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“I like to play alone sometimes.”
I stare at him, taken aback by the answer. Soccer is a team sport. Most of my Lancaster teammates have never visited the sports center solo. But I thrive practicing alone. I can work on exactly what I want at my own pace. Yeah, I’m a part of a team, but I’m the one controlling my part. I’ve never met another soccer player—another athlete—who shared the same mentality. And the fact it’s Adler Beck is shocking. He proved himself a long time ago. He doesn’t need to be training alone on his day off. He could be in bed getting a blowjob. Admiring his accomplishments wasn’t supposed to turn into being impressed by his work ethic.
“Oh,” is the best response I can come up with.
“Unless you have more pointers?”
I have to work to keep the shock off of my face. Unless I’m hallucinating, he’s teasing me. More than teasing me, he’s inviting me to play with him. He’s a household name considered to be the best soccer player currently playing in the world, and he’s asking me, a woman who’s never participated in a professional match, to play with him.
I’m suspicious of the timing. Of the challenge in my parting words, telling him I don’t do rematches. I’m not interested in being entertainment, the American with accurate aim who talks back to him. Or worse, a hot girl he’s trying to indulge because he wants to fuck me again.
I cross my arms back at him. “You’re open to criticism now that we had sex?”
“I’m open to criticism now that I’ve seen you play,” he replies.
I frown, recalling our first meeting and realizing he’s right that I mentioned his shoulder before touching the ball. “You haven’t seen me play,” I tell him. “Just shoot.”
His sunglasses are blocking his eyes, but I’m positive his gaze is aimed straight at me. “I’ve seen enough to know you’re good.”
Good.
I’m used to more effusive praise. Incredible. Astounding. Unbelievable.
But I doubt Beck compliments other players very often, and it’s impossible to miss the sincerity in his voice. So, somehow, Adler Beck telling me I’m good overshadows all the praise I’ve received from coaches and teammates and guys in the past.
“You’re not terrible yourself.”
That comment earns me a full-blown grin. Fuck, he’s good looking. The kind of gorgeous that hijacks thoughts and hormones.
“So?” He tilts his head toward the empty fields.
I should say no. We had sex last night, which makes this more complicated. And I’m supposed to get the all-clear on my knee tomorrow, but I haven’t officially been approved to play yet. An easy jog is one thing, playing with an elite athlete is another. Risking my health—my career—just to spend more time around a hot guy is not a stupid mistake I’d normally make.
But ever since my first game at age five—the match my mom left during—I’ve always been the best player on the field. I’ve known it, and they’ve known it. The chance to not be, to be challenged by a player I’ve watched dominate on television, is too alluring to resist. Truly a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
“Let’s play,” I decide.
His expression doesn’t change, like that was the answer he was expecting all along.
Competitiveness flares in response. I’m determined to shatter that indifference.
Beck heads toward the farthest open field and I follow, tightening my ponytail as I walk. I feel his eyes on me a couple times, but I keep mine trained forward on our destination. He pauses to unzip the bag he’s carrying, pulling a brand-new soccer ball out.
I take the opportunity to wipe my sweaty palms against my shorts. The last time I played with or against a guy was back in elementary school. And I know for a fact that none of those boys grew up to be players of Beck’s caliber. I’m confident in my own skills. But he’s better than me—not to mention stronger and faster—and that disparity will be much more obvious today than it was during penalty kicks.
Adler Beck is good at soccer. Really good. The kind of talent that comes around once in a generation—once a century. His parents were both successful, but Adler Beck is revered on a staggering scale. He’s beloved. He was winning international championships when I was attending high school games where half the participants were stoned, and he’s far from a washed-up has-been at twenty-two.
I stride farther onto the field, expecting him to follow me. He does, dribbling as though it’s second nature to him.
Beck doesn’t ask me if I’m ready to play or stop for a face-off. He continues dribbling, forcing me to back up or else let him pass. His expression is completely transformed from how he looked when he first approached me, his movements as animated as his expression. It’s a look I recognize—from seeing photos of myself playing. He loves this, loves it like I do. That’s rare.
Beck grins as I do my best to mirror his movements. I’ve watched enough footage of him playing to know a few of his signature moves, but he’s not exactly pulling out all the stops right now. We’re barely jogging. When he finally spins to get around me, I’m ready. I snake my foot between his, knocking the ball into my possession. There’s a nod of acknowledgment that lets me know I passed some test. It also tells me that he’s still underestimating me.
We weave up and down the field, neither of us allowing the other to score, but guarding each other loosely. It’s…fun. I can’t recall the last time I played soccer so casually. Normally, I’m showing off—for coaches or teammates, to preserve the reputation I’ve carefully constructed; to smash expectations. To push myself. For the first time, it occurs to me that Beck might feel the same. The spotlight on him is a thousand times brighter. The expectations a thousand times higher.
He blocks me from scoring again, and this time I don’t back off. I press him, broaching the invisible boundary that’s been between us. Beck responds with a speed and dexterity I would have been expecting if he hadn’t spent the past half hour lulling me into a false sense of complacency. He steals the ball back immediately, literally pulling it directly out from under me. I barely have enough time to twist so I can protect my knee before I collide with the firm ground.
The impact doesn’t hurt, but it’s unexpected. Breath whooshes from my lungs like a deflating balloon.
