First Flight, Final Fall by C.W. Farnsworth

Chapter Fourteen

The start of preseason is a relief, providing the exact distraction I’ve been craving since returning to Lancaster. I’ve occupied myself the past week by continuing the insanity of my Scholenberg schedule.

The rest of my teammates spend the first week of preseason complaining. Coach Taylor is strict, but she’s not on par with Coach Weber. She eases us into the intensity we’ll need once the season officially starts.

So, I spend the first week of preseason adding extra workouts to stay busy.

“You’re joking,” Anne comments when I come down the stairs on Friday, our fifth day of preseason training, in a fresh workout outfit. She’s icing her shin on the couch, and Emma is sprawled out on the rug doing a convincing impression of a dead body.

Emma raises her head when Anne speaks. “Are you fucking kidding me, Saylor?”

I shrug. “Not my fault you slacked all summer.”

“That’s what summer is for,” Emma retorts before lying back down. “Shit, I need a massage.”

Cressida walks out of the kitchen holding some sort of green concoction in a glass. She studies me as she sips through a straw. “You know we have the scrimmage against Lincoln tomorrow, right?”

“No, that’s tomorrow? I thought it was next year,” I reply, lacing up my sneakers.

She rolls her eyes. “You’re not a machine. You can’t keep this up, Saylor.”

I don’t answer, just head out the door.

* * *

I feel sick.

“Saylor? Are you okay?” Emma’s voice sounds to my right. I don’t bother looking up from my knees, just press my palms a little more firmly against my eye sockets in an attempt to block the world out.

“I’m fine. I just need a minute.”

More whispers to the right, and I recognize Cressida’s muted tone.

“Can we get you anything? Call anyone?” Anne must be nearby as well, because her voice, although low, sounds clear. Her second question is much more tentative than the first. I’m guessing it’s because, aside from the three of them, they would have no idea who to call.

“No, I’m good.” But unfortunately, I realize there is someone I’d like to talk to right now, someone who understands what it’s like to carry a thousand pounds of expectations. But I can’t call him. Doing so would have the opposite effect of the clean break that was supposed to be my departure from Germany. Reaching out to Beck for reassurance would look more like a messy, splintered fracture.

I peel my hands away from my face and slide off the wooden bench, ignoring the concerned stares of my three best friends. I’m sure they’re all thinking I told her so right now, believing I’ve exhausted myself this past week with extra runs and workouts. If only. Physical fatigue is something I figured out how to fight through a long time ago. Mental angst is my current issue.

Coach Taylor gathers us round for a pep talk I barely listen to a word of. My body knows what’s expected, but my head seriously needs to get in the game. Thankfully, I start to feel some of the brain barriers tumble down as I step out on the field, focusing on the green jerseys of our opponents. I know everyone is going to be looking at me this game.

I went to Scholenberg.

I’m a senior.

The team captain.

This is my year. And considering my past three seasons at Lancaster, that’s saying something.

We lose the coin flip, but it doesn’t matter. As soon as the kickoff takes place, I steal the ball and bolt up the field. Lincoln is taken completely off guard. Green jerseys that were preparing to attack sprint back up the pitch, but they’re too late. Defenders aren’t ready. Even if they were, I know spinning around them would be just as effortless.

I flex the muscles of my thigh and propel my foot forward like the strike of a rattlesnake. The checkerboard sphere spins into a blur of black and white, landing in the back of the net. I lost track of how many goals I’ve scored a long time ago, but that doesn’t make it any less satisfying to add another to the tally. The loudspeaker crackles to life, announcing my unassisted goal forty-seven seconds into play.

I smile and nod as my teammates swarm me, but I don’t really register anything they’re saying to me. My head is in the game now. I’m focused on nothing but decimating my opponent. I’m in the sort of shape where I could run for a lot longer than the length of this game requires, and whatever mental block I was fighting this morning has disappeared, broken down by the rush and exhilaration of being the best on the field.

