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“What?”
“Some of the other guys were saying the same thing,” I say.
Beck nods, believing me. I understand why Sophia never told her brother what happened, and I’d never betray her confidence by telling him myself. But I wish he knew, if only because I know there would be no but about it. That he’d be just as focused on decimating Manchester’s star as is my motivation for this game.
I want to win, like always.
But I also want to embarrass them in their home stadium. For there to be no question at all who is the superior team.
From that one glimpse I caught of him and the one night Sophia told me about, I’m confident Ansel is the inferior man, not just the worse player. Planning to record a woman during sex without her knowledge isn’t just abhorrent. It tells me that he never appreciated or adored Sophia the way she deserves. You couldn’t do that to someone you like, much less love.
The captains meet for the coin toss. Manchester wins it, opting to take the kick-off. In a happy coincidence, Ansel gains possession of the ball quickly. I barrel toward him, immediately challenging him. I haven’t forgotten my promise to Sophia. I’m not going to cross any lines. Give him the beating he deserves, the sort I learned how to deliver in Boston’s back alleys. I’m positive Ansel Fischer is the same exact breed of rich and entitled asshole that used to tease Tripp until I taught them how to shut up.
I’m not going to take this as far as I could—as I want to. But I’m still going to make this the most difficult game Ansel has ever played in. Not only is he going to lose, but he’s going to lose badly.
I steal the ball from him, jamming my elbow into his ribs and hearing his harsh exhale.
When I spin and get a glimpse of his expression, it’s confused. He has no clue why I’m coming after him, and that pisses me off even more. He should have lots of regrets. But he’s probably like my dad, disregarding them.
I sprint away, leaving Ansel behind and heading straight for the goal.
We beat Manchester, four goals to one.
THIRTY-SEVEN
SOPHIA
To: sbeck@universitätrhein.de
From: [email protected]
Subject: Category Reassignment
Dear Ms. Beck,
This email is to notify you that your submission to the Nature category for this year’s awards was moved to the Sports category after review. No further action is required on your part.
Sincerely,
Adele Allard
Chairwoman of the European Photography Awards
My heart drops into my stomach as soon as I read the first line of the email. Frantically, I scroll through my sent messages until I reach the one confirming my EPA submission.
I didn’t send the photo of the stone bridge I’d intended to submit.
Instead, I sent in the photo I took of Will after the official team portraits. Probably because it’s one I stare at a lot. It came out even better than I had expected, overflowing with intensity, but it was not the photo that was supposed to be my submission. It’s rough and raw, not the precise photo that was supposed to showcase all that I know about sunlight and angles. I took a hundred versions of the photo I planned to send in. One of Will.
I quickly look up the public number for the EPAs and dial it on my phone, praying under my breath as I listen to it ring. I can’t be the first person who made this mistake, right? Or maybe I am. I waited until the last possible second, pressing Submit right before midnight, when I was tired and stressed.
“Hello?” a woman answers.
“Hello. I’m calling because I just received an email that my submission to the awards was moved to a different category. When I looked up what I’d submitted, I realized that it was not the photo I’d intended to send. I’d like to replace it with the correct submission?”
“What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Sophia Beck.”
