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I tense as soon as she says his name. It’s an involuntary reaction, one I don’t think anyone catches.
“Yup,” Emma replies. “Saylor met him.”
“What?” Sarah gasps.
“We were both at a kids’ soccer camp. Not nearly as exciting as Emma is making it sound,” I respond quickly.
“Wow. I’m still jealous. He’s gorgeous.”
“Right?” Emma replies, warming to the topic. “I have that photo of him on the?—”
“I’m going in,” I interrupt, standing and pulling my T-shirt over my head. I had no intention of swimming until right now, but suddenly it seems like a fantastic idea.
“Okay,” Emma responds, giving me a weird look.
I stroll toward the water until it laps against my toes, ignoring the looks my body is getting from the guys. My toenails are still painted the same shade of obnoxious pink I was studying in the coffee shop when Beck appeared behind me. Barely painted, now. The nail polish has chipped, with only a few remnants of color remaining.
I wade out farther. The cool water hits my knees. Then my waist. Just below my breasts. I stare straight ahead. The curves of the cove are invisible from this angle, and all I can see is the ocean stretching ahead until it melds into the distant horizon.
Sarah’s innocent question reverberates around my skull. Isn’t FC Kluvberg the team Adler Beck plays for?
I’m going to have to get used to it. He’s not suddenly going to fade into obscurity. I’ll hear his name. Watch him play. If he starts dating someone, I’ll see coverage of it everywhere. If he gets engaged. Married. Has kids one day. His entire life will play out in the media, and I’ll have to witness it.
I just hope I won’t care by then.
“Saylor! Saylor!”
I turn in the water.
Kyle is standing at the edge, waving his arms. I splash back closer to shore.
“What?” I call.
“I need you on my team for beach volleyball,” he yells back.
“Fine.” I trudge the rest of the way through the water, fighting the current the whole way.
Some of the other soccer players have already set up a line of rocks I surmise is supposed to be the “net.”
“Tempting some sharks?” Kyle asks me when I reach shore.
“Statistically, it’s more likely I’d get struck by lightning,” I utter dryly.
“Saylor Scott: not just beauty, but brains too,” Kyle announces, like he’s a television commentator.
I scoff as I step into the setter’s position. “Ball,” I bark at the redhead holding the white sphere. I’ve never seen him before and there are only sports teams here, so he must be a freshman. He startles, then tosses it to me.
I spike the ball across the rocks. Since there’s no visible net, I have to guesstimate on the height, but the ball arcs a good six feet before landing in the sand between two football players, who immediately start arguing about who should have been responsible for returning it to this side of the rocks. I whistle to get their attention, and one returns the ball to me. I send it sailing to the other side again, except this time one of them is quick enough to return it. I lunge forward to spike it back but am distracted when a hand brushes against my left butt cheek.
I whirl around, forgetting about the ball. “Did you just touch my ass?” I snap at the same redhead who passed me the ball a few minutes ago.
He pales. “It was an accident.”
“An accident? What the fuck kind of?—”
“Saylor, come on.” Kyle suddenly appears at my side. “Let’s grab a drink.”
He basically hauls me over to the assortment of coolers spread out by boulders and hands me a can of beer.
