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“It was fine. Uncle Franz is all excited about some exhibition match the team has coming up.”
“Huh.” Switching topics to FC Kluvberg was not exactly what I had in mind.
I keep scrolling through descriptions of courses, and then the screen decides to freeze. I sigh, taking it as a sign I should stop.
Standing, I stretch and then grab my sneakers from their spot by the door.
“I’m going for a run. You want to come?”
“You’re joking, right?” Ellie asks. “It’s our day off!”
I shrug, then start lacing up my sneakers.
“What about your knee?”
“I’m cleared to jog. Not about to run a marathon.”
“Have fun,” Ellie calls after me as I head down the hallway. I hear springs squeak as she flops back down on my bed.
Several other girls are relaxing in the common area slash living room when I walk down the stairs, all looking as comfortable as Ellie. They study me with judgy stares as I pass them in my athletic shorts and tank top, and I sigh internally. I didn’t expect to leave here with lifelong friendships, but I’ve been here for over a week and there’s no sign of anyone but Ellie liking me at all. I doubt me getting cleared to play will help.
The four-story house that hosts Scholenberg attendees is centrally located, and it’s only a few blocks to the park I’ve passed before. The streets are busy, filled with chattering locals and tourists alike. The scenery of the city is still an adjustment. Aside from a spring break trip to Mexico and a soccer camp in Canada, this is my first time leaving the US.
The scarred cobblestones, ancient buildings, and colorful architecture look nothing like the sleepy southern town I grew up in, or the college town Lancaster is located in. The scent of street food and the chatter of foreign languages fill the air still damp from rain the sky shed earlier. Watery sunshine peeks through light gray clouds here and there, extending misty fingers that trickle down to the damp street.
The crowds last until the park that’s my destination, milling about, unbothered by the overcast day. Even the park looks different from the ones back home. Wrought-iron gates mark the entrance that’s surrounded by trimmed topiaries. Carved concrete balustrades and oak trees line the walkway that opens into a plush spread of grass. Past it, there’s a massive marble fountain sending shifting sprays of water upward toward the cloudy sky.
I start jogging along the gravel path as soon as I pass through the open gates. Once I reach the fountain, I realize the park is much larger than I initially thought. It’s a massive green oasis in the center of the city. There’s a playground, dog park, snack bar, and some soccer fields. I stop at a bench to retie my left lace, which has become nothing more than a loose loop. I was in a hurry to get out of the house.
Once I’ve double-knotted, I straighten. Glance around, deciding on which direction to head first. Then…freeze.
Adler Beck is walking toward me, wearing sunglasses, a baseball cap, and an inscrutable expression. He’s dressed in athletic attire, same as me, but none of them sport the emblem of his club. He looks like any ordinary guy—any ordinary hot guy—not a famous soccer superstar.
I curse out my bad luck in my head.
“Don’t tell me,” I drawl, as he pauses a couple of feet away. “You own this park too.”
One corner of his mouth twitches with amusement before his expression smooths back to neutral. “No. I live across the street.”
I glance in that direction, shading my eyes with one hand. “Do you own that building?”
“I’d have to ask my real estate agent.”
I can’t tell if he’s kidding or not, which bothers me. I’ve been told I’m hard to read countless times, but I’ve never thought that about someone else before now.
Beck crosses his arms, surveying me superiorly; like I’m a peasant in his kingdom. “You’re training?”
“Just going for a run.” I woke up feeling restless, and it’s partially his fault. He kept creeping into my head last night, long after I’d left him behind.
“It’s your day off.”
“It’s yours too,” I remind him as he continues studying me.
If I saw him again—which I didn’t think would be the case—I assumed we’d ignore each other. I can’t tell him I’m running late for class or have practice. I’m alone, not with a group of friends. Once again, I’m at a weird loss for what to say to him. His gaze is too intense, easily permeating the thick shield I usually keep up. His eyes drop to my bare legs, the interest on his face obvious. We’re standing feet apart, both fully dressed, and I somehow feel naked.
I study him back, the lighting outside better than it was in his nightclub last night. The chiseled cheekbones. The unforgiving jawline. The short blond hair peeking out the sides of his hat. The ropes of muscles flexing along his golden forearms. Looks that have landed him on the covers of dozens of magazines—most of which couldn’t care less that he earned the mouth-watering physique and sun-kissed complexion on a soccer field.
“What are you doing here?” I finally ask, ending our silent staring contest.
