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The hallway I walked through earlier has a cement floor with walls painted a cream color. I turn right this time, glancing over the massive glossy photographs lining the walls. They’re mostly action shots of players running, lunging, or mid-kick. It’s impossible to miss that one athlete is featured twice as frequently as anyone else.
I shake my head as I pass the tenth photo of Adler Beck.
No wonder his ego is larger than most countries.
The last door on the left reveals a room larger than I was expecting. We’re on the lowest level of the stadium. The small room we met Coach Weber in was one that I’m guessing is ordinarily meant for storage. But despite its disparate location, this space contains a whole host of equipment I know must cost thousands of dollars. A brunette with a friendly smile is tidying a shelf of towels when I walk inside.
“You must be Saylor,” she declares, in what I think is a French accent. “I’m Alizée.”
“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you,” I tell her.
“Take a seat up there, please.” She nods toward the straight-line table, the kind I’ve become far too familiar with over the past two months. I climb up on it and stretch my legs out.
Alizée pokes and prods at the muscles in my right leg in a way I’ve also become too accustomed to. “Any pain?”
I shake my head as she continues to rub the ligaments and tendons. “None.”
“Your knee feels good. Really good. Six more days until full activity?”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and nod.
Alizée rotates my knee for a little longer, then walks me through a few new exercises I can add to my current routine to ease my knee into full movement. She’s demonstrating the last one when the door bangs open. I tense involuntarily, not realizing why until I register the new arrival has brown eyes, not blue. My body relaxes without me telling it to.
The man who just entered jabbers out what sounds like an apology. Alizée replies, and I hear Scholenberg mixed in with a series of unfamiliar words.
“You’re all set, Saylor,” Alizée says. “Keep doing those, and I’ll see you next week. Should be able to give you the all-clear.”
“Great, thanks.” I hop off the table, passing the man I’m certain must be a Kluvberg player without a glance, even though I can feel his eyes on me.
I head back into the hallway, ducking into the first stairwell I come across. But when I exit the stairs, it’s not into the industrial-looking lobby we entered this morning. Instead, I’m in a hallway covered with a lush carpet and lined with offices. I swear under my breath and turn to head back into the stairwell.
And almost collide with someone.
I glance up into gray eyes. This man is one I recognize. It’s Stefan Herrmann, Kluvberg’s current keeper. I’m guessing Otto’s being groomed as his backup and eventual replacement.
Suddenly, I can’t seem to go anywhere without bumping into famous, fit men. It sounds like a wonderful problem to have, but every Kluvberg player I encounter who’s not Adler Beck increases my chances the next one will be. FC Kluvberg doesn’t have any friendly matches scheduled until mid-July. Their season doesn’t start until late August. According to Ellie, the club gives up the stadium for maintenance, tours, and Scholenberg this time of year. Either she has inaccurate information—which, given who her uncle is, seems unlikely—or I have questionable luck.
“Do you know how to get out of the stadium from here?” I ask, hoping Stefan speaks English.
“Two floors down and through the lobby,” he replies.
“Thank you,” I respond, flashing him a grateful smile before rushing into the stairwell.
His directions are accurate, and a few minutes later I’m outside, bathed in brilliant German sunshine. I wave at the security guard as I head out the gate reserved for players, coaches, and others with some form of special access to the stadium. For the duration of Scholenberg, that includes me.
Once outside the fence surrounding the stadium, I pause for a minute. I expected to have downtime during my first week here until my knee was cleared.
I didn’t expect to have free time.
Coach Taylor, Lancaster’s head coach, has a strict policy that requires all players to attend practice, even if injured. I was expecting something similar here.
Instead, I’m standing outside the most famous football stadium in the world with no idea where to go. Every person I know in Germany is inside that stadium, and it’s not even ten in the morning—the middle of the night on the East Coast—so I can’t call anyone back home to kill time.
The four-story dorm-style structure Scholenberg is housing us in is only a few blocks away, but returning to a twin bed and stack of unpacked suitcases doesn’t sound very appealing. So, I just start walking.
Kluvberg’s stadium is nestled amidst the oldest section of the city that shares its name. The location is a tribute to both the club’s esteemed relevance and its entwined history.
I would have jumped on a plane to Antarctica if that was where the best women’s training camp in the world was located. I didn’t really give any thought to my destination beyond the ways it could advance my soccer skills.
