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I return with two cold bottles, passing her one before sinking back down onto the mattress. My sore muscles protest every movement.
“So, you have nothing in your fridge, except beer, and no furniture, except a mattress?”
I smirk before taking a long pull of beer. “Pretty much. I grab takeout on my way home from practice, and all I really need is a place to sleep.”
“Do you have a car?”
“No. I’ve been taking the S-Bahn around. Thought about shipping my bike over here, but…” But I didn’t—for the same reason I didn’t bring anything, except clothes.
Everything else I own is in a storage locker in Seattle, waiting to be dealt with at some point. Hopefully moved to a different US city after an incredible season here that convinces an American team to take a chance on me.
“Bike? As in a motorcycle?”
“Uh-huh.” I sip more beer.
God, it’s good. Paired with the hot pizza, it tastes like the best meal I’ve had in weeks. Maybe it’s that I have company, that I’m not lost in a swirl of unpleasant thoughts, wondering if I totally fucked up the rest of my life.
“That’s hot,” Sophia tells me. “Guessing it worked well for you?”
“Actually, I hardly rode it. Seattle gets a lot of rain, and motorcycles are a lot less sexy when you’re drenched and worrying about hydroplaning.”
“It doesn’t rain that much here.”
I shrug, then take a bite of pizza. Chew and swallow. “Would’ve been expensive to ship all the way here.”
“I thought you were rich.”
“You said I was rich. I’ve done all right.”
I’ve made more money than I ever dreamed I would, especially considering I made most of that money playing soccer and I would have paid to play. But part of me will always be that kid who grew up with a fridge that looks a lot like the one in my kitchen right now—and not by choice. We were never starving, but there was never excess. I’ve been financially responsible to the point of frugality, never splurging on the diamond-studded watches or luxurious vacations or expensive liquor that my teammates often would. It still makes me uncomfortable, honestly, being around extravagant displays of wealth.
“Are you hoping to go back to Seattle?” Sophia asks. “Is that why you left all your stuff?”
I shake my head. “No. I never want to go back to Seattle. Too much…too much happened there. If this season goes well enough, I’m hoping to get a contract with a different American team.”
I really don’t want to discuss Cassandra. If we keep hanging out—which I’m hoping we will because setting aside my attraction to her, Sophia happens to be the one person I’ve met in Kluvberg who I enjoy spending time around—I’m guessing what happened will come up eventually. Maybe I’ll even tell her the whole story. But I’d rather just not discuss it.
I’m relieved when all Sophia says is, “Do you still talk to your teammates from there?”
“Not really. We’re not teammates anymore.” I feel a pang of guilt, thinking of all the read messages on my phone with no response.
A bunch of the guys texted after my signing to Kluvberg was announced, congratulating me on finding another club. I didn’t answer a single one. It was all too raw, especially considering none of them had reached out to me after the scandal broke. I’d put them all in a shitty position, getting blacklisted from the organization they were all contractually a part of. But the congratulations felt patronizing, like I should be grateful any team wanted me when all I’d done wrong was get wasted and have sex with a willing woman—something I’d witnessed them all do many times.
“They haven’t won a single game since I left,” I tell her.
I have a score alert set on my phone so I don’t have to keep checking the team’s site. And I get more satisfaction from it than I probably should, watching the record become more and more lopsided. Just like I probably shouldn’t have admitted that to Sophia. But I’m not trying to impress her. Not trying to act like I’m not a cautionary tale about poor decision-making. I’m bitter, and I enjoy watching my former team struggle without me.
I sip more beer, surprised to realize it’s already almost empty. Maybe that’s why I’m willingly telling Sophia stuff I’d normally refuse to discuss. I haven’t been drinking much lately, so my tolerance isn’t what it used to be. Better for my body and my head. But also dangerous when there’s a gorgeous woman who happens to be Adler Beck’s little sister on my bed.
“Did you grow up in Seattle?” Sophia asks.
She seems genuinely interested in getting to know me. Me, Will, not the professional athlete. And I’m not sure what to make of it. I don’t have many friends. I don’t have any friends who are women. Chicks strike up conversation with me because they want to fuck me. They shower me with compliments, hoping it leads to my cock ending up in their mouth or their pussy. They don’t ask about my childhood. Even if they did, I wouldn’t answer. It’s not my favorite topic, to say the least.
“Nah, Boston.”
“I’ve only ever been to Georgia.” Sophia leans forward, grabbing another slice of pizza. “That’s where Saylor—Adler’s wife—is from. They had a second wedding ceremony in her hometown.”
“Are you close with her?” I’m curious about Sophia’s family’s dynamic, so different from mine. Hers is rich, famous, whole.
