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“It’s not like you need the money, though,” Clara says.
My smile tightens. Turns fake. I’m so sick of all roads leading back to my last name. Money means more when it’s connected to fame. Because everyone knows you have it.
Across the table, Andrea suddenly sits up straighter. “Some of your non-jobs just arrived.”
My head snaps to the left, in the direction of the door.
Five FC Kluvberg players are entering the club.
I’m not the only one looking. Everyone’s attention immediately swivels their way. It’s not uncommon to see footballers out and about, especially in places like this. Most of the guys on the team are young, single, hot, and rich. They’re recognizable, too, since photos of the team are plastered all over the city. They also move with the confidence of a pack of predators. The sight is compelling even if you don’t care about sports.
Quickly, I scan the group of guys.
I don’t realize what—who—I’m looking for until I experience the strange disappointment of discovering Will isn’t with them.
They’re coming this way, several of them smiling at me. Nice guys, many of whom have been on the team for several seasons. Simply being friendly or feeling some obligation to acknowledge me because of Adler.
Otto speaks first. “Hey, Sophia.”
I smile back at him. He’s played for Kluvberg for a few years now, working his way up to starting goaltender. He views Adler as a mentor, imitating him off the field too. Acting like a second older brother.
“Hey. Nice saves today.”
Otto makes a face. “Aside from the one I missed.”
I’m grateful when the group of footballers moves on a minute later.
The rest of my friends are disappointed. Andrea declares it’s time to dance. I finish my drink, hoping the alcohol will be enough to numb the pain in my feet, announcing I’m heading to the restroom first. I make it down the hallway, but before heading inside, I lean back against the wall, pull out my phone, and type out a new text.
Send it and then walk into the bathroom.
His play.
ELEVEN
WILL
69 1324 5572: Viktualienmarkt. Eleven a.m.
I’m early. I show up early to something for the first time in…I don’t even know the last time it happened.
I’m often on time. Occasionally late. Early? That doesn’t really happen.
Boredom is a factor. I’ve never liked recovery days. No matter how sore my body is, I’d rather be moving than sitting around. Win or lose, my head’s filled with thoughts of the game. Ways I can improve, even if it was a victory.
I’m my own worst critic because it’s a role no one else ever took on.
My dad wasn’t around. My mom was busy. My brother wasn’t athletic. My coaches…they told my teammates to pass me the ball.
No one else cares about your career more than you.
A lesson I learned the hard way. The last man standing of the people I spent years working with—and for—in Seattle is Shawn, and he has a financial stake in my success. I’ve made him a lot of money from ads and photo shoots in addition to my being one of the highest-paid players in the league, all of which he received a cut of.
I turn in a slow circle, surveying the open square. The ground is made up of stones that have been perfectly placed. There’s a giant, gorgeous cathedral that’s just there, between a closed supermarket and a building that looks like apartments. I’m not used to a building that looks thousands of years old—that is thousands of years old—being casually present. A place you walk past to buy eggs or to catch a bus, the colorful, historical architecture as common as a coffee shop.
“Hi.”
I spin, my breath doing a funny catch in my throat when I see her.
