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“He’ll be a focus of articles about the team, so I wanted to make sure you were up-to-date.”
“Okay.”
“I won’t forget this, Sophia. I really appreciate you stepping up.”
That’s the problem with having a boss you actually like. Harry is the dorkiest, sweetest man you’ll ever meet with his constantly slipping glasses and his British accent.
“No problem.”
It’s a massive problem, which I acknowledge now that I’ve committed.
I can’t imagine what Adler will say. What my parents will say. Football and I are like oil and water—we don’t mix. I’d fake a stomachache when we played it at school. As soon as the ball came out, I knew everyone was looking at me. The Beck.
With admiration.
Respect.
Expectations.
I leave those to my brother. And he’s lived up to them, letting me off the hook to do my own nonathletic thing.
The hallway is empty when I leave Harry’s office. It’s the end of the day. Everyone is in their office, wrapping up, or has already left.
Marie is perched on the edge of my desk when I reach my cubicle. She’s a few years older than me, and she’s been working here for about eight months, transferring from a larger paper in Frankfurt.
She’s quirky and eccentric, but she’s never once asked to meet my brother. That’s more than I can say for most of the “friends” I have.
“So?” Marie asks eagerly, swinging her legs back and forth. She suggested at lunch we go out for drinks tonight, but I wasn’t sure I’d have time.
I’m supposed to have dinner at Adler and Saylor’s place tonight. Knowing the news I’ll have to break makes showing up late and a little buzzed sound a lot more enticing. It’s not like Adler won’t notice me standing on the sidelines, snapping photos. I’ll have to tell them.
“Yeah. Sure. Let’s go.”
Marie slides off my desk and claps her hands in excitement. “Yay! I’ll go grab my stuff.”
I smile at her exuberance, then sit down at my desk to close out of everything I was working on earlier. The meeting in Harry’s office took longer than I realized.
I finish quitting all the applications, then open up a new browser window and type Will Aster.
Harry isn’t the type to exaggerate. I have a hard time believing he’d make up any of what he just told me. And am equally dubious Kluvberg really would have signed a player with that questionable of a reputation.
Last it came up, Adler was excited about the team’s roster for this year. I wonder if he knows about the new addition yet. He must, if it’s leaked to the press.
The first news result is an article titled “Will’s Wrong Plays.” I click on it, registering it was published by an American magazine I’m not familiar with. Black text covers the screen. I skim the article, enough to glean that, if anything, Harry was glossing over details.
But then I reach a photograph of a man standing in profile next to a goalpost, and other details fade away. I might not recognize his name, but I recognize the guy wearing a purple jersey and scowling. His arms are crossed, the left one covered with black ink.
Dark hair. Straight jaw. Full lips.
I’ve met Will Aster.
Ogled him.
And if I wanted to, I could call him right now.
FOUR
WILL
