First Flight, Final Fall by C.W. Farnsworth
Chapter Two
Pristine. Green. Empty. Those are the first adjectives that come to mind as I study the emerald carpet spread out before me.
I’m here.
I’m finally, really, truly here.
I take a tentative step out from the shade of the walkway and into the blazing German sun. The cheap nylon shirt I just pulled on chafes against my overheated skin, but the discomfort fades as I trace the steps of players I’ve admired for years out onto the firm turf. I spin in a slow circle to survey the thousands of empty metal seats.
Awe overtakes me, reminding me of the reason I resolved at age fourteen to one day stand here. I’ve played in stadiums this size before, but none with the gravitational presence I’m surrounded by now.
Any reverence dissipates, allowing a litany of pitiful emotions to pulse through me as I study the immaculate field I’ve dreamed of playing on for as long as I can remember. As though I’ve summoned it with my dour thoughts, a sharp stab of pain—like the jab of a needle—races from my knee upward as a reminder that coming here was probably a terrible decision. Considering some ideas I’ve had, that’s saying a lot.
There are some moments you can make happen through hard work and perseverance. Others take place whether or not you want them to.
This is a combination of the two, with a healthy helping of masochism.
I turn to leave but halt when I hear a rapid stream of German spouted behind me. I look back to see a tall guy who looks to be about my age studying me curiously as he swipes a hand through his shaggy hair. The logo on everything he’s wearing identifies him as a member of the football club whose field I’m currently trespassing on.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Water cooler?” he asks, switching to heavily accented English. My expression must clearly convey I didn’t understand a word of whatever he just said.
I glance down at the black polo I snagged that’s emblazoned with the stadium’s logo and realize immediately what he has surmised.
I flash him my most charming smile. “I don’t actually work here,” I admit, injecting my voice with a hint of the southern charm that has never failed to get me out of trouble or make males capitulate. “I just wanted to get a look at the stadium, but if I come across anyone who looks like they’d know where the water coolers are stored when I sneak back out, I’ll make sure to pass that along.”
There’s a blank stare of surprise. He clearly was not expecting me to have snuck in, or to admit that I did.
After a long moment, he smiles. I relax slightly, no longer having to feign a casual stance.
“You did not want to just take a tour?” he asks, still smiling.
“Nope,” I respond lightly. Now that I’m reasonably certain he’s not going to call security, I’m anxious to get the hell out of here. Ellie told me FC Kluvberg was practicing at their training facility today. If there are other players at the stadium instead, I’m not eager to wait and see if they’re as trusting of an American stranger. “But don’t worry, I’m headed out now.” I turn to leave for a second time.
“Wait!” the guy calls, jogging over toward me. I spin back around to see his friendly expression has turned flirtatious and bite back a groan. “I’m Otto,” he shares, holding a pale hand out to shake. His fair complexion matches his light blond hair. Either he spends little time outside or is liberal with his sunscreen usage.
Since he’s a professional soccer player, I’m assuming the latter. Even after the long, cold Connecticut winter, my skin has already accumulated enough melanin from spring training—what little of it my sprained knee allowed me to participate in—to appear several shades darker than his.
“Nice to meet you,” I tell him, gripping his offered hand and then dropping it after a quick shake. A flash of disappointment crosses his boyish face, and I wonder if he was expecting me to act like more of a fangirl. Unfortunately for him, I’m not easily impressed. “I’m Saylor.”
Belatedly, I wonder if I should have made up a name in case Otto mentions this to anyone later. No one at Lancaster will ever let me live it down if I get sent home from the most competitive soccer program in the world the day before it officially begins.
For trespassing, the most mundane of all the misdemeanors.
“Saylor,” he repeats, drawing out the final syllable of my name so it’s lengthier than the first. “Would you like me to give you a tour of the stadium?” Otto grins, the insinuation obvious.
“Another time, maybe.” Like never, most likely. My primary goal at Scholenberg is to minimize the time spent with my butt parked on a slab of pine. “I have to head out. I’m meeting some friends.” Temporary teammates who will likely become future opponents, actually, but that doesn’t seem like the type of detail he needs to know to effectively end this encounter.
Otto opens his mouth to respond, but we’re both distracted by the sound of pounding footfalls.
A new figure emerges from the cement tunnel out onto the field, silhouetted by the blazing sunlight. I don’t realize who it is until he stops about twenty feet from where I’m standing, blocking the brunt of the sun.