The rest of the scrimmage passes in a blur. I score once more. Emma sneaks a shot past Lincoln’s goalie. And then one of our sophomores manages a half-field kick that drops right behind the goal line.

It’s a dominant performance, and Lincoln trudges off the field with shoulders slumped after we shake hands, probably glad this was an away game for them.

A local reporter I recognize from past games calls my name as we head off the field, and I pause. I wasn’t ten at the time, but I have received media training, and women’s sports need all the coverage they can get.

“Saylor, that was a very impressive performance you had out on the field today.”

“Thank you.”

“I spoke to your coach before the start of the game, and she credited your dominance on the field to being a direct result of your aggressive playing style. Despite the knee injury you suffered earlier this year, you still seem to manage to find a second gear when everyone else on the field is exhausted. Where does that drive come from?”

“I’ve never seen the point of leaving anything on the field. If my opponent is tired, that’s their problem. It just makes me run faster,” I reply.

The guy interviewing me chuckles. “Well, that’s certainly a mindset most athletes strive for, but few can actually achieve it. I’m sure you’re a role model for lots of future soccer stars out there.” Mila’s face flashes in my mind. “Are there any athletes who have inspired you?”

“Adler Beck.” I don’t have to think about my answer, but I wish I did.

“Really?” My interviewer doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. I’m not certain if it’s because he thought I would name a female athlete, or if he expected a more original answer than the most famous footballer in the world.

Inferring it’s the latter, I feel obligated to add to my response. “I was fourteen when he scored the game-winning goal for Germany in the final. I’d been playing soccer since I was five, and all I’d heard for the past eight years was that I was too single-minded, that I should try other sports, other hobbies. Be a kid. People said I was too young to be fully dedicated to something. I stayed after practice one day to keep working on a drill I messed up, and when my coach found me there hours later, he made me skip practice for a week. But then there was this German guy, just two years older than me, being cheered on by millions for doing the very same thing. He inspired me.”

It’s by far the longest answer I’ve given during an interview, and I hope that’s the reason for the long pause that follows my response.

“Well, a pleasure speaking to you, Saylor,” the reporter finally says. “Congratulations on the win.”

“Thanks,” I respond, and then I follow my line of teammates into the locker room.

Despite our dominant performance, Coach Taylor still comes up with half an hour’s worth of critiques. Ellie calls me on the drive home from the field to catch up, and by the time I hang up with her and shower, it’s dinnertime.

I enter the kitchen to find Emma sitting on one stool with her feet resting on another, scrolling through her phone.

“Are you making any dinner?” I ask, opening the fridge door and surveying the variety of raw ingredients.

“I don’t know. I’m not really feeling inspired to make anything right now,” Emma replies. Even without the way she emphasizes the word, the shit-eating grin she’s sporting when I spin around is proof enough she knows about the interview earlier.

I sigh. “You were eavesdropping?”

“I was across the field, Scott. It’s all over social media.”

Shit.“What? Why?”

“Because you’re hot and semi-famous and Adler Beck is hot and super famous?”

“Semi-famous? Among the hundred people who follow women’s soccer?”

Emma shrugs. “You’ve been in plenty of articles and magazines.”

“Do you think he’s seen it?” I don’t have to elaborate on who I mean.

“Do I think the world-famous superstar known as Adler Beck has seen the video of you saying he’s the reason you’ve become the badass soccer player you are today that has gone viral on every single social media platform and that he’s been tagged in thousands of times? Hmmm… I guess I’d go with yes. A confident yes. Like I’d-bet-my-trust-fund-and-future-endorsement-deals-on-it confident.”

“I get it, Emma,” I say as I set a skillet down on the metal stovetop a bit louder than necessary. “And I did not say he’s the reason I’m anything.”

“It was strongly implied.”

“What’s with the racket in here?” Cressida asks as she enters the kitchen. “Oh good, someone’s cooking—I’m starving.”

“I’m not sure if it will be edible. Saylor just learned she’s gone viral,” Emma explains.

