First Flight, Final Fall by C.W. Farnsworth
Chapter Seven
“Kluvberg is going to be at the field today,” Ellie informs me as she sits opposite me at the kitchen table the next morning.
“What?” I look up from my phone, where I’m texting Cressida.
She nods. “Uncle Franz said they have some sort of charity exhibition match coming up. They’re changing up their practice schedule this week. Superstitious about playing on the field before the game or something.”
“Huh.”
Ellie rolls her eyes. “Of course you’d be this nonchalant about it. Adler fucking Beck is going to be on the same field as you, Saylor.”
I don’t tell her it won’t be the first time. Or the second. “He’s not the only player on Kluvberg, Ellie.”
“Uh, he sort of is. I got to meet him at an event with my uncle last year, and he lives up to the hype.”
I shovel another bite of yogurt and granola in my mouth to avoid having to respond.
“Ladies, let’s go!” One of the Scholenberg organizers appears in the doorway, and we all start hustling out of the house to the van idling at the curb. I drop my bowl off at the sink on the way.
An unexpected knot of trepidation tightens in my stomach as the van rolls to a stop in front of the massive stadium. I twist the hem of the sweat-wicking tank I’m wearing, trying to settle the nerves.
Ellie catches the slight movement from her seat beside me. “Your knee will be fine.” She pats my thigh comfortingly.
I smile in acknowledgment of her assurance, although I’m acutely aware my knee is not the reason I’m anxious about being here. I should be excited. I got a clean bill of health two days ago. This is my first time practicing with the team in the stadium—my chance to show off what I can do.
All I’m focused on is what Beck might do if I see him.
“Saylor?” Ellie says. I look up to see all the rows before us have cleared. I’m blocking her in and holding the rest of the bus up.
“Sorry,” I mutter, standing and shuffling out of the cramped seat to head down the aisle. I need to pull it together. Immediately. I’ve never let a guy distract me on the field. I have no intention of starting now.
We head to the locker room. It’s my first time not heading down two floors. Since the stadium isn’t currently being used for professional play, we’re in the visitor’s locker room. I’ve played at plenty of nice schools, and Lancaster didn’t spare any expense with its own facility, but I’m acutely aware that Kluvberg’s stadium is on a whole other level when I step inside the locker room. My visits here before—both clandestine and expected—didn’t illuminate any of the luxury tucked underneath the cement risers and metal seats. Every surface gleams. The scent of pine lingers in the air.
“Hurry up, ladies.” Coach Weber appears at the front of the space, looking like her usual stoic self. It puts an immediate end to any dawdling.
I find an empty locker and quickly pull on my shin guards, socks, and cleats. Once I’m fully suited up, I follow Ellie out through the main tunnel. Each step teases more of the field before me, until finally it’s fully revealed, spread out in a pristine sea of green. It’s the kind of view that never gets old; one steeped in importance and gravity. One you feel privileged just to take in because you know the caliber of the athletes who have had the opportunity to play on this expanse of turf.
Just as Ellie already told me they would be, the entirety of FC Kluvberg is huddled at the opposite end of the pitch. Like a magnet, a certain blond player lounging toward the back draws my gaze.
I tear my eyes away from Beck when Coach Weber starts talking, splitting us up by our positions for warm-up drills. My insides feel fizzy; electrified. The thrill of being back out on the field is a potent rush, and it washes away the weird effect Adler Beck’s presence seems to have on me.
None of the exercises are anything I haven’t done before, and I’m relieved to realize my muscle memory is perfect. My feet follow the expected motions automatically, and I lose myself in the satisfaction of executing each drill perfectly.
Finally, Coach Weber blows her whistle. “All right, ladies. Scrimmage time.”
I’m the recipient of more than a few side glances. Everyone else has already played together. Not me. Rather than buckle under the weight of expectations, I shift from foot to foot, allowing competitive fuel to spread through my warmed muscles as I pull on a yellow pinny.
We don’t have a chance to strategize with our temporary teams, but it doesn’t matter. My teammates know what to do or want to test me. Alexis passes to me as soon as she receives the ball, and I’m more than ready.
I imagine a stream of smoke following me as I sprint down the field. Kluvberg has cleared off the pitch, but a few of them are still loitering along the sidelines. Stretching, drinking water, enjoying the view. Who cares? Not me. I’m focused on nothing aside from sending the sphere I’m dribbling down the field into some white netting. I spin around a defender, feint left, and then I see it: an opening that leads directly to my goal—literally. I’m cleared for full activity. No restrictions. I send the soccer ball flying with every ounce of power my leg can muster.