It’s the poster on Emma’s bedroom wall come to life.
Adler Beck.
Referred to only by his surname by his many, many adoring fans. The most famous soccer—fine, football—star in the world. Germany’s chosen Kaiser. Led seasoned veterans to a nail-biting victory in the World Championship his first year of eligibility, making him a household name at sixteen. Now just twenty-two, he’s already one of the most decorated players of all time. The offspring of two highly respected German players, his pedigree and raw talent would have opened any door even if he wasn’t also insanely attractive. He’s blessed in that department as well.
A triple threat.
Even though I’ve watched hours of footage of him playing, it doesn’t prepare me for the sight of Adler Beck’s signature scowl in person. Among other things. His dirty blond hair is ruffled and sweaty, and his skin is as tan as mine as he jogs toward us in his practice gear.
He’s even better-looking in person, which in the age of Photoshop seems both highly improbable and supremely unfair.
There’s a potent magnetism to his presence that makes me forget about the heat, the itchy shirt I’m wearing, and the eager German drooling three feet from me.
Adler Beck spouts out a rapid stream of German, and for the first time, I regret letting Brett Stephens do all my homework for me in our elementary German class. I even chose German as my foreign language elective in anticipation of this trip. I can’t distinguish a single word Beck barks, but the tone is clear. Otto drops his easygoing manner immediately.
Drops me.
“Nice to meet you,” he tells me quickly, before pulling a pair of keeper gloves out of his back pocket and heading toward the goal. “I hope we’ll meet again.”
It’s exactly what I was hoping for a moment ago, but I don’t feel relief. I feel miffed and irritated as I study Otto’s retreating back. The feeling is exacerbated when I watch Adler Beck give me a cursory glance and then walk the couple of remaining feet to where a black and white ball sits, waiting.
As soon as Otto positions himself in the goal, Beck becomes a blur of smooth movements, sending the soccer ball flying at a lethal trajectory. Otto reaches, but it sails past him effortlessly. It’s a textbook penalty kick, with one exception. If not for the many hours spent analyzing Adler Beck’s technique to complete this very motion, I never would have seen it. Thanks to the annoyance and lingering self-pity I’m still experiencing, I decide to critique the man unanimously considered to be one of the most talented players to ever set foot on a soccer field.
“You dropped your shoulder too early,” I state loudly.
Making certain my voice echoes across the pitch.
Ensuring he can’t ignore my words.
Piercing blue eyes pin me in place. “You’re giving me pointers?” Unlike Otto, Adler Beck doesn’t address me in German first. Either I look like a foreigner, or he knows an American accent when he hears one. His incredulous voice is less accented than Otto’s but sounds as harsh as it did when he was shouting in German.
“Just stating a fact,” I reply, holding my ground against the force of his gaze.
“By all means, show me your technique.” Adler Beck steps back from the ball he’s trapped neatly and gestures me forward after glancing pointedly at my sneakers. His tone is almost teasing, but it carries a hard undercurrent of derision.
I don’t need a German dictionary to translate what that means.
I take a tentative step forward, the panic pressing down on me as oppressively as the summer heat. A significant portion of me wants to toss out a “just kidding” and flee, but the competitive spirit I squashed into being dormant for the past couple months flares and refuses to allow me to back down. Somehow, I don’t think this is what Lancaster’s physical therapist meant when she said to ease my knee back into full motion.
I walk forward, as nonchalantly as I can considering each step brings me closer to the familiar sphere I’ve barely touched in weeks. There’s a chance—a slim one, I hope—my knee is no longer capable of this. So, I don’t give myself an opportunity to second-guess anything, sending the ball spinning through the air as soon as I reach it.
Otto lunges, but it arcs past him neatly to drop into the back left corner of the net. I shift my weight back to my good leg and bite my bottom lip to keep the smile from spreading across my face.
Otto glances back and forth between me and the now stationary ball a couple of times, a look of shocked disbelief on his face.
I keep my expression neutral despite the swell of elation I’m experiencing. A quick glance to my left reveals a stone-faced Beck. Famous for his quick temper on the field, the only sign of it now is a slight tic in the sharp jawline that looks like it’s carved from granite, or some other equally infallible and impressive material.
Following an invisible command, Otto sends the ball back to Beck, who traps it neatly and then sends it flying effortlessly into the back of the net.
I watch his shoulders carefully and roll my eyes when I notice he makes a point to lower his right one early.
