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I take another sip, still refusing to look over.
Marie is the one who replies, “That’s Will Aster.”
I choke a little, the sip I just swallowed solidifying into a lump of ice in my stomach. It didn’t even occur to me Will would be one of the Kluvberg players here.
“That’s Will Aster?” Mia asks. “The American with the sex scandal?”
Clara giggles. “But did you read the article? The woman did not stop talking about how good he was in bed.”
I know exactly what article she’s talking about. I tortured myself by reading all the coverage of Will’s past that I’d been avoiding this week. In some attempt to move on, I guess. To understand his perspective, or maybe just to convince myself he’s a lost cause who deserved to face consequences.
Coming here was supposed to be an escape from thinking about it all, and instead, it’s the opposite.
I lose the fight against temptation, scanning the club until I locate Will. He’s with a large group of other players, two of them grinning at him as they walk toward a corner booth in the VIP section. As expected, they’re receiving a lot of attention. But none of the guys pause, all united as they head for the same spot. Until Will stops, looking over at a woman who has her hands cupped around her mouth to call out to him. I can’t hear from here, but I can guess what she’s saying. Will appears amused and unfazed, in his element here as much as he is on the field.
Quickly, I look away, right as the music changes. I feel warm and annoyed, buzzed on bitterness and vodka.
I can’t escape him, it feels like. He’s in my head. In my city. Maybe in my heart, which is beating twice as fast as it should be since he showed up.
“I love this song!” I shout, forcibly shoving any inhibitions away with any thoughts of Will. I’m here to have fun.
Everyone in the immediate vicinity looks over as I stand and climb onto the low, round table our booth is curved around, using it as a personal stage to shimmy on. This is attention I don’t mind.
“Sophia!” Andrea screeches, reaching for her drink before I knock it to the floor.
The rest of the group does the same, clearing the smooth surface for me, their expressions delighted surprise.
Marie appears the most taken aback. When she and I have gone out together, the evening has been sipping on a drink and heading home early. But this behavior is more of what I’m known for. I don’t hate the spotlight. I just resent when it’s beaming because of football. Acting like this has always been the most reliable way to ensure that people aren’t associating me with anything else. And right now, I’m also trying to forget.
I don’t look away from the group gathered around me at how anyone else might be reacting. If they’re even looking over here.
Ida climbs up on the table with me as the pop ballad continues to blare. Someone wolf-whistles nearby.
And me?
I continue to dance, focusing on nothing except the pulse of the music and the buzz beneath my skin.
TWENTY-FIVE
WILL
“Will!”
“That’s Will Aster!”
“Hallo, Will!”
It’s safe to say I’m recognizable in Kluvberg now.
Olivier grins beside me as we walk through the crowd toward the VIP section, passing by lots of faces turned this way. Many of whom are pointing and shouting. Not at the group I’m with. At me.
A woman calls something out that has Otto snort-laughing before shoving a fist in his mouth.
I’ve really gotta learn German, I guess.
A waitress leads us over to a corner booth, immediately returning with an assortment of drinks. There’s a smaller bar tucked back here, just for the VIP section.
This place was Fritz’s suggestion, just like this outing. I played well today—really well. Wagner is still stubbornly not letting me start, wasting a sub to put me in for a part of the game. Today, I made that decision look foolish. I scored a hat trick—three goals—in the forty minutes I was on the field. Finally, it feels like I’m showing off what I can do. This part feels good too—the celebrating with my teammates afterward.
