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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Every single girl attending Scholenberg is standing in the kitchen when I walk in, still rubbing sleep from my eyes.
I halt abruptly, taken aback. “Uh, good morning?” It’s not even eight; way earlier than I want to be up on a Sunday. What are they all…oh.
After practice yesterday, I filled Ellie in on some of what’s happened with Beck, skimming over most of the details. Just telling her that I ran into him at a club and we’ve hooked up a few times, basically. I did tell her that he’s the one running the kids’ camp I’m headed to today, and that news has apparently spread around the entire house.
I sigh as I open the fridge door to grab some orange juice. If they all want to watch me make breakfast half-asleep, they can feel free.
But I’m only one sip into my juice when I hear Alexis exclaim, “He’s here!”
Shit. I was banking on Beck running late. I glance at the clock on the stove. I’m not even late; he’s early.
“Oh my God, it’s really him!” Alexis exclaims.
I grab a breakfast bar and then call out a general goodbye before heading outside. Everyone’s attention is on the front-facing windows.
It’s the perfect temperature this morning. There’s a whisper of warmth in the air, but none of the heat and humidity I’m ordinarily greeted by.
“Hey,” I call out as I approach.
He’s got the trunk of his car open, rearranging stuff.
I’m not sure how else to greet him. We don’t normally kiss unless we’re having sex. Not to mention I feel very on display. He offered to drive me to the camp before I left his place early yesterday morning, and I was only thinking that it would be nice not to have to walk to the stadium. Not that this would be fodder for everyone to watch through the windows.
“Hey.” He holds out a hand for my soccer bag and I pass it to him.
“You should have someone give you a car with more cargo space,” I say as I watch him struggle to fit it in.
“I thought my dick wasn’t impressive enough for that.”
“I thought Germans didn’t have a sense of humor,” I say.
He snorts, then slams the trunk shut. “How would you know? You can’t understand a word of what we’re saying.”
I roll my eyes before I climb in the passenger side.
The Scholenberg van usually drops us off in front of the side entrance. Beck pulls into a private parking lot I assume is reserved for players. There’s a massive coach bus taking up one side of the lot, and the other side section houses about a dozen cars.
A few men are gathered around one, another expensive sports car. Their attention turns to Beck as soon as he climbs out of the driver’s seat. One of them calls out in German, then laughs. Interest shifts to me as soon as I appear, taking my bag from Beck and then following him over to the group. There are four of them: Otto, two men I’ve never seen before, and the one I encountered when I got lost in the stadium my first day.
My guide greets me first. “Hello. Stefan Herrmann.”
“Saylor. Nice to meet you,” I respond.
“We met before, no?” he asks.
I feel Beck’s eyes on me. “We did,” I reply. “Briefly. Nice to see you again.”
He smiles, crinkling the corners of his gray eyes.
One of the men I’ve never met spits something out in German. It prompts immediate dislike, since I’m certain he knows I don’t speak the language. Beck barks something back that causes the man to shift his gaze to the ground sullenly.
I learn his last name is Ludwig, and the final guy is Fischer. He appears to be the oldest, probably in his early-thirties. We start toward the entrance that leads directly onto the field.
“What did he say?” I ask Beck in a low voice.
“Something rude he won’t be repeating,” he replies in a clipped tone, striding ahead through the open gate.
