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I pay more attention to surveying the club than the way her full tits are practically spilling out of her low-cut top. The walls are paneled with some dark wood. I’d guess it’s walnut or mahogany, based on my limited knowledge of lumber after working for a construction company a couple of summers back in high school. The lighting in here is dim, the fixtures on the walls all brass. The booth we’re sitting on is upholstered with what looks like dark green velvet. Basically, it’s a hell of a lot classier than the sports bars I frequented in Seattle. Those were all scarred wood and sticky floors.
After taking Fritz’s order, the waitress turns her attention to me. I reluctantly order a club soda instead of the beer I’m craving. Just like I look toward the dance floor when she leans closer, so her cleavage is right in my face.
Avoiding temptation.
Shawn would likely never know if I broke his two rules tonight. If I blew off a little steam and enjoyed myself for the first time since landing in Berlin. But I never thought he’d know about Cassandra either.
I could do a couple of shots. Fuck this waitress.
And someone could see us, record us, photograph us, and I could be on a flight before morning.
To where, I don’t even know. I swore I’d never go back to Boston on any permanent basis, and any positive memories of Seattle were washed away. If I return to the States without the bargaining chip of an incredible season with Kluvberg, there’s no way my career will be resuscitated.
I hate that I’m in this situation. And I especially hate how it’s my own damn fault. I can look back and see so fucking clearly the exact moment when I should have made a different decision. I’d be in Nashville right now, on the road with a group of guys who looked up to me. Instead of in a club in Germany, forcing a fake smile at the hot waitress as she sets my club soda down. I take a sip, the bland, bubbly water as disappointing as I expected.
Olivier is talking about…honestly, I’m not really sure what—it’s hard to hear in here, and his French accent is thick, and I have a short attention span when it comes to anything unrelated to soccer—when I see her.
It’s like one of those ridiculous movie moments where the crowd parts and everything goes quiet. Four guys move closer to the dance floor, allowing me a clear view of that section of the bar top. I fully tune out Olivier’s chatter and the loud music. My eyes stop scanning the shifting crowd or any of the other booths.
It’s a singular focus I’ve only ever experienced on a soccer field.
But it’s here, now, in a club I’ve never been to before and in a country I don’t want to be living in, staring at the gorgeous blonde leaning against the bar top, talking to the bartender.
Realizing I know her in a place where I expected to know absolutely no one.
The list of people I’ve talked to in Germany out of anything except necessity is a very short one.
I gave her my number, which is even rarer than my sudden focus. She hasn’t used it, and I’m torn on how I feel about that, especially now that I’m looking at her again. She’s a much more challenging test of my self-control than the beer or the waitress was.
She was beautiful at the scrimmage—endless legs and blonde hair and sass. Freckles on her nose and slouched with her feet up, like a little kid pouting about not getting ice cream.
There’s nothing childish about her appearance tonight. She’s wearing a short black dress with a pair of high heels that draw even more attention to her legs. The bartender says something that makes her laugh before she takes the drink he hands her.
I look away, focusing on two brunettes at the opposite end of the bar. One catches my eye, giggling into her palm. But my eyes keep skimming, the features of every woman I look at appearing blurred. Boring. And then my gaze swerves back to the blonde, whose name I don’t even know.
Why didn’t I ask for her name?
I want to know it. Just like I want to know why she hasn’t used my number. Why she hates soccer. How the rest of her date went.
I’m bored, I tell myself. I’m bored, and I’m horny, and she’s a gorgeous distraction. A challenge since she didn’t reach out. The one time I gave my number to a woman, and she didn’t use it. I snort, shaking my head.
Under the table, my knee bounces wildly as I battle the urge to get up and walk over to her. She’s standing alone, staring down into her glass. As indifferent to everything going on around her as I suddenly am to everything, except her.
“All the rumors seem right.”
I startle, glancing at Otto. He’s studying me. Fritz and Olivier are still talking about something.
“What?”
“Everyone says you stir up trouble, and you’re staring at Sophia Beck like that.”
My eyes wheel toward the blonde, then back to Otto. “The blonde woman? That’s Sophia Beck?”
He nods, smirking as he sips some of his drink.
Sophia Beck. I’m on a legendary losing streak, it appears.
“Beck. As in…”
