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Beck is used to being the top player on the team.
So am I.
“This is a clean club, Aster,” he tells me. “I don’t know what your last team let you get away with, but?—”
“I wouldn’t be here if they let me get away with shit, would I?”
It’s not totally true. Up until Mark Owens got personally involved, Seattle was happy to look the other way whenever I got into trouble. But I’m well aware even the smallest infraction would be treated a lot differently here.
“I’m here to play,” I tell him. “To win. That’s it.”
Beck’s expression makes it obvious people don’t interrupt him often. Maybe ever.
I hold my breath, waiting for his response.
I need his support. His respect, at a minimum. Yes, sir, wouldn’t accomplish that. But pissing him off won’t serve my purposes either. I’m walking a fine fucking line, holding my ground, but not impeding on his territory.
Fritz is the one who breaks the heavy tension thickening the air. “I’ll meet you in the lobby, Will.”
I’m surprised he’s getting involved. Shocked he’s letting Beck know we have plans to hang out. I figured any friendliness from the club would be kept on the down-low until the team captain decided how he felt toward me. I guess Fritz is young and reckless enough not to care.
“Okay,” I reply.
Beck doesn’t comment on my evening plans after Fritz leaves. He just says, “See you at practice,” before turning and walking away.
“I’ll be there, Captain,” I call after him.
As long as he judges me for my performance on the pitch, it’ll be fine. Off the field is where I have the tendency to fuck up.
FIVE
WILL
The club I walk into with Fritz doesn’t look German. Aside from my time in the gym, it’s the first time I’ve felt like I might be back in the States.
Some techno song blares through invisible speakers—in English.
Girls are clustered in giggling groups, wearing short, low-cut dresses. There’s the same distinctive smell to the air, like possibilities and promiscuity.
Our appearance causes a bit of a stir. Attention immediately swings our way as I follow Fritz toward the back. He heads for a corner booth two guys are already seated in, tucked away in some sort of VIP section raised two steps above the rest of the club. There’s a velvet rope that gets removed for our entrance.
Soccer comes in a distant fourth—if that—to football and baseball and hockey in the US when it comes to sports. I could count on getting recognized anytime I went out in Seattle, but that wasn’t the case for most of the players on the team. And it probably had more to do with how frequently I went out than me being a professional soccer player.
I knew football was the most popular sport in Europe. It’s different to know that than to experience it. Strange to realize my choice of career is why strangers are looking this way and whispering. At least no one seems to be taking photos that might make their way to Shawn.
Both guys in the booth look up as we approach. I recognize one of them as Otto Berger, Kluvberg’s goaltender. I assume the other guy must be on the team as well, but I can’t immediately place him.
Fritz says something in German that makes both guys grin, then glances at me. “This is Will,” he tells them.
Otto holds out a hand first. “Otto Berger.”
“Will Aster. Nice to meet you.”
“Olivier Pires.” The other guy shakes my hand as well. He has a thick French accent.
More scrutiny, only slightly less intense than Adler Beck’s. They study me like I’m a science experiment or a foreign species—the American teammate. With more curiosity than animosity, but it’s still unpleasant.
My ass has barely hit the booth when a waitress appears to take our drink order. Both Otto and Olivier flirt with her, and she laps up the attention with a few flirty smiles and a hair flip.
