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Beck arches an eyebrow. “It’s raining.”
I smirk. “I noticed. Only the best conditions for the Kaiser, is that it?”
He swipes the soccer ball out from under my foot, forcing me to stumble. Then he’s off, racing across the soggy ground toward the nearest goal.
I sprint after him, and we start to play.
I’m sure we must look ridiculous. Playing soccer in the pouring rain, wearing wet clothes with our hair plastered to our heads. Both of us were already soaked, and pretty soon we’re both splattered with mud as well.
We’re making a mess of the field too. I leave a foot-long gouge in the ground after slipping, my sneakers ripping up the grass and my sweatpants finishing the job.
Beck doesn’t ask if I’m okay or offer me a hand to stand up. He keeps running toward the goal, not waiting for me to catch up.
And I love every disordered second of it.
I don’t think about technique or angles or strategy. My only purpose is keeping the ball moving through and around the puddles dotting the ground. I watch ribbons of rain run out of Beck’s hair, absorb the intensity in his blue eyes, and I don’t move away when his warm body jostles mine; the contact somehow searing through the waterlogged layers we’re both wearing.
He plays with me like we’re equals, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. I’m not keeping track of the score, which has never happened before. Even during scrimmages or practice, there’s a constant clicker in the back of my head.
I love soccer, and it’s amplified around Beck. By Beck.
Because we’re the same when it comes to this sport, in comparison to all the ways we’re different outside of it.
Because he makes me better without saying a single word.
Because I love him too, I think, not just the game we’re playing together.
The rain gradually slows to a trickle.
“What time is it?” Beck asks.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to check. “After midnight.”
We’ve been out here for more than an hour.
He nods, rolling the ball under his foot. “I’ve got a call at one.”
It takes me a couple of seconds to realize what he means. Our middle of the night is Germany’s morning. “Oh. Right.”
God, I don’t know what to say. Or do. He came here. I texted him. I’ll be back at Lancaster in two days. He’ll be back in Kluvberg.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Beck.”
He stills immediately. Then turns back around. Like he was expecting—hoping—I might stop him.
I swallow. “We had our first preseason match a few weeks ago.”
“I know.”
There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach. “You, uh, saw the interview I did, then?”
“After. They didn’t include it in the game coverage.”
Game coverage? “Wait, you watched the game? My game?”
“Yes.” He says it simply, like it should be no surprise.
