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Even when you want to ignore it, you can’t. It beams and brightens and continues shining. It forces you to acknowledge its presence.
It never hides, which is exactly what I’m currently doing.
Some irritation seeps away as I slouch against the back of the plastic chair and prop my Adidas up on the empty seat in front of me.
The sneakers don’t go with the rest of my outfit. They were a last-minute change before leaving my apartment, after Noah told me the fun afternoon he had planned for us was taking place here.
It’s bad enough that I’m stuck in the last place I’d voluntarily choose to spend a Saturday afternoon. I wasn’t going to chance the heeled sandals I was planning to wear with this dress getting ruined. Or waste cute shoes on a visit to a football stadium.
At least the sunshine is out.
And all the way up here, away from the commotion and the fans, it’s easy to pretend that I’m soaking up vitamin D somewhere else.
For the first time since we arrived at Sieg Stadium, I relax.
The hard, hot plastic isn’t the most comfortable of resting spots, but at least there’s no one blabbing in my ear and rattling off stats anyone with access to a computer could learn. If they wanted to.
Noah Hahn heard my last name and thought football, same as everyone else. Assumed I love the sport, same as everyone else, proving he didn’t listen to much of what I said when we flirted in a bar last weekend. And then decided the perfect surprise outing this weekend would be to take me to a FC Kluvberg scrimmage.
I’ve never actually said the words I hate football to him, but I obviously should have. I thought quickly changing the subject each and every time he brought the sport up would convey that clearly.
I was wrong.
Or Noah is just that oblivious.
Same result—me, here.
There’s no need to pretend I’m watching the pitch from the fourth-to-last row of the balcony, so I tilt my head back to let the afternoon sunlight warm my face. Basking in the bright rays helps wash away more of my lingering annoyance. The barest of breezes blows a few blonde strands across my cheek.
I told Noah I was getting a soda five minutes ago. The stadium is nowhere near its full capacity of seventy thousand, as evidenced by all the empty seats around me. Any self-respecting fan committed enough to come to a friendly game—a preseason scrimmage before the season officially begins in mid-August—purchased seats in one of the lower levels, closer to the action, like Noah.
I’m up here for the solitude, not the view. I figure I can enjoy this respite for another ten minutes before heading back down to the edge of the field. I should be planning out what I’ll say to Noah after the game ends—It’s not you; it’s your obsession with football, maybe?—but instead I tilt my head back, close my eyes, and soak in the sun. It’s too nice out today to stew. Maybe I’ll go for a walk after Noah drops me back off at my apartment.
“You’re in my seat.”
The sentence startles me. Last I looked, I was completely alone up here. The voice comes from my left, delivered in a deep baritone that raises goose bumps on my skin despite the heat. I’ve never given much thought to someone’s speaking voice—more what they’re saying. But the syllables seem to linger in the summer air, a tangible presence besides the humidity.
My head turns toward the sound automatically, and my eyes fly open.
I squint up at the shadow partially blocking the bright sun. He’s tall, and he has dark hair, and that’s about all my burning retinas are able to absorb before I have to look away at a more muted sight.
I make a show of looking around at the sea of empty chairs surrounding us.
“Um, seriously?” I answer in English since that’s what he spoke to me in.
His accent is American. His tone is rude, which translates in any language.
A rectangle of glossy paper is thrust directly in front of my face. I scan the ticket until I find the row—E—and the seat number—four—printed toward the bottom, then glance at the chair to the right of the one I’m currently slouched in. Five. Turns out I actually am in his seat.
But who marches up to a stranger and demands they move when there are other seats—lots of other seats—available? When it’s not even a good seat? The football field looks like a green-and-white postage stamp from all the way up here.
I raise a hand to shield my eyes from the sun. I’m not willing to risk permanent vision loss to face off with this guy.
But, fuck, is looking at him a mistake. I should have taken my chances with blindness.
He’s wearing a ball cap and sunglasses and an annoyed expression. None of that disguises the fact that he’s undoubtedly the hottest guy I’ve ever seen.
My older brother, Adler, plays football professionally. He’s an international celebrity. Girls I went to secondary school with had his poster up on their wall, which will never not be weird. My parents are both considered football legends as well, long retired, but still relevant. I’ve been around lots of famous actors and models and athletes because of my family members’ successes. Most of them were good-looking in addition to being talented in their respective industries. Meeting them never felt like this, though.
