the field. Always. The fact that this lapse is due to Beck makes it worse. I’m weak when it comes to him.
I shake my head and take a step back. “You could have told me you were coming.”
“Would it have mattered?” He holds my gaze.
I look away first, then walk away. My steps speed to a jog, then a sprint. What the hell was I supposed to say to that?
Everywhere I look, curious glances are aimed my way. They’re all starstruck over Beck, and me talking to him drew more attention I don’t want.
Worse, it accomplished nothing. He’s here, and I have to deal with it. Ignore it. Avoid it, the same way I’ve tried to stop thinking about him incessantly. But I’m cycling through reasons why he could have possibly come here, and keep coming up with only one.
Me.
Lancaster University’s team attends this camp every year. He knew I would be here and chose to come.
I have no idea what the hell to make of that.
“Did your volunteer coaching gig with Adler Beck involve an international incident?” Emma questions, falling into step beside me. “Is that why you were weird about it?”
The two girls running in front of us both slow their pace as soon as she says his name. Real subtle, guys. A sharp glare from me has them scurrying forward again.
“What are you talking about?” I reply, my gaze dropping to the grass being rapidly swallowed by my long strides.
“He looks pissed,” she tells me.
“He’s German—they always look that way.”
“Saylor.” Emma breaks out her rarely used, no-nonsense tone.
I sigh. “Fine. I fucked him a few times when I was at Scholenberg. So him being here is…a little weird for me.”
Emma has some trouble staying upright. She stumbles a couple steps over nothing but flat ground before catching herself and managing to keep pace with me. I’ve told her some crazy things. We’ve shared plenty of wild nights. But based on her sudden balance issues, I’m guessing if I glanced up, she’d look pretty stunned.
She finally recovers. “I can’t believe you fucked Adler Beck and didn’t tell me until just now.”
“It wasn’t a big deal.”
Emma snorts. “Not a big deal. Are you?—”
“Ladies! If you have spare air to chat, you’re not running fast enough!” Coach calls out.
Groans sound around me, but I welcome the challenge, flexing my calves with every stride to give my movements an extra boost. Ten laps fly by at the accelerated pace. Next are push-ups. Then sit-ups. Followed by burpees.
One girl throws up before we even hit sprints. Clearly her usual coach doesn’t believe in conditioning the way Coach Taylor does.
Every muscle in my body is hurting by the time we get a water break.
“I should have pretended to be sick this morning,” Emma grouses.
I roll my eyes as I stretch my calf and watch Coach Taylor talk to Beck.
