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Then I head for the door, with Drew right behind me.
CHAPTER TWO
I’m here.
I’m finally, really, truly here.
The field is pristine. Green. Empty.
I take a tentative step out from the shade of the walkway and into the blazing German sun. The cheap nylon shirt I just pulled on chafes against my overheated skin, but the slight discomfort fades as I trace the steps of players I’ve admired for years out onto the firm turf. I pause, spinning in a circle to survey the thousands of empty seats.
Awe overtakes me, reminding me of the reason I resolved at age fourteen to one day stand here. I’ve played in front of large crowds before, but none of those stadiums possessed the gravitational presence I’m surrounded by now.
Reverence slowly dissipates, a litany of pitiful emotions pulsing through me as I study the immaculate grass I’ve dreamed of playing on for as long as I can remember. A sharp stab of pain—like the jab of a needle—races from my knee and along my nerve endings. A reminder that coming here was a questionable decision. Considering some of the ideas I’ve had, that’s saying a lot.
There are moments you can achieve through hard work and perseverance. Others take place whether you fought for them to or not.
This is a combination of the two, with a healthy helping of masochism.
I turn to leave but halt when I hear a rapid stream of harsh syllables spouted behind me. I look back to see a tall guy who looks to be about my age studying me curiously as he swipes a hand through his shaggy hair. The emblem on everything he’s wearing identifies him as a member of the football club whose field I’m currently trespassing on.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Water cooler?” he asks, switching to heavily accented English. My expression must clearly convey I didn’t understand a word of whatever he just said.
I glance down at the black polo I snagged that’s embroidered with the stadium’s logo and realize what he has surmised.
I flash him my most charming smile. “I don’t actually work here,” I admit, injecting my voice with a hint of the southern charm that has never failed to get me out of trouble or make males capitulate. “I just wanted to get a look at the stadium, but if I come across anyone who looks like they’d know where the water coolers are stored when I sneak back out, I’ll make sure to pass that along.”
There’s a blank stare of surprise. He clearly was not expecting me to have snuck in, or to admit that I did.
Finally, he smiles. I relax, no longer having to feign a casual stance.
“You did not want to just take a tour?” he asks, still grinning.
“Nope,” I respond lightly. Now that I’m reasonably certain he’s not going to call security, I’m anxious to get the hell out of here.
Ellie told me FC Kluvberg was practicing at their training facility today. If there are other players at the stadium instead, I’m not eager to wait and see if they’re as trusting of an American stranger.
“But don’t worry, I’m headed out now.” I turn to leave for a second time.
“Wait!” the guy calls, jogging closer toward me.
I spin back around to see his friendly expression has shifted to flirtatious and bite back a groan.
“I’m Otto,” he shares, holding a pale hand out to shake. His fair complexion matches his light blond hair. Either he spends little time outside or is liberal with his sunscreen usage.
Since he’s a professional soccer player, I’m assuming the latter. Even after the long, cold Connecticut winter, my skin has already accumulated enough melanin from spring training—what little of it my sprained knee allowed me to participate in—to tan several shades darker than his.
“Nice to meet you,” I tell him, gripping his offered hand and then dropping it after a quick shake. A flash of disappointment crosses his boyish face, and I wonder if he was expecting me to act like more of a fangirl. Unfortunately for him, I’m not easily impressed. “I’m Saylor.”
Belatedly, I wonder if I should have made up a name in case Otto mentions this to anyone later. No one at Lancaster will ever let me live it down if I get sent home from the most competitive soccer program in the world the day before it officially begins.
For trespassing, the most mundane of all the misdemeanors.
“Saylor,” he repeats, drawing out the final syllable of my name so it’s lengthier than the first. “Would you like me to give you a tour of the stadium?” Otto grins, the insinuation obvious.
“Another time, maybe.” Like never, most likely. My primary goal at Scholenberg is to minimize the time spent with my butt parked on a bench. “I have to head out. I’m meeting some friends.” Temporary teammates who will likely become future opponents, actually, but that doesn’t seem like the type of detail he needs to know to effectively end this encounter.
