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I finish my reps and head for the treadmill, rotating my shoulders as I walk.
Physically, I’m in the best shape of my life—and I wasn’t a straggler to begin with. Being the fastest, most aggressive player on the field is a reputation you have to back up with an exhausting regimen. And that’s exactly what I’ve done for years.
Destroyed in minutes.
I push the dark thought away. The past month has been filled with plenty of punishing self-pity and regret.
This is a clean start. In theory, at least.
I didn’t leave all my problems behind in Washington. Every single article announcing my signing with FC Kluvberg will dredge up some narrative of the events that made it a necessary move in the first place, which is probably why no announcement has been made yet.
Drake blasts my eardrums as I step on the treadmill and start sprinting. I wonder if Germans listen to Drake. I know nothing about the country I’m now living in. Certainly nothing complimentary. I was always more of a slacker than a star student, but I remember some of what we covered in world history.
Maybe I would hate it here less if coming to Germany had been a choice—not a last resort.
Kluvberg was the only organization willing to touch me with a ten-foot pole. I signed a contract worth pennies compared to the value I’ll bring to this team. FC Kluvberg is a decent club, but it’s been a while since they accomplished anything spectacular.
For over a decade, their best player has been Adler Beck. He became a national icon as a teenager on the world stage. Partly because of his famous family, according to the basic research I did about my new team. Both of his parents played and accomplished impressive levels of success.
Beck hasn’t been as successful in his home city as in international tournaments that kicked off his early career. FC Kluvberg has averaged more draws or losses than wins during their past few seasons. They’re one of the oldest and most respected football clubs in Europe. But they’re boring. Mediocre. Classic. Their hallowed reputation is the most interesting thing about them. They play like all that storied history is weighing them down.
Adler Beck is a solid player and a respected captain. But he’s been around for a while. And he’s never taken the risks in big games that I take on a regular basis. He’s precise and skilled. Controlled talent.
I play to prove a point, and it’s obvious each and every time I step out onto the field. It’s the one thing that doesn’t change, no matter what color jersey I’m wearing. What country I’m playing in.
I run until sweat is pouring off of me, dripping down my face and coating my back with a sticky layer.
As soon as I step off the treadmill, I rub my face with a towel that smells like laundry detergent and chug some water. Maybe I should steal a few of these. My apartment came fully unfurnished. I bought the absolute essentials—a mattress and sheets and some toiletries once the travel sizes I brought ran out—but I haven’t bothered to purchase anything else. Doing so feels like accepting this is a permanent change, not just an unfortunate blip, and I guess some part of me is still in denial about that.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call, cutting off “One Dance.”
It’s my agent, Shawn, calling.
I strongly consider not answering.
Our conversations are rarely pleasant. I’m a total headache to deal with, admittedly.
I take a seat on one of the weight benches, scrubbing the terry-cloth towel through my short hair. I had several inches shorn off before leaving Seattle, both because of the summer heat and because it seemed like a fitting move before a fresh start.
“Shawn,” I greet, looping the towel around my neck.
“How’s it going?” He doesn’t bother so much as a hello.
“Fine.”
“Actually?” His tone is thick with disbelief. As if I’m incapable of not causing trouble just by breathing.
“Actually,” I reply, scuffing the toe of my running shoe against the edge of one of the black rubber mats. “I’m not going to fuck things up. I know what’s at stake here.”
His snort echoes across the Pacific loud and clear. Shawn works for Garner Sports Agency, a big company headquartered in LA. He’s probably staring out at sunshine and palm trees right now. “Excuse me for not thinking you take your career seriously after the shitstorm I’ve spent the last couple of months dealing with.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose and exhale. “Did you call me for any reason besides bringing that up?”
All the tension eased from running until my muscles were shaking starts seeping back in.
Forget the last few years of hard work. My entire career has been reduced to that one night. At this point, I could win every award or trophy available, and if you searched my name, the first article to come up would still be related to a drunken mistake.
“Have you met with anyone on the team yet?” Shawn asks.
