AllFreeNovel
Share Us
The first FC Kluvberg player I encounter is Friedrich Schneider.
My meeting yesterday with Leon Wagner, Kluvberg’s head coach, was just between the two of us in the office building on the opposite side of the parking lot. There was no warm welcome and definitely no bratwurst or beer. Just a curt overview of the team with a heavy emphasis on its behavior guidelines. Then I was handed off to a bubbly brunette named Ella, who made it clear she was available to assist me with more than navigating the practice facility as she showed me around. Showed me around space I’d already made myself at home in as soon as the paperwork was signed and I received my badge.
Friedrich is seated on one of the benches that lines the pool deck with a leg stretched in front of him. A young woman with short blonde hair is flexing and rotating his ankle. She’s dressed in a tracksuit embroidered with Kluvberg’s logo, making me think she’s a trainer or physical therapist for the club. I suppose I’ll meet more of the staff at my first official practice tomorrow.
As soon as Friedrich looks up and spots me, he says something to her in German—at least, I think it’s German—and stands. There’s no limp in his stride, so his injury can’t be that severe.
He looks a few years younger than me. I’ve only skimmed Kluvberg’s roster a few times to try to match names with faces since I’m at a significant disadvantage among guys who have mostly played together for years. I can’t remember Friedrich’s age, and I’m impressed I recall his name. I do recall that he’s a center back.
He emanates the swagger of a kid finally called up to the big leagues, shoving a hand into his hair as he looks me up and down with a growing smirk. “So…you’re Will Aster.”
His English is good. Heavily accented, but good. Hell of a lot better than my nonexistent German.
“Yep.”
He holds a hand out. “Friedrich Schneider.”
“Nice to meet you, Friedrich,” I tell him as we shake.
His grip is tight, but not exaggerated. “You can call me Fritz.” His head tilts to the left, scanning me again. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“I’m sure you have.” And I’d rather he admit it than pretend not to know how I ended up here.
Fritz shifts back and forth between his feet, still appraising me with an intensity that doesn’t match his laid-back expression. “Watched some tape of you playing last night.”
I don’t react, waiting for what else he might say.
“You’re good.”
An unconscious smile tugs at one corner of my mouth. I missed the easy camaraderie of being around a teammate, someone who’s invested in your performance on the pitch.
Once shit hit the fan in Seattle, none of the guys knew how to act around me. No one wanted to show support toward a pariah they were no longer playing with. Any loyalty ended at the same time my contract did.
“I know.”
Fritz grins back. “You want to grab a drink later?”
I can hear Shawn cussing me out in my head, talking about small towns and big consequences. But sitting alone in my empty apartment for another night might end with me banging my head against a blank wall. I still haven’t bought any furniture. Or groceries. I’ve been picking up takeout every night. It’s a pathetic ritual that I need a break from. One drink with a teammate won’t wreck everything. I’m capable of self-control and restraint; I’ve just rarely chosen to show it.
“Yeah. Sure.” I glance toward the empty pool. “Give me an hour?”
Fritz nods. “I’ll meet you in the locker room.”
“Sounds good,” I tell him, then head for the stairs that lead into the water.
Fritz returns to the bench, where the woman is waiting to finish his treatment.
I shuck off my shirt and then step into the pool. The water is cool, but I’ve taken too many ice baths to let the colder temperature dissuade me. I dive in as soon as it’s deep enough, chlorine burning my nose as I accidentally inhale some water when I surface. I start to swim laps, the steady rhythm of strokes soothing me the same way exercise always does. My pace is punishing, even though I already worked out for an hour. The ache in my muscles is more pleasant to focus on than any of the shit in my head.
By the time I climb out of the pool, Fritz is gone.
I towel off, deciding to skip the sauna before I shower. Grab my shirt and then head for the locker room, wondering what drinks with Fritz will be like. He seemed friendly enough, but I can’t help but feel like I should have my guard up. That it won’t be as easy as a compliment and a shared beer to settle in with Kluvberg’s team. This is an uncommon situation for everyone involved, but I’m the one at the biggest disadvantage.
Meeting my new teammates will have to happen eventually. We’ll be training together. Winning together. Losing together. Traveling together. There’s no fucking I in team, which has been drilled into my head since I started playing.
I’m not all that worried about the why I’m here. The judgment has all been about the foolishness of getting caught, not what I was caught doing. The idiocy and arrogance of not bothering to hide an affair with a married woman.
I’m less concerned with what Kluvberg players will think about the narrative Cassandra Owens spun for the media and more with the fact that I’m an American—an outsider. I’ve watched enough footage of previous games to know my usual on-field antics won’t be a natural integration into the team. I’ll stand out in more ways than the color of my passport’s cover.
