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Well, all right then. I let him pull ahead and try again.
“Remember me?” I smile at Otto.
He smirks back. “Do you have permission to be here today?”
“Seems that way. Boring, huh?”
“I don’t think anyone would call you boring.”
I smile. “What did Ludwig say?” I ask Otto.
He looks uncomfortable, which confirms it was about me. “Don’t worry about it,” he mumbles.
“I’m not worried. Just curious.” I flash him my most dazzling smile.
Otto sighs. “He said there’s only a female player here because Kaiser can’t resist pretty women.”
I bristle. The only reason I’m here is because I’m sleeping with Beck, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a damn good soccer player, one who’s most definitely capable of teaching some kids to dribble. But I’ve still been diminished to a fangirl.
Kluvberg’s field is the busiest I’ve ever seen it. Energy radiates and resonates across the broad expanse of grass. I can only imagine what the stadium is like during home matches. There are children everywhere, way more than I was expecting, and about a dozen adults. I spot Beck’s parents talking to an older man with a bushy shock of graying hair. There’s also a line of photographers holding cameras along the side of the field.
I should have been expecting press, but I wasn’t. Adler Beck coaching children will probably be front-page news.
I keep forgetting he’s famous.
Beck is clearly the authority figure here, and everyone pays close attention when he starts speaking a rapid stream of German. Since I can’t understand anything he’s saying, I study the crowd of kids that are gathered around him. I’d guess their ages range from ten to thirteen, but they’ve all got one characteristic in common: the awed expression aimed at Beck.
He stops speaking, and there’s a flurry of movement as the kids split off into smaller sections. Otto, Hermann, Ludwig, and Fischer all walk away, and I’m left trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Beck comes over to me.
“Take that group.” He points to the kids on the farthest edge of the field. “Just run them through a few ball-handling drills.” He leaves without saying anything else, presumably to coach his own group. I’m torn between appreciating his faith in me and wanting to call after him to ask more questions. It’s been nearly a decade since I was a middle schooler myself. I barely recall what my practices at that age were like.
But I’ve never been one to back down from a challenge, so I grab a stack of cones and a bag of soccer balls, pasting on my most excited smile to approach the group Beck gestured to. They study me apprehensively as I approach. Out of the coaching options, I’m most definitely the outlier for several reasons.
“Hey, everyone!” I tell my little huddle, injecting my voice with as much positivity as I can muster. “I’m Saylor.”
“Why are you speaking English?” one kid asks suspiciously.
Before I can answer, another boy says, “Your voice sounds weird.”
“I’m American,” I reply, choosing not to mention that I don’t know German. That seems like the sort of weakness I shouldn’t share. “Okay, so we’re going to start by dribbling through these cones and?—”
“Boring!” a little girl, one of just two in my group, calls out. “That’s so easy!”
These kids are brutal. But at least they’re sticking to English.
“It’s important to know the fundamentals,” I reply evenly. “I’ll demonstrate first. Line up behind this.” I set one cone down like I’m Neil Armstrong planting an American flag on the moon.
There are some groans—and muttered German—but they all listen, lining up behind the orange marker. I set up three more cones in a straight line and then return to the first one.
“All right. I want you to dribble through on the first pass. Get as close as you can without knocking the cone over.” I dribble through, brushing the ball against each cone. “Then a roll and reverse.” I demonstrate, so I’m facing back the other direction. “Alternate between step-over and scissors on the way back.” I step in front, over, and behind the ball. Then, step over it, plant my foot, and pivot between the next set of cones. I execute another step-over, a second scissors, and then I’m back at the start.
The little girl who told me dribbling was “boring” is first in line. I’m used to people looking at me with envy—of my soccer skills, of the hot guy talking to me—but I’ve never experienced pure admiration from a child before. The awestruck look on her face makes me feel about ten feet tall.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Mila,” she replies.
“All right, Mila, you’re up first.” I pass the ball to her, and she traps it neatly, then executes the drill perfectly.
