I send the ball into the netting. It’s not the most satisfying goal I’ve ever scored—not by a long shot—but I still enjoy watching her squirm.

“Was that what you had in mind?” I ask her, my tone saccharine.

“Good work, Scott,” she mutters through gritted teeth. “Line up, everyone.”

The next few clinics pass in a blur until we’re only one away from Beck’s. William York is in charge of our current one, and there’s a fair amount of whispering going on. He’s got a charming British accent and the importance of a member of the royal family. He actually looks a lot like the future monarch who shares his name, albeit a younger version with a lusher head of hair. He instructs us through a combination passing drill. A few players struggle with the fast-paced weaving. I’m not one of them, and William comes over to congratulate me.

“Excellent work out there,” he tells me, flashing a cheeky grin.

“Thanks.” I don’t smile back.

“There are some other passing techniques I could teach you.” Cressida’s to my left, and I see her smirk out of the corner of my eye.

“I’m sure the whole group would love to gain any extra knowledge you have to share,” I reply, and his cocky smile disappears.

He nods once, back to being professional. As he should have been all along.

And then we reach Beck.

He’s wearing all black today. The dark color is a sharp contrast to his golden looks. Those whispers William York garnered? Absent.

Beck’s not sporting a charming smile; his chiseled features are fixed in a glower. He’s not taking a casual stance; he’s planted in place, arms crossed. His presence isn’t charismatic; it’s commanding.

You don’t gossip about Adler Beck when you’re in his presence—you stare at him.

I keep my gaze fixed on the soccer goal behind him. I can feel Emma’s eyes on me and a few glances from my other teammates. They may not have heard my confession to Emma about our carnal acquaintance, but they all saw us talking yesterday.

Beck rattles off instructions for the drill, and I’m not surprised to hear they’re twice as complex as every other clinic we’ve completed so far. Everyone stays silent.

The exercise requires receiving a flighted ball, dribbling on the attack through a series of grids, and then taking a shot on goal.

Based on the befuddled expressions surrounding me, some are uncertain about how to execute it. Beck catches the confusion. He’s still scowling, but I think I catch a glimmer of mirth. “Would a demonstration help?” he asks authoritatively.

Heads bob around me, and call me a hypocrite, but I’m having the same bout of unprofessionalism that struck William York. Because Beck acting like a coach—my coach? It’s hot.