“Ah,” Cressida replies. “Don’t look at me, I’m only responsible for six out of the eight million views.”

“Was it the same video or different versions?” Emma asks.

“I watched the same one five times and then a second one once to make sure it was the same.”

“That only counted as two views, then,” Emma tells her.

“Even better then. Did you hear that, Saylor?”

I don’t respond as I pull a carton of eggs out of the fridge.

“She doesn’t care about you watching it. She’s worried Adler Beck saw it,” Emma supplies.

I grit my teeth as I crack some eggs and they continue talking about me as though I’m not standing here.

“I’m sure he’s flattered,” Cressida says in what I know she means to be a reassuring tone. “I mean, no offense, but he might not even remember you. He probably does tons of those camps.”

I pour the eggs in the hot skillet and start chopping fresh veggies, not trusting myself to say anything.

Eventually, the euphoria of our win earlier trumps gossip about me, and the dinner conversation is mostly centered around the scrimmage today. After we eat and clean up, Cressida announces she’s invited the rest of the team over to celebrate, along with “a few other people.” From experience, I know that likely means our tiny house will soon resemble Times Square.

I’ve just finished changing into a skirt and silky top when I hear a fresh chatter of voices echo downstairs. I swipe on a second layer of mascara and head out into the hallway, making certain to close my door behind me.

I head downstairs to see a bunch of the juniors hovering in the entryway. Natalie leaps on me when I hit the final step, giving me a big hug. “All hail the captain!”

I walk into the kitchen, and they all follow me.

“We come bearing gifts!” Natalie gives me a sly grin.

“You look empty-handed to me,” Cressida comments.

A shiny cover appears from behind Natalie’s back, and a cold cube of consternation drops in my stomach before I even get a good glimpse of the glossy magazine being waved at me.

“Guess who the ‘Sexiest Man in Sports’ is for the third year straight?”

A lustrous photo of Beck is waved in front of me, and I think I keep my cool. It’s my most daunting test of the P.B. era—unrelated to the sandwich condiment—and I don’t falter.

“Not much of a guessing game when you wave it in front of my face,” I comment.

“Shut the fuck up,” Emma commands, grabbing the shiny pages and flipping through them.

I set my phone on the kitchen island since this skirt, while cute, doesn’t have any pockets, and I round the corner of the island to where Cressida is whipping up her customary baked goods.

“What are you making?” I ask, trying to ignore the squeals coming from the opposite side of the kitchen.

“Cupcakes,” Cressida replies. “And I’ll be hiding them.”

I roll my eyes. “Can I help?”

Both her eyebrows rise in surprise. “Sure.” She hands me a bowl. “Stir this.”

My hands whip frosting without any input from my brain, my thoughts spinning as quickly as the sugar and butter. Emma’s taken a seat on one of the stools, basically shoving the magazine in my face and forcing me to acknowledge Beck’s not alone on the cover. There’s a stunning brunette posed against his back. I recognize her. From Beck’s doorway as I left it. Maybe it would be easier to look at the cover if I couldn’t picture her leaning against his doorframe with a sultry smile. If I didn’t know their acquaintance extends beyond modeling together.

Cressida brings a tray of cooled cupcakes over to me, and we ice them with the freshly whipped frosting. We’re halfway through when a phone rings. Emma leans over to one I realize is mine.

“Oh my God, is this Alexis from Scholenberg?” she asks excitedly, grabbing my phone and hitting the green button.

My stomach travels to my toes for the second time tonight.

“Saylor! You answered.” Alexis’s crisp British accent fills the kitchen. The completely, totally silent kitchen. Because Emma has not only answered my phone, but she’s also put it on speakerphone. “I just saw the interview you did. Does that mean you talked to Beck…”

I grab my phone off the counter and turn off the speaker.

“Hi, Alexis,” I interrupt breathlessly.

“Saylor? Did you hear me about the video?”

“Yeah, I heard you. I didn’t—didn’t think he would see it. Anyone would see it. It was a mistake.”

