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Seems like I might be the only person on the planet who hasn’t watched the clip of me praising Beck.
A few minutes later, we’re switching again.
Beck’s wearing all black today, just like he was last night. The dark color emphasizes his golden looks.
Those whispers about William York? Absent. You don’t gossip about Adler Beck when he’s standing in front of you—you stare at him.
Nothing but wide eyes and awed silence surround me. Plus a few glances between me and Beck, confirming there’s still speculation about our private conversation on the field yesterday.
Wonderful.
Beck’s body language is as intimidating as his looks. He’s planted in place, arms crossed. His presence isn’t charismatic; it’s commanding. He barks out rapid instructions for the drill, and I’m not surprised to hear they’re twice as complex as every other clinic we’ve completed so far. After our scrimmage earlier, most of the guest coaches have been taking it easy on us. At least for now, this afternoon will probably be a different story.
The exercise requires receiving a flighted ball, dribbling on the attack through a series of grids, and then taking a shot on goal.
Based on the uncertain expressions around me, most are unsure about how to execute it.
Beck catches the confusion. “Would a demonstration help?”
Heads bob around me, but mine doesn’t move.
“Saylor?” He addresses me directly, and it catches me off guard. I wasn’t expecting him to single me out today.
“Yeah, Coach?” I don’t miss the way a muscle in Beck’s straight jaw jumps, but I hope everyone else does.
“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks.
“I always know what I’m doing,” I reply, projecting my usual confidence.
How ironic that I’m saying that to the one exception.
“Show me,” he says.
Not them. Me. I have no idea if that means something or if I’m so tired, I’m reading into nothing.
I nod, walking forward and then speeding up to a sprint when I reach the first grid. Beck sends me a flighted ball, and I send it straight into the goal.
He doesn’t congratulate me, just nods.
Like a perfect play is exactly what he expected.
Somehow, that’s better than any praise.
I move to the back of the line, letting the other girls in the group go ahead with the drill, with varying levels of success. Beck corrects every error. He’s a good coach, stern but fair.
Before I have the chance to go again, a loud horn sounds across the field, signaling the end of the clinics and the break for lunch.
“Thank God,” Cressida announces beside me. “I’m starving. Who thought those little boxes of cereal were breakfast? Give me some waffles and bacon.”
“It’s a soccer camp, not a vacation,” I reply, laughing, although I’m just as hungry.
“Why can’t it be both?” Cressida challenges.
I’m following Anne off the field when Beck speaks. “Saylor?”
I pause as everyone looks at me. “Yeah?”
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
