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Unless, of course, Wagner decides I need more “practice,” sitting on a bench.
EIGHT
SOPHIA
Nerves swirl in my stomach as I approach a waiting Alex, the laminated plastic of my press badge banging against my chest with each step. He advised wearing neutral colors since we’ll be standing on the sideline. So, I’m dressed in all black, and my skin is already prickling with sweat. From the heat and because…
I’m so nervous.
And it has nothing to do with this being a position I’m not properly qualified for. Or my brother. Or my distaste for football.
It has everything to do with knowing I’m about to see Will Aster.
I barely know him. Owe him nothing. But there’s a persistent fluttering when I think about seeing him. When I consider he might see me.
Alex greets me with a cheerful, “Wie geht’s?”
“Es geht,” I reply.
His forehead creases with concern, so I quickly amend my answer to a more enthusiastic one than fine.
Honesty isn’t always the best policy.
My pace matches Alex’s slow steps. I’m not wearing a cast or walking with a crutch. Just carrying a bag of heavy equipment and apprehensive about seeing a hot guy.
Alex heads for the press entrance, and I follow him.
As we walk, he coaches me on everything we already covered during our meeting this past week. The main one is to avoid drawing attention from the field or from the stands. Spectators should be focused on the pitch. Players should be focused on the game. He also reminds me to keep an eye on my surroundings, to make certain I’m not blocking another photographer’s shot and to play attention if a player’s close to getting shoved out of bounds. He then teases me about not asking for autographs or cheering when Kluvberg scores. My lack of appreciation for football also came up during our meeting, which Alex found entertaining.
Despite my anxiety, it feels very professional to flash my badge at the security guard monitoring the side entrance and walk beneath the stadium.
There are nearly two hours before the match is set to start, so the stands are still empty. It’s so quiet that I can hear the rubber soles of my sneakers hitting the concrete floor as we pass by the colorful posters hanging on the walls. Adler is in a lot of them, mid-kick or celebrating a goal with teammates. My stomach twists as I realize those are the type of shots I’m meant to take today. The only living, moving subjects I’ve photographed before are wildlife and my niece. I took a three-week trip to Kenya for a photography workshop that was offered through the university. Those photographs were only for myself. And Saylor asked me to do Gigi’s newborn photo shoot, but my niece slept through most of it, so she was a much easier subject than a sprinting athlete.
The tunnel leads right out onto the field.
Alex is a steady presence beside me as we enter the stadium, despite his limp. He didn’t need to show up since he’s technically on medical leave from the paper and I’m the one with the responsibility of taking photos today. But I’m very relieved he offered to accompany me.
Ahead, Kluvberg’s pitch is a familiar sight. I’ve been to this stadium before. Many, many times.
But those visits were all in the stands with spectators, usually making up a sold-out crowd. Never when the pitch and the seats were empty, the sprinklers sending arcs of water over the green grass. Standing by the field, rather than looking down at it, means the stretch of green ahead appears almost endless.
And…I see a little of the appeal of the view, I suppose.
A tiny shot of excitement mixes with apprehension and uncertainty as I stare at the damp stripes in contrasting shades of green, alternating between darker and lighter. The thousands of empty seats are patterned with Kluvberg’s colors and letters, spelling out the club’s name. There’s a presence to a place like this. A majesty. Like standing in the center of a giant cathedral. Plenty of people pray here, so it seems like a fitting comparison.
“Sophia!”
I pause a few feet from the field, glancing back at an approaching Adler. He’s already dressed for the upcoming match, his expression bright and animated as he jogs over to give me a quick hug, careful not to jostle my camera bag.
He hands me the bottle of water he’s holding, the plastic side so cold that condensation is dripping down. “Stay hydrated. It’ll be a warm one.”
Adler has always been overprotective, but it’s gone into overdrive since he became a father.
“I’m not the one who will be running around in the sun.”
“You’re not the one with sidelines staff either.” He holds the bottle closer. “Just take it.”
I do. “Thanks.” Then glance at Alex. Adler does the same. “This is Alex.”
