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“You’ve never given someone your number before?”
He’s lying, right? How is that even possible?
“Not to a chick.”
“Why not?”
“It sort of gives the impression you want them to contact you, I hear.”
I snort. “Wow. You’re…that’s…wow.”
I’m almost…not impressed, but close.
Disbelieving. Disgusted. A little flattered.
It takes an epic amount of swagger to make confessing you’re a shameless player sound charming.
Warning lights flash in my head. This guy has all the right moves.
He stands.
“Is this your dick getting you into trouble?” I can’t help but ask, holding up the ticket he bought to only watch a few minutes of the match.
“Dunno. We’ll find out.” A nod and a smirk, and then he’s gone.
Instead of crumpling up and tossing the piece of paper, I fold it in half.
I won’t use his number, but I keep it.
TWO
WILL
So far, I hate Germany. Absolutely everything about it. The food and the lack of air-conditioning and the no window screens and the fact that I can’t read a damn sign anywhere I go. I took Spanish in high school, and what little I remember besides gracias doesn’t appear to have any overlap with the German language.
When I’m in the gym, at least I can pretend I’m somewhere else.
Kluvberg’s facilities are outrageous. I knew Europeans took their soccer—or football, as I should probably get used to referring to it as—seriously.
I underestimated just how much based on the amount of money this facility must have cost. Forget sports. It’s the nicest space I’ve ever been inside, period.
Every surface gleams. There are no smudges on the glass windows, no balls of dust collected in corners. It doesn’t smell like stale sweat and chemical cleaner, the way the facility in Seattle always did. Constant dampness never helped, mildew mixing in more often than not. The air in here is fresh, the purest I’ve ever breathed indoors. It must have just been cleaned.
The workout room I’m currently inside is right by the indoor field, large glass windows revealing green turf and stark white lines. I focus on the familiar sight as I run through my usual routine of squats, deadlifts, and pull-ups.
I have the facility to myself, as far as I can tell.
My formal introduction to the team hasn’t happened yet. I was cleared by the team doctor yesterday after the obligatory medical check. All the paperwork has been processed by the national governing agency, and my player’s permit was approved. But the club has yet to make any official announcement about my arrival, as far as I know. Avoiding social media and news sites became necessary unless I wanted to lose my damn mind.
The transfer window doesn’t close until the end of August. Roster changes among clubs this close to the start of the season aren’t rare. But they’re usually a reshuffling of the lower ranks. They rarely involve players who will make much of an impact on the team. Who will influence game outcomes.
I plan to make my presence known.
There’s also the fact that I’m American. Most of the team is German, unsurprisingly. There are a few players from England or France or Cameroon. One Portuguese goaltender. An Austrian fullback.
And now, me…the American striker. My main job is to score goals, and I’m fucking good at it.
But it’s been a long time since I played with a group of total strangers. Since I felt like my value to a team needed to be proved. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t breed some apprehension about what playing on a different continent will be like.
