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.