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My brother holds out a hand. “Adler Beck.”
“Alex Bauer.” Alex smiles. “Wouldn’t consider myself much of a sports reporter if I didn’t already know who you were, Kaiser.”
Adler offers his polite smile, the one that doesn’t reach all the way to his eyes. His business one that says he’s ready to play and in business mode. The one that earned him the nickname Alex just referred to. Emperors are supposed to be untouchable and domineering.
If I hadn’t seen it happen so many times before, the starstruck expression on Alex’s face would be funnier. I guess the other times he’s been around FC Kluvberg players have been far less intimate than the three of us standing together.
His awed reaction is basically what I expect now. Whenever I mention my last name or my family to anyone—professors, friends, guys—they either try to play it cool to the extreme or pepper me with questions. Both are irritating.
“Enjoy the game,” Adler says, then jogs back the way he came.
“Good way to start the day,” Alex comments as we walk along the sideline.
I can feel the excitement radiating off of him the same way the sun is beating down.
I nod and return his smile. I can see the group we’re headed toward, other photographers with press credentials, mostly gathered next to the corner flag near the edge of the penalty box.
The sprinklers are on, and a few errant droplets of spray reach me. The cool water feels good. I try to focus on the feel of it dripping down my bare forearm rather than the apprehension about where we’re headed. I’m not normally intimidated in new situations, and I hate that I am now. Not only is this my big chance to prove my worth as a photographer, according to Harry, but the stakes are also higher. My grip tightens on the water bottle, a physical reminder of what I’m taking photos of today.
I’ve always strived to keep my identity totally separate from my brother’s. To not let my last name overtake my decisions or my interests or my life.
And it’s been a fine line to walk. To balance pride and to also set some boundaries. To support but to try to ignore the circus that’s the national interest in my family’s ability to kick a ball into a goal. As much as I adore Saylor, she’s only amplified it. Women’s soccer has never been more popular than since Adler Beck started showing up at matches. They’re this athletic power couple. And Saylor is always happy to discuss football with my dad or to go for runs with my mom. She fits in with my family better than I do. Better than the guys I’ve introduced to my family, specifically chosen because they didn’t seem to care who my family members were.
I pull my camera out of my bag and snap a few photos of the glistening turf and the empty stands. Having the familiar weight in my hands, my fingers curled around the smooth plastic, helps soothe some anxiety.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Alex asks. He’s looking around with the same awe on his face as when Adler stopped us despite the fact that he’s undoubtedly been here many times before.
“Yeah, it is.” I admire one of the shots I just took—arcing water, backlit by sunshine, the green glint of grass obvious beneath. Maybe I won’t be terrible at this.
“And very different from how it’ll look during the game. You’ll have to tune out all the activity. It gets overwhelming. And remember to never turn your back to the pitch. I’ve seen pros get taken out by wayward kicks.”
Wonderful.
Alex runs through the names of the other photographers assembled once we reach the group. He doesn’t mention my last name during the introductions, which I appreciate. After some polite conversation, I busy myself with checking over my equipment when Alex continues chatting. The other photographers are mostly middle-aged men and all seem to be people he knows well.
He fits in here. I don’t.
My palms and the back of my neck prickle with sweat as I fiddle with settings.
Last week, I was assigned to photograph a symphony performance for the Arts section. It was boring, honestly, because there was hardly any movement on stage, except the conductor. All the photos were identical, aside from the position of the conductor’s hand.
This? This is the total opposite.
Soon, I’ll be surrounded by rowdiness and distractions. Spectators cheering, coaches yelling, players running. And as if the commotion wasn’t an overwhelming enough work environment, goals get scored in seconds. The shots that will be valuable aren’t the ones you can sit around and wait for. You have to be ready to react instantly. Reading plays and spotting openings, just like the players on the pitch.
This isn’t an assignment for a class that I can retake photos of until I’m satisfied with the final result. This is the first true test of my skills, and I’m scared I’ll fall short. Especially since I know any photo of football taken by a Beck will be scrutinized extra closely.
Once I’ve made sure all the equipment is ready—even if I’m not—I pull my phone out and distract myself by looking through my messages.
Not that professional, but this isn’t technically a job. I’m an unpaid intern, spending my Saturday afternoon watching the national pastime I’ve spent years avoiding.
Alex is still busy socializing, and the field is empty.
Most of my unread messages are from the group chat I’m in with my closest friends. I didn’t tell a single one of them about this assignment, which summarizes our friendship well. They all care who my brother is, even if they pretend not to. It’s exhausting, filtering everything I share, but it’s what I’ve had to do for as long as I can remember. Never knowing what will get spread around.
I told one person I was busy because of my brother’s engagement party, and it was in the papers the next day. Adler told me not to worry about it, that he’d shared the news with plenty of people, but I’m still certain it was my fault that him proposing to Saylor was leaked.
According to my many messages, my friends are all headed to Queen Victoria tonight. It’s a new club that opened up downtown a few weeks ago. I’ll probably end up going.