The black and white ball leaves the protective cradle of my feet and flies. Straight and direct and true. Faster than any of the defenders. Faster than the goalie. I know it will make it as soon as it separates from my foot, but it’s no less gratifying to watch it smash into its destination.
I had something to prove today.
I just did.
I turn, only to be mobbed by yellow pinnies. I accept my teammates’ praise with a grin. This isn’t a pickup game at a barbecue. The women I just sprinted around and scored against? Some of the best athletes in the world.
Not only can I still play, but I’m also still good.
Ellie’s the last one to melt away, following a final squeeze. She’s beaming, and I’m touched by her support. I know it’s exacerbated because of my strange behavior earlier. She thinks this is a triumph over an injury that could have ended my career, and it is. But it’s also a less noble victory.
I was showing off.
For everyone else who scored a coveted Scholenberg invitation.
For Coach Weber.
For Adler Beck, who’s leaning against the advertisement-splashed divider that surrounds the perimeter of the field. Watching our game with an inscrutable expression and crossed arms.
The scrimmage commences again. Time always seems to pass differently when I’m playing, rushing by in measures of kicks and sprints, rather than seconds and minutes. It doesn’t feel like it’s been the appropriate measure of any of those when Coach Weber blows her whistle, signaling the end of the game.
“Nice work, everyone. Get changed, and then we’ve got a team lunch.”
“Team lunch?” I whisper to Ellie as we head back toward the tunnel.
“Forget about lunch. You kicked ass, lady!”
“Well, what did you expect?” I ask her, pulling my pinny over my head as we enter the locker room. “Adler Beck is not the only one who lives up to the hype.”
“Um, speaking of which, I saw him staring at you.”
“Spectators tend to watch the player with the ball,” I reply.
“I’m just saying. You’re totally his type.”
“What type is that?”
“Gorgeous.”
I shrug off her compliment. “Now that I can play again, I’m focused on nothing but soccer. I’m sure Adler Beck has got plenty of women to keep him occupied. I won’t be one of them.” The words are assured. Based on Ellie’s disappointed sigh as we reach our lockers, she believes me.
I wish I was as certain.
My phone buzzes just as I return to my locker from the showers. I scan the messages as I pull on a clean tank top and shorts. One stands out. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Ellie.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve—uh, just going to grab something.”
“Okay.” She accepts my nonspecific answer despite a less than Oscar-worthy delivery. I sound like a freshman trying to sneak out of the house in high school. Not that my father was ever home to listen to any lies.
I step outside the locker room. The hallway is empty. Right or left? The text from a German number I’m assuming belongs to Beck was as vague as my answer to Ellie. Just a Come outside.
I’ve barely made it more than ten feet down the hallway when he appears, opening a side door that blends in with the walls painted with Kluvberg’s signature shade of royal blue. Beck beckons me inside, and I comply, surveying the tiny storage closet with a critical eye.
“Seriously? What is it with you and small—”
He cuts me off by shoving his tongue into my mouth and then walking me backward until cool cinderblock presses into my spine. I forget about any back pain when he tucks his fingers under the hem of my shirt. Swallow my complaints about his choice of venue when he trails his fingertips upward through the droplets of residual water still clinging to my skin from my hasty shower.
Beck breaks our kiss so he can growl in my ear. “Do you know what I was thinking about when I was watching you play?”
“World peace and what you ate for breakfast?”
His rough palm reverses course, sliding back down my stomach and dipping inside the waistband of the athletic shorts I’m wearing. Thank God I just showered, or a very unsexy belt of sweat would have greeted him.
“Doing this,” he whispers in a low, sexy rasp that further ignites the heat already rippling through my body. I lean my head back against the cinderblock, biting down on my bottom lip as he fingers me. Watching him watch me. Imagining him imagining doing this to me. “Come for me, Saylor.”
I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to unhear the sound of Adler Beck murmuring my name, wrapped in layers of lust. I’m not even touching him, merely riding his hand while he does all the work.
And his direction isn’t necessary. Heat is already unfurling inside of me, spreading so quickly and thoroughly I couldn’t douse it even if I wanted to. It’s the natural physical response, but I’m more wrapped up in it mentally than I normally would be. I’m aware of—actively thinking about, actually—who is touching me. I’m not just enjoying the pleasure. I’m luxuriating in it, savoring every second of contact.
Adler Beck has the type of presence you couldn’t forget you’re in if you tried. Being the sole recipient of his full attention is a heady feeling.
