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Otto opens his mouth to respond, but we’re both distracted by the sound of pounding footfalls.
A figure emerges from the cement tunnel out onto the field, silhouetted by the blazing sunlight. I don’t realize who it is until he stops about twenty feet from where I’m standing, blocking the brunt of the sun.
It’s the poster on Emma’s bedroom wall come to life.
Adler Beck.
Referred to only by his surname among his many, many adoring fans. The most famous soccer—fine, football—star in the world. Germany’s chosen Kaiser. He led seasoned veterans to a nail-biting victory in the World Cup his first year of eligibility, making him a household name at sixteen. Now just twenty-two, he’s already one of the most decorated players of all time. The offspring of two highly respected German players, his pedigree and raw talent would have opened any door even if he wasn’t also insanely attractive. He’s blessed in that department as well.
A triple threat.
Even though I’ve watched hours of footage of him playing, it doesn’t prepare me for the sight of Adler Beck’s signature stoicism in person. He’s not one of the players you see laughing and joking on the sidelines or during warmups. He treats each game like the job that it is. One thing that we have in common, I guess.
His dirty blond hair is ruffled and sweaty, his skin as sun-kissed as mine as he jogs toward us in his practice gear.
He’s even better-looking in person, which in the age of Photoshop seems both highly improbable and supremely unfair.
There’s a potent magnetism to his presence that makes me forget about the heat, the itchy shirt I’m wearing, and the eager guy drooling three feet from me.
Adler Beck barks out a rapid stream of German, and for the first time, I regret letting Brett Stephens do all my homework for me in our elementary German class. I even chose German as my foreign language elective in anticipation of this trip. I can’t comprehend a single word Beck shouts, but the tone is clear.
Otto drops his easygoing manner immediately.
Drops me.
“Nice to meet you,” he says, already backing away while pulling a pair of keeper gloves out of his back pocket. “I hope we’ll meet again.”
It’s exactly what I was hoping for a moment ago, but I don’t feel relief now. I feel miffed and irritated as I stare after Otto’s retreating back. The feeling is exacerbated when I watch Adler Beck give me a cursory glance and then walk the couple of remaining feet to where a soccer ball sits, waiting.
As soon as Otto positions himself in the goal, Beck becomes a blur of practiced movements, sending a shot flying at a lethal trajectory. Otto reaches, but it sails past him effortlessly with over a foot to spare. It’s a textbook penalty kick, with one exception. If not for the many hours spent analyzing Adler Beck’s technique to complete this very motion, I never would have noticed it. Fueled by the annoyance and lingering self-pity I’m still experiencing, I decide to critique the man unanimously considered to be one of the most talented players to ever set foot on a soccer field.
“You dropped your shoulder too early,” I call out.
Making certain my voice echoes across the pitch.
Ensuring he can’t ignore my words.
A pair of piercing blue eyes pin me in place. “You’re giving me pointers?” Unlike Otto, Adler Beck doesn’t address me in German first. Either I look like a foreigner, or he knows an American accent when he hears one. His incredulous voice is less accented than Otto’s, but the syllables sound as harsh as they did when he was shouting in German.
“Just stating a fact,” I reply, holding my ground against the force of his gaze.
“By all means, show me your technique.” Beck moves back from the ball he’s trapped and gestures me forward. His tone is almost teasing, but it carries a hard undercurrent of derision.
I don’t need a German dictionary to translate what that means.
I take a tentative step forward, the panic pressing down on me as oppressively as the summer heat. A large part of me wants to toss out a “just kidding” and flee, but the competitive spirit I squashed into being dormant for the past couple months flares and refuses to allow me to back down. Somehow, I don’t think this is what Lancaster’s physical therapist meant when she said to ease my knee back into full motion.
I walk forward as nonchalantly as I can, considering each stride brings me closer to the familiar shape I’ve barely touched in weeks. There’s a chance—a very slim one, I hope—my knee is no longer capable of this. So, I don’t give myself an opportunity to second-guess anything, sending the ball spinning through the air as soon as I reach it.
Otto lunges, but it arcs past him neatly to drop into the back left corner of the net. I shift my weight back to my good leg and bite my bottom lip to keep the smile from spreading across my face.
Otto glances back and forth between me and the now stationary ball a couple of times, a look of shocked disbelief frozen on his face.
I keep my expression neutral despite the swell of elation I’m experiencing. A quick glance to my left reveals a stone-faced Beck. Famous for his composure on the field, the only sign of irritation is a slight tic in the sharp jawline that looks like it’s carved from granite, or some other equally infallible material.
Following an invisible command, Otto sends the ball back to Beck, who traps it neatly and then sends it flying effortlessly into the back of the net.
I watch his shoulders carefully and roll my eyes when I notice he makes a point to lower his right one early.
