No wonder his ego is larger than most countries.

The last door on the left reveals a room flashier than I expected. We’re on the lowest level of the Kluvberg stadium. The room we met Coach Weber in was little more than a dim expanse that I’m guessing is ordinarily meant for storage. But despite its disparate location, this room contains a whole host of equipment I know must cost thousands of dollars. A brunette with a friendly smile is tidying a shelf of towels when I walk inside.

“You must be Saylor,” she declares, in what I think is a French accent. “I’m Alizée.”

“Yes, I am. Nice to meet you,” I reply.

“Take a seat up there, please.” She nods toward the straight-line table, the kind I’ve become far too familiar with over the past two months. I climb up on it and stretch my legs out.

Alizée pokes and prods at the muscles in my right leg in a way I’ve also become too accustomed to, but her next words alleviate some of my frustration. “Your knee looks good. Really good. Six more days until full activity?”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and nod.

Alizée rotates my knee for a little longer, then walks me through a few new exercises I can add to my current routine to ease my knee into full movement. She’s just wrapping up the last one when the door bangs open. I tense involuntarily, not realizing why until I look up into brown eyes, not blue. My body relaxes without me telling it to.

The man who’s just entered jabbers out what sounds like an apology. Alizée replies, and I hear Scholenberg mixed in with a series of unfamiliar words.

“You’re all set, Saylor,” Alizée says. “Keep doing those, and I’ll see you next week. Should be able to give you the all-clear.”

“Okay, thanks.” I hop off the table, passing the man I’m certain must be a Kluvberg player without a glance, even though I can feel his eyes on me.

I head back into the hallway, ducking into the first stairwell I come across. But when I exit the stairs, it’s not into the industrial-looking lobby we entered this morning. Instead, I’m in a hallway covered with a lush carpet and lined with offices. I swear under my breath and turn to head back into the stairwell.

And almost collide with someone.

I glance up into gray eyes. This man is one I recognize. It’s Stefan Hermann, Kluvberg’s current keeper. I’m guessing Otto’s being groomed as his backup and eventual replacement.