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“It doesn’t matter. I am.” Hypothetical happy endings never helped anyone.
“You ever going to let anyone in, Saylor?” he questions softly.
I let him in. Way more than I meant to. It’s hitting me now how far, as I try to keep breathing through the pain of realizing this will be our last conversation. That he’s never going to touch me or tease me or smile at me again.
“You’re six years into your career. Mine hasn’t even started.” I want Coach Weber to be right about me. I want all the years of hard work to pay off, to be worth the effort. If they’re not, if I waver, I’d lose my entire identity.
“You don’t want distractions.”
“I don’t want distractions.”
There’s nothing else to say after that. I remain in place for a few more minutes, soaking in his presence the same way I’m absorbing the sun’s rays. This is a moment I want to memorize, even if it hurts.
He sits up when I do.
“I’ve got to go. I’ll hold the van up.” I shove away from the turf so I’m standing.
Beck stays sitting. I study him, a perfect portrait framed by the famous arches of his home stadium.
I swallow. “Bye, Beck.”
I’ve said those two words before, but they sound different this time. Finality has a bitter aftertaste that lingers in the warm air around us.
“Bye, Saylor.”
There’s more I could say. I’ve always admired Adler Beck as a soccer player. This is my last chance to tell him that, but the past couple of months have forever altered me viewing him as a once-in-a-generation athlete. We’re more than two people who both love soccer. Making this moment about sport seems wrong.
So I turn and head for the tunnel without saying another word.
This is where we started.
This is where we’ll end.
The farewell dinner isn’t held at a fancy restaurant. It’s at a tiny beer garden tucked in the midst of the city.
The relaxed atmosphere fits the shift that’s taken place over the past two months. Cheerful music and reminiscing fill the air as we eat bratwurst encased in pretzel buns and gulp beer. There’s a communal, celebratory mood.
Tonight, it doesn’t feel like we’re a hodgepodge of backgrounds and nationalities.
Tonight, we’re teammates.
For the first and final time. If I’m on a field with any of these women again, it’ll most likely be as adversaries.
Halfway through her first beer—which is relevant because I’m pretty sure it means she isn’t drunk—Olivia gives me a hug and tells me she hopes the rest of the American team isn’t as good as me at the next Olympics. Coming from her, that’s the equivalent of becoming best friends.
I get drawn into a dance-off to Shakira’s “Hips Don’t Lie” with Ellie; a song that owns a permanent spot on my pre-game playlist, meaning I’ve got a full arsenal of moves to bust out as I toss my hair and lip-sync the lyrics. There’s no official winner crowned by the laughing onlookers, but I’m pretty certain it’s me.
Breathless and thirsty, I return to the picnic tables. I gulp some water before switching to my glass of beer.
Alexis is still in her same seat from dinner. “Did I see Olivia hug you?” she asks.
I laugh and take another sip. “Yeah. See any pigs flying?”
“What?” Alexis looks thoroughly confused, and I can’t say I blame her. It’s an expression I’ve never fully understood. If you were going to highlight the impractical nature of a farm animal leaving the ground, wouldn’t it make more sense to choose the heaviest one? Like a cow? Or a horse?
“Never mind. How come you’re not dancing?”
“I prefer to watch the rest of you act like idiots.”
