AllFreeNovel
Share Us
WILL
Beck is waiting at my locker when I return from my session with one of the trainers. Arms crossed, wearing his default expression—serious.
“Are you busy tonight?” he asks me.
I raise both eyebrows, tossing the towel I’m holding over one shoulder. “Are you asking me out?”
He glowers. “I’m inviting you over for dinner. My—” He grimaces. “My wife would like to meet you.”
I nod. Smirk. “Your wife, huh? Yeah, I get that a lot.”
If you can’t beat the I sleep with other men’s wives allegations, might as well make fun of them, right? As expected, the statement Shawn put out on my behalf did little—if anything—to convince anyone I hadn’t had an affair with Cassandra Owens. All week, I’ve watched what little progress I made here unravel. And I haven’t spoken to Sophia—the one bright spot—in a week. I’m in a shitty mood, the sort where I don’t really think about what’s spewing out of my mouth.
Beck’s hard stare is entirely unamused. “You’re awfully arrogant for a striker who hasn’t started a single match.”
My smile disappears. “Was that your call?”
“Wagner is the coach.”
Not what I asked, I note.
“I’m ready. I can help win.”
We’re four games into the season. One win, one loss, two draws. I averaged about fifteen minutes of playing time in each. Came close to scoring a couple of times. But my current goal tally is only one, and I can’t remember the last time that was the case.
It’s like I’m playing with a handicap. I’m healthy, and I’m raring to go every time I step out on the field. But I’m playing in a stadium that’s four times the size of what I’m used to, getting shouted at in a foreign language. Playing with strangers who have mostly treated me with polite indifference.
Since the new wave of stories broke, it’s been more indifferent than polite. I caught a few lip curls. Some disgusted looks. They all think I’m an asshole. More of an asshole. If they read my statement, they didn’t believe it.
Whatever.
I’m not here to make friends, just like I told Wagner. I’m here to play soccer, and Adler Beck is my best hope of making that happen. Of integrating into the squad, like Wagner told me to. This invitation is a decent start, I hope.
“Six sharp, Aster.”
Germans are extremely punctual, I’ve learned.
Beck rattles off an address, then walks away.
At five fifty-six, I step out of the elevator and ring the doorbell for the penthouse. Beck is the one who answers the door, the stern expression on his face seriously undermined by the smiling, waving baby he’s holding.
“I didn’t know you had a kid,” I say.
“Come on in,” Beck tells me, stepping aside so I can enter the apartment.
The entryway alone is about the same size as my one-bedroom. This is the guy who was gifted so many Ferraris that he gave one to his sister, I guess. I don’t know why I’m surprised by the obvious wealth.
I glance around, taking in the sight of the sleek furnishings. It’s obvious everything is expensive, but it’s not a museum either. There’s a stroller parked to the right of the door. A couple of pairs of sneakers tucked beneath the bench. A smudge of dirt on the rug. A watercolor painting of a soccer field prominently displayed above a table stacked with mail.
“This way,” he says, interrupting my perusal.
I follow Beck into a living room. A couple that looks to be in their early fifties is already seated on one of the leather couches. I’m assuming these are his parents. Which means…these are Sophia’s parents.
“Hello.” I give them a friendly smile that the woman returns.
Mr. Beck looks like his son, right down to the scowl on his face.
He holds out a hand. “Hans Beck.”