“I know you always said it was just about… sex with him, but—”

I eye the magazine set on the counter and interrupt her again. “I said that because that is all it was.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Okay.”

“How have you been?” I ask, eager to shift topics.

I chat with her for a few more minutes and then hang up. More Lancaster students arrived while I was on the phone, and the kitchen is now considerably more crowded. Emma and Cressida don’t care. They both push their way toward me as soon as I hang up the phone.

“What the fuck was that about?” Emma asks.

“Why did she think you’d talk to Adler Beck?” Cressida adds.

I clam up like the mollusk itself. “No idea. I need a drink.” I push past them both to the cabinet where we keep the liquor. I take more time assembling a drink than I usually would, feeling Cressida and Emma’s eyes on my back the whole time. I’m certain they didn’t buy my fake uncertainty, but I’m equally sure they won’t keep pressing me on it. I’m stubborn. And private. And they both know it. If there’s something I don’t want to talk about, I won’t. I’ve lived with them both since sophomore year, and neither of them knows anything about my life pre-Lancaster. About my mom leaving. About my dad getting remarried.

I gulp my drink in a shorter amount of time than it took to make it. And then I concoct another one. I’m well on my way to being drunk. Waking-up-on-a-lawn-with-minimal-clothing-and-no-memory-of-how-I-got-there drunk.

Two shots and a game of beer pong later, I’m dragging Drew upstairs. We stumble into my bedroom, and I slip on a stray sock. I laugh like I’m watching a Rose family catastrophe as I pretend to ice skate the rest of the way to my bed, flopping atop it as though I’ve just successfully landed a triple axel. Drew watches me with a bemused expression and then follows, draping his muscular frame over mine. He kisses me, and it’s pleasant. Familiar. So is the way his hand wanders under my shirt to unfasten my lacy bra. He groans as his calloused palm slips back around to caress my bare breasts.

“Fuck, Saylor. I missed this… you.” He grinds his erection against my center as his right hand slides up my leg, dipping beneath the hem of my skirt. My nerves light up with pleasure, but not the blinding, all-encompassing kind I unknowingly became accustomed to. My mind keeps spinning like the inside of a washing machine, the thoughts an endless tangle.

There’s no desperation. No urgency. He’s not taking every ounce of my attention, not like… Beck. The thought of his name is a bucket of ice-cold water, and any pleasure dissipates.

I pull back just as his fingers find the edge of my thong. “I’m going to throw up.”

Yeah, subtlety? Still not my strong suit.

I push Drew aside and run down the hall to the bathroom, banging the door shut behind me. I hover over the toilet, waiting for my churning stomach to expel something, but nothing comes. So, I lie down on the cool tile floor, grateful Anne cleaned it yesterday.

“Saylor? You okay?” Drew’s voice comes from the hallway. I guess I should be flattered the prospect of vomit didn’t send him running.

“Yeah,” I call back.

Silence. “Um, okay then. Feel better.” Steps clomp back down the hallway. I sit up to lock the bathroom door and then lie back down on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. I can feel the bass of whatever pop ballad is blasting vibrating below as I study the cracks in the plaster that crisscross in ribbons. I trace the patterns they make until I start to feel dizzy. Then I pull out my phone. The screen is covered with notifications I ignore. Instead, I pull up the web browser and type Adler Beck into the search bar. I disregard the articles that pop up, probably about the cover Natalie brought over earlier.

Instead, I tap on Images and watch as photo after photo loads. Pictures of him on the field, at press conferences, at practice. I keep scrolling and scrolling… until my eyeballs start to prickle, and I set my phone down on the tile.

I close my eyes, feeling alcohol and confusion course through me.

We won today.

I played the best game of my college career.

Everything I’ve spent the past fifteen years working for is falling into place. I’m well on my way to accomplishing the lofty goals I set for myself a long time ago.

I should be downstairs celebrating with my teammates or in my bedroom celebrating with Drew.

But all I can think about is him.