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“Aren’t you rich?” I ask, flipping open my wallet and handing her my credit card.
“My parents are rich. My brother is rich. Me? No, I’m not rich. And I know how much you make. You can afford to buy your tour guide a coffee.”
I lean an elbow on the counter. “You looked up my salary?”
“One of my bosses mentioned it.”
Sophia hands me a drink that looks kind of like a sundae. The plastic cup is cool at least, but the drink itself looks to be half foam, topped with some whipped cream. Hers is a white paper cup with a black lid.
“What did you get?”
“Just black. Late night.”
Not a fun night, I notice.
She doesn’t look hungover. And I’m not—for the first time after a game since middle school, maybe. Games were followed by parties in high school and college and after signing my first pro contract.
Last night, I went straight home. I was filled with mixed feelings after the game. Relief I’d gotten some playing time and reconciling how different my career here might look in comparison to what I was used to. One goal off a direct kick and the score ending in a draw—it was not exactly the breakout, headline-making performance I had been hoping for.
I try a sip of the drink Sophia got me as we step outside. It’s not terrible. Sweeter than I’d normally order, but chilled and somewhat refreshing.
“You like museums?” she asks me as the pavement we’re walking on transitions to cobblestones. Based on what little I know about Kluvberg, it means we’re headed into the older section of the city.
I shake my head. “Not really.”
“Great,” she says. “Let’s go.”
I smirk before following her across the square.
Sophia points out a few impressive-looking buildings as we walk along, acting exactly like the tour guide I requested. But I’m having a hard time focusing on the scenery with her walking just a foot away. And not just checking her out, although I’ve definitely glanced lower than I should have a few times. I want to talk to her—and not about two-thousand-year-old cathedrals.
I’m curious about a lot. Dying to know one thing in particular. “Why’d you text me?”
I figured any chance of her using my number disappeared as soon as she found out I was a soccer player.
Her response is unsatisfying. She glances away first, so I can only see her profile. “Did you not want me to?”
“I gave you my number, remember?”
“Yeah, but that was before you knew who I was,” Sophia says, pausing to toss her coffee cup into a trash can.
“I don’t know who you are.”
“You know what I mean. You didn’t know my last name at that scrimmage, just like I had no clue you were on the team.”
“Yeah, I figured that out when you didn’t ask for my autograph.”
She rolls her eyes, and I smirk.
“What does that have to do with anything? Beck is on the team, and you talk to him.”
“You’re comparing yourself to my brother?”
“Oh, you two are related?” I fake some surprise.
Another eye roll.
“It can have nothing to do with us,” I tell her.