The rational thing to do right now would be to leave, so I take a step farther onto the field. Closer to Adler Beck.
“Best out of five?” I suggest. I’m scalded by blue fire as Beck turns the full heat of his searing gaze on me. Evidently the last glare was just a warm-up.
Unfortunately for him, I’m flame retardant.
He takes a step back from the ball Otto has already returned to him, a silent acquiescence with an edge of challenge that’s evident in his slight smirk. I take more time setting up, focusing on ensuring each part of my posture is perfect before I send the ball into the goal. The back of the net bulges against the velocity of the ball’s momentum.
I allow myself a small grin as I flex the muscles in my calf. Otto looks both surprised and annoyed as he rolls the ball back to me. Penalty kicks are a challenge for any goalie, more of a test of the player’s skill than their own, but if he was considered good enough for Germany’s most elite club, then this is undoubtedly a blow to his ego.
FC Kluvberg only takes the best of the best, as evidenced by the athlete to my left.
“Your turn, twenty-three,” I say as I pass the ball. If I thought I could get away with it, I’d pretend I have no idea who Beck is. Unfortunately, he’s famous enough that I’d end up looking like the fool in that scenario, not him. Still, I refuse to feed his ego by using one of his worshipful nicknames, and since his number is prominently displayed on his practice jersey, I don’t have to admit I know exactly who he is outright.
Beck stops the ball without comment and executes another perfect kick that finds the back of the net. When Otto returns it, he sends it in my direction with a quick flick of his ankle.
I score another goal.
Beck remains expressionless, but Otto’s expression shifts slightly away from annoyance to reveal glimmers of awe.
I allow the tiny piece of myself, that has spent the last two months terrified my soccer career could be over, a brief moment to absorb the bizarre notion that I’m currently tied in a shootout with the youngest player to be voted “Most Valuable” on a national team as Beck finds the back of the net again.
Forcing myself to focus, I trap the ball he sends my way and send my own kick back to Otto. His fingers come within millimeters of the spinning ball, but it still lands safely behind the goal line.
Otto passes the ball back to Beck. He shoots it back courtesy of a powerful kick, only this time Otto brushes against the side of the ball, sending it skittering to the left and past the post harmlessly. I don’t say a word but glance over to see Beck’s hands are clenched into tight fists. Otto looks at me nervously as he collects the ball and kicks it back to me. I let out a long exhale, determined not to let my focus waver or allow myself to dwell on the fact that I could potentially beat Adler Beck in a shootout.
“Saylor?”
I turn at the sound of my name echoing across the mostly empty field. Franz Anderson, one of the assistant trainers for the team and the reason I’m kind of, sort of, possibly allowed to be in here, stands at the end of the same tunnel Beck emerged from earlier.
“What are you doing?” Franz continues, glancing in confusion at Otto and Beck. I told him I was going to take a quick glance at the field. I guess this probably looks a bit different from that.
“Hi, Franz,” I reply. “I was just about to head out.” Unable to resist, I turn back to the round ball resting in front of me and strike, sending it into the white netting with a satisfying smack.
Without another word, I spin and jog over to Franz. “Thank you. Beautiful stadium.”
Franz looks more confused than ever, but he nods. “Have a good night. Say hello to Ellie.”
“I will. Thanks.” I flash him a quick smile and then begin to walk back toward the gate I entered through earlier, resisting the urge to turn around and meet the blue eyes I can feel burning holes in my back.
As soon as I turn the corner, I strip off the itchy polyester polo, grateful for the extra breathability of the sweat-wicking tank top I’m wearing underneath. Not only was it uncomfortable, the polo didn’t exactly have the incognito effect I was hoping it would.
I drop the sweaty top in the laundry hamper that sits next to the stack of clean shirts I borrowed it from. I still feel overheated, like I swallowed a lump of coal that’s radiating relentless heat in every cell and cranny. Wish I could replicate this everlasting ember during Connecticut’s chilly winters.
It’s over ninety degrees today, but that’s not entirely to blame for the inferno inside me. Neither is the thrilling realization that I might not be a retired athlete at the ripe old age of twenty-one. No, it’s the thought of azure eyes and a chiseled jawline that’s got the flames flickering.
No idea why.
Okay, that’s a lie.
But I’ve got bigger life goals than becoming another notch on the post of the king-sized canopy bed Adler Beck likely slumbers in.
No matter how long any residual flush lasts.
