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.