“517, ladies! We’ve got booze!” one girl calls out, prompting some scattered cheers. I pull myself up on the edge of the concrete but leave my legs dangling in the water.

“We’re headed up.” Cressida appears beside me, already dressed. “Do you want us to wait for you?”

“No, I’m good. Go ahead,” I tell her.

She nods, and pretty soon I’m the only one left at the pool. For the first time since seeing Beck, I’m alone.

I knew I would probably see him again. Eventually. There are a lot of soccer players in the world. Few at his level; the level I hope to reach. That was meant to be some distant encounter.

Not here.

Not now.

Not while I still care.

By the time I stand, my feet are pruned, and my unsubmerged skin is dry. I towel off and then slip back into my sweatshirt and sweatpants. The weight of my phone feels like an anvil. I sink down onto one of the lounge chairs and pull it out of my pocket, biting on my bottom lip as I deliberate.

I text him. Are you up? If he’s on a German schedule, it’s the middle of the night.

His response is immediate. Ja.

We never finished playing earlier. Not my best line, but he still replies instantly.

Meet you on field 12.

Heart pounding, I weave my way back down the hotel halls and through the lobby. Technically we have a curfew that went into effect an hour ago, but any authority figures should probably be more concerned about the rager happening in 517 than me taking a walk outside.

The automatic doors glide open, providing me with a soundless exit—into a deluge of water. It’s not raining out—it’s pouring. I’m soaked after a few steps and debate turning back, but I press on. Between the pool and the downpour, it’s not like I can get any wetter at this point.

The water coating everything glints under the natural light of the moon and the artificial ones lining the path that leads from the lodge to the fields.

I see Beck long before I reach him. The lamps don’t extend past the first field, so I have to rely on the moonlight as I walk toward Field twelve. The rapid raindrops falling blur the entire landscape together, with the exception of Beck and the shape of the soccer goal to his left.

Uneasily, I realize it’s a remarkably accurate portrayal of what my life has looked like ever since he jogged out of that tunnel.

“I didn’t realize it was supposed to rain,” I say when I stop at the edge of the field beside him.