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“Wonder what Coach is talking about with your lov-ah?” She croons the last word like she’s Taylor Swift.
I shoot her a sharp look for that comment.
“Back on the center line,” Coach barks. “One line of defenders. One line of strikers.”
We all take our time walking back to the center of the field in a blatant attempt to prolong the short break. I end up at the front of the strikers’ line, because my slow is other people’s fast.
“Scott, Morgan, you’re up.”
I dribble over to the cone that marks the start of the drill. Coach Taylor blows her whistle, and I easily spin and sprint around my assigned defender before sending the ball into the back of the net.
“Morgan! What the hell was that? Make Scott work for it! Scott, again! This time with Adams.”
I line back up at the cone, and once again, I easily skirt around my teammate and score.
Coach Taylor sighs. “Henderson! You’re up with Scott. Stick to her like glue.”
I line up for a third time. Janie Henderson stays with me for about twenty feet, but then I feint right, dart left, and easily outrun her. I score for a third time and expect that to be the end of it.
Instead I hear, “Adler, can you please demonstrate how to properly mark a striker, since my defenders seem to have forgotten?”
Fuckkk. I keep my gaze on the grass as I jog back to the starting cone.
I can physically feel the excitement thrumming through the assembled players as I hear footfalls approach me that must belong to Beck. Like me, they thought he was only here in an observational role. Had I known that wasn’t the case, I would have let Janie keep me from scoring just now.
I can’t avoid looking at him any longer without it becoming conspicuous. His blue eyes are already fixed on me as he stops about five feet away. He’s shed the light jacket he was wearing earlier, the cotton jersey underneath it the same shade of dark gray as the track pants he’s wearing.
We stare at each other. He’s looking at me like an opponent, and I’m finally able to do the same.
Long after I should have started the drill on my own, Coach blows her whistle. I move, darting through the complicated pattern of footwork that shook off my past three defenders. Beck stays with me, just like I knew he would. He’s faster and stronger than I am. But this drill isn’t about speed or fitness; it’s about strategy. If this was any other top-tier male footballer, I probably still wouldn’t stand a chance.
But it’s not. It’s Beck.
Not only have I spent years watching him play and studying his technique, this is not the first time I’ve played with him. Against him.
I know how he thinks, how he moves. Because I’ve done a lot more than just play soccer with Adler Beck. My body is naturally attuned to his every shift. I can anticipate his movements before he makes them based on subtle tells most would miss. He has the same advantage when it comes to me. We practically mirror the other’s movements. I spin; he turns to block me. I feint left; he goes right. I gain ground; he forces me back.
I’m so caught up in the complicated dance I startle when Coach Taylor blows her whistle. I drop Beck’s gaze as soon as she does.
“Well, that was—that was something. Good work, you two. Hart, Thompson, you’re up next.”
I jog back to the end of the line, avoiding every gaze aimed at me.
Especially his.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
General exhaustion and my bad mood keep questions at bay for the remainder of the day. Just because no one says anything to my face doesn’t mean I can’t hear the whispers, though. They grow exponentially more annoying when we head to dinner, mostly because it’s the first time all the CFOC attendees are in one place. Gossip contained to individual fields during the day’s drills has its first chance to flow freely.
The lodge’s dining hall is set up buffet style, with massive trays of food being warmed by kerosene candles. Tables aren’t assigned, so I head for one toward the back right. The rest of Lancaster’s team follows me. I set my water bottle down on the varnished wood and head for the rapidly forming line. I end up behind Samantha Cole, the captain of one of Lancaster’s biggest rivals. Despite that, we’ve always been friendly off the field, as evidenced by the warm grin she gives me.
“Hey, Scott.”
“Cole,” I reply, grabbing a plate and a roll of utensils.
“I don’t suppose you’ve suddenly started missing the net?”
“You’ll find out when we scrimmage,” I respond, helping myself to some salad.