I’m drunk on it—intoxicated—like I’ve just rapidly downed a few shots of gin. Maybe that’s why I sink to my knees as soon as the ecstasy begins to wane. I tend to be the selfish, non-reciprocating sort when it comes to oral sex, especially when there’s a cement floor involved—but the allure of having Adler Beck at my mercy is too tantalizing to resist.
“Fuck.” He swears as I yank down his mesh shorts and boxer briefs. There’s a lot packed in those four letters. They slide out of his mouth like they’re coated in dark chocolate and dipped in smooth whiskey. Anticipation tastes delicious.
“Are you sure this isn’t what you were thinking about?” I tease as I stroke his substantial length and wet my lips.
“Not while you were playing,” he replies. “But I’ve definitely thought about it.”
I’m lacking many things. Confidence is not one of them, but the knowledge that Adler Beck has fantasized about me doing this gives my ego a pretty epic boost, even as I appear nonchalant. I lick him like a dick pop and am rewarded when his hips jerk closer. He may have the height advantage right now, but I’m in complete control of this moment. Of him. I can’t copy his command while my mouth is full of his cock, but I don’t need to. He comes quickly, with a gruff groan that makes my toes curl inside my sneakers.
I stand, wincing a bit when the blood rushes back into my calves. My hair is no longer dripping wet, but it’s still damp from my shower, and I pull it up in a messy ponytail to have something to do with my hands, and to hide any evidence of Beck’s effect on the strands.
I don’t know quite what to say to him. I always have something to say. It may be brash and blunt, but the words are there. I’m not embarrassed. I’m not awestruck. I’m just… unsure. It’s like something shifted between us, which is ridiculous. We’ve had sex twice already.
This was a continuation.
A regression.
A remnant of lust.
I have a type: hot and athletic. The fact that Adler Beck is hotter and more athletic than most is irrelevant. Any straight, single woman with a pulse would have done what I just did.
Beck tucks himself back into his shorts, and I readjust my own outfit so it’s not obvious I was just groped in a closet.
“I have to go. We’re having some sort of team lunch.”
Beck doesn’t say anything as he follows me out. Why would he? We just had a hot closet hook-up. He got his gratification. Doubt he had any plans to follow it up with scintillating conversation.
I head back into the hallway—the hallway that’s no longer empty. Alexis is standing at the water fountain, filling up a plastic water bottle. She smiles when she sees me. It quickly shifts into a shocked expression that informs me Beck must be right behind me.
I sigh and start walking down the hallway, back toward the locker room. I’m barely halfway there when I hear the slap of cleats against the cement floor. I knew she’d follow me. What else is she going to do? Stand there and toss accusations at Adler Beck? No, I’m her target, and she homes in on me like a Saylor-seeking missile.
“You were in a closet. With Adler Beck.”
I hate it when people state the obvious. “What gave it away? Me leaving a closet with him right behind me?”
She ignores my sarcastic tone. “What were you doing with him?”
“Taking inventory,” I droll.
“Saylor.”
“Are you fishing for sex tips? Go read an article in Cosmo.”
I don’t know what she possibly thought I was doing with Beck in a closet, but she manages to look even more surprised. “I mean—you were…” I guess Brits are known for being repressed when it comes to certain topics.
“Yeah,” I tell her briskly. “Can you keep that to yourself?”
“I—uh, I mean yeah, I can, but…”
We’ve reached the door to the locker room, and I open it and stride inside. A glance over my shoulder reveals Alexis trailing in after me, still looking scandalized. Hopefully no one notices. There’s not ordinarily anything all that sordid about a trip to the water fountain.
On the way to the team lunch, Sandra calls, just like Hallie said she would. I only answer because I recognize the area code from my hometown. It’s a brief conversation full of awkward pauses. The gist? I need to choose a bridesmaid dress. Black is the only requirement.
We pull up outside the restaurant just after she informs me of the color choice, and I use it as an unashamed opportunity to end the conversation quickly.
The team lunch is exactly what I expect. Scholenberg rented out some swanky restaurant that makes me feel very out of place in my casual athletic attire. Ellie sits next to me, chattering away about how epic the scrimmage was. I nod along and watch Alexis out of the corner of my eye. She still looks a little dazed. Is my hooking up with Adler Beck really that much of a shock to her? I didn’t think there would be anyone who has met me or read a single article about Beck who would actually be surprised. Excluding the shock value of his fame, I guess.
Maybe I should have assured her it was a onetime thing.
Except it wasn’t.
