Otto passes the ball back to Beck. He shoots it back courtesy of a powerful kick, only this time Otto brushes against the side of the ball, sending it skittering to the left and past the post harmlessly. I don’t say a word but glance over to see Beck’s hands are clenched into tight fists. Otto looks at me nervously as he collects the ball and kicks it back to me. I let out a long exhale, determined not to let my focus waver or allow myself to dwell on the fact that I could potentially beat Adler Beck in a shootout.

“Saylor?”

I turn at the sound of my name echoing across the mostly empty field. Franz Anderson, one of the assistant trainers for the team and the reason I’m kind of, sort of, possibly allowed to be in here, stands at the end of the same tunnel Beck emerged from earlier.

“What are you doing?” Franz continues, glancing in confusion at Otto and Beck. I told him I was going to take a quick glance at the field. I guess this probably looks a bit different from that.

“Hi, Franz,” I reply. “I was just about to head out.” Unable to resist, I turn back to the round ball resting in front of me and strike, sending it into the white netting with a satisfying smack.

Without another word, I spin and jog over to Franz. “Thank you. Beautiful stadium.”

Franz looks more confused than ever, but he nods. “Have a good night. Say hello to Ellie.”

“I will. Thanks.” I flash him a quick smile and then begin to walk back toward the gate I entered through earlier, resisting the urge to turn around and meet the blue eyes I can feel burning holes in my back.

As soon as I turn the corner, I strip off the itchy polyester polo, grateful for the extra breathability of the sweat-wicking tank top I’m wearing underneath. Not only was it uncomfortable, the polo didn’t exactly have the incognito effect I was hoping it would.

I drop the sweaty top in the laundry hamper that sits next to the stack of clean shirts I borrowed it from. I still feel overheated, like I swallowed a lump of coal that’s radiating relentless heat in every cell and cranny. Wish I could replicate this everlasting ember during Connecticut’s chilly winters.

It’s over ninety degrees today, but that’s not entirely to blame for the inferno inside me. Neither is the thrilling realization that I might not be a retired athlete at the ripe old age of twenty-one. No, it’s the thought of azure eyes and a chiseled jawline that’s got the flames flickering.

No idea why.

Okay, that’s a lie.

But I’ve got bigger life goals than becoming another notch on the post of the king-sized canopy bed Adler Beck likely slumbers in.