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“Why?”
“I wanted to see you play.”
“You’ve seen me play.”
“Not at home, with your team. I was curious.”
He didn’t forget about me the second I left, at least. “That interview…it was stupid. I didn’t think you’d see it. That anyone would see it. It was a surprise any press even showed up for our scrimmage—it used to be a struggle to get them to come to our playoffs game—and I was distracted and just said the first thing that popped into my head and I didn’t know it would become a thing that?—”
“Did you mean it?”
I swallow. “Yes.”
He clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed by that answer.
“It wasn’t supposed to be about anything related to what happened between us,” I continue. “Just, you know, you as an athlete. It was a compliment. I’m sorry if you’re mad that I?—”
Once again, he interrupts. “I’m not mad.”
“You seem mad,” I state.
“It would have been nice if you’d told me that yourself, is all.”
“Told you what? It’s news to you that other soccer players have followed your career? Surprise, you’re famous.”
He scoffs. “It’s news to me that you followed my career, Saylor.”
“So have millions of other people!” I don’t get why he’s fixated on this. Because I never acted like a fangirl, he assumed I had no idea how successful he’s been?
“You’re not millions of other people to me.”
That pulls me up short.
“You watching me play, you following my career, you saying I inspired you—that’s different from millions of other people doing those things.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I know exactly what he means. It’s the same feeling I just experienced when he told me that he watched my game. I knew he has that power over me. I had no clue I have that power over him.
The silence between us stretches longer and longer, me scrambling to figure out what to say.
Beck speaks first. “Otto hung a sign that says, ‘Saylor Scott’s Inspiration’ above my locker.”
I appreciate his attempt to lighten the mood. “That’s kind of funny.”
It’s also bittersweet, learning more of the ways my presence in Germany lingered even after I left.
“He’s still sore he never got a shot with you,” Beck tells me.
“Goalies aren’t my type,” I manage to say. Truthfully, Beck was the only guy I looked twice at, the whole time I was in Germany. In the month since I’ve been back.
His phone rings, breaking the resulting silence. He pulls it out. Glances at the screen. “I have to take this.”
Beck starts toward the lodge, speaking rapid German.
And all I can wonder, watching him walk away, is if he ever felt this awful any of the times that I did.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I’m exhausted the following morning, snippets of my conversation with Beck playing in my head all night and making it hard to sleep. I down two cups of coffee between bites of cereal at breakfast, determined to fight through the exhaustion like I always do.
