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Another pause. A long pause that tells me the answer before she speaks. “It doesn’t matter.”
My grip tightens on the marble even more. “The fuck it doesn’t.”
“It doesn’t. It was a long time ago. I’m over it. Over him.”
I exhale. “Okay.”
“I mean it, Will. I don’t want you to do anything. Let it go.”
“It’s a contact sport. Remember how getting hit with a soccer ball felt? I kick harder than anyone on Bayern Söhn, and sometimes, kicks can be unpredictable.”
Her exhale almost sounds amused. “If you get a red card, no sex for a week.”
“That’s a punishment for you too, baby.”
“Because I mean it. I want you to win. But he’s not worth you getting injured or penalized.”
“I said okay.”
“Promise me, Will.”
Dammit. She knows me too well. Knows I won’t break a promise, not to her.
“I promise I won’t do anything stupid.”
“Okay.” She sounds satisfied. “Good luck tomorrow.”
“I love you.”
I can hear the smile in her voice. “I love you too.”
I hang up, then step into the shower.
“Where’ve you been?” Fritz asks when I walk into our shared hotel room the following morning.
I hold up the coffee I’m carrying. “Got a tattoo.”
“You what? Where?”
I turn my wrist so he can see the numbers and letter there. The skin surrounding them is still pink. I’ll have to cover it with a bandage before the match.
“Three hundred thirty-six. E. Four,” Fritz reads. “What does that mean? Some sort of code?”
I ignore the question as I drain the rest of my cup and grab my soccer bag. “You ready to go?”
“Yeah. I was just waiting on you.”
I nod, making sure I have everything before we leave the room and head for the elevators. Most of the team has already boarded the coach bus that’s waiting. It’s a short trip to Manchester United’s stadium.
The sky is gray and gloomy as we disembark, almost ominous-looking. England’s infamous rain appears imminent. The grim backdrop makes it easy to get lost in my own head until we’re on the field, warming up, my entire body humming with the anticipation of an upcoming game. All soccer fields look the same, no matter where in the world they’re located. A piece of home scattered across the entire globe.
I’m stretching my hamstrings when a guy with light-brown hair jogs by, calling out something in German I’m certain is an insult based on the bristling all around me. Otto shouts something back. I know I’ll see Fischer on the back of his maroon jersey even before he turns.
I’d hate him no matter what. I hate him even more, catching the flash of a smug smirk.
“Watch out for Ansel,” Beck advises beside me. “He’s a bit of a dick.”
“So I’ve heard,” I mutter.
