AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I play most aggressively—most impressively—when I have something to prove.
And I’ve never had more to prove than I do now.
All thanks to Mark Owens and the fit he threw because his wife had propositioned a man closer to her age than his. He called in a lot of favors to decimate my career, and I intend to make him regret every single one. For people to call him a fool for prioritizing his ego over good business sense. Arrogantly, I thought the team’s administration would value my performance on the field over my antics off of it. They didn’t, and I’m determined to make them wish that they had.
Fritz is waiting in the locker room when I enter. So is another player I immediately recognize.
Adler Beck is sitting on the ledge in front of his locker, scrolling on his phone. His shorts are Kluvberg’s colors, his shirt covered with sponsor logos. He looks like he belongs here every bit I feel like I don’t.
Beck stands as soon as he sees me, walking over and holding out a hand. “Adler Beck.”
Even if I wasn’t aware of his legendary reputation, that move would earn him some respect. He’s won every individual or international accolade you can in this sport. We both know I know who he is, just like most of the world. Him introducing himself, humble enough to act like I might not know who he is, doesn’t really fit with the arrogant, cocky guy I was expecting to meet. The one who ripped his shirt open after scoring the game-winning goal in the World Cup final.
I shake it, tightening my grip when he does. “Will Aster.”
Neither of us drops a hand, silently sizing the other up.
I only have an inch on him, maybe two. He’s obviously fit, but he has the sleeker build of a runner. His shoulders aren’t as broad as mine, and I could probably beat him in an arm-wrestling contest.
He’s still intimidating. Guy has had one hell of a career. There’s no air of oversized ego, like the unchecked swagger that Fritz radiated. Just the steady thrum of confidence that comes with being football royalty, I guess. I wouldn’t know what that’s like.
Even Wagner didn’t study me this closely, and I wonder if that was because he knew I had this inspection waiting for me. Leon Wagner might be the head coach, but this is Adler Beck’s team in every way that counts. He holds more power over my career right now than a single other person on the planet.
If he accepts me, the rest of the club will fall in line. If he doesn’t…I’m probably screwed. More screwed.
A quick glance at Friedrich reveals the younger player is studying us closely, watching and waiting to see how this interaction will go.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to hide any apprehension as Beck scrutinizes me.
“You’re settling in well?” Beck drops my hand and crosses his arms. He’s not exactly glowering, but definitely not looking pleased to see me.
I’m guessing his stoicism has something to do with how I was here, training before him. How it’s obvious I’ve been here a while. How I tightened my grip when he squeezed tighter.
I respect him, but I won’t be another person who worships the ground he walks on.
“Yeah. It’s a nice facility.”
Beck doesn’t react at first, still staring at me. I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Maybe it’s just an intimidation tactic. “Yes, it is,” he finally says.
“Your English is very good.”
Better than Fritz’s. He barely has any accent at all.
“My wife is American.”
“I know.”
One of Beck’s eyebrows rises, displaying more interest in those two words than anything else I’ve said.
“I grew up about an hour from Lancaster University. Saylor Scott attracted a lot of attention.”
Honestly, finding out he’s married to Saylor Scott was the only part of my research on Adler Beck that provided any reassurance I’d like the guy. I went to college in Philly, but I could have been on the opposite coast in California and heard about the woman dominating the soccer world. I’d heard she’d opted to play overseas, not shocking considering the struggle of the women’s league in the US, but still disappointing.
His stern expression shifts into what almost looks like amusement. “Yeah, she has a tendency to do that.”
Maybe me being American won’t be the black mark I figured it would be—at least where Beck is concerned. I doubt he’s bothered to watch any footage of me playing the way Fritz has. If he knows anything about me, it’s probably just the mistake that landed me here.
He takes a step closer, and I don’t move.
