Beck turns and starts walking away, and this time I don’t let him.

“Beck!” I call as I scramble after him, quickly shoving my foot in my right sneaker and following him with the laces still untied. He’s already reached the front steps by the time I catch up with him. I can see Jenny’s silver SUV loitering along the curb with more of my teammates inside. The chances of anyone on the team not hearing about this just disappeared. “Beck, don’t walk away from me again. You can’t keep showing up unexpectedly and dropping bombs like saying you want a relationship and never give me any fucking time to react!”

Beck spins around to study me, and I have to force my body to keep from shivering. It feels more like winter than fall.

“Are you going to say anything?” I finally ask.

“I was waiting for you to.”

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “I can’t have this conversation right now! I have practice in…” I check my phone. “Three minutes. Fuck. I’m making all the seniors late. But it’s only two hours, and then we can talk, okay?”

“Okay,” Beck responds, and I let out a sigh of relief.

“Okay. There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry, and—”

“Saylor?” I look away from Beck to see my dad and Sandra walking toward the house. Crap. I totally forgot they were coming over. “Just stopping to say goodbye,” my father says unnecessarily, looking at Beck curiously.

I think longingly of the days when my life at Lancaster were uncomplicated. I sigh and walk down the rest of the steps, wrapping my arms around myself.

Wordlessly, Beck hands me the jacket he has draped over his bag, and I slip it on. “Thanks,” I mutter. He doesn’t respond. “Um, thanks for coming,” I say louder to my dad, who’s stopped a few feet away. I’m not sure what else he’s expecting. I’m in no way emotionally equipped to handle a heart-to-heart right now.

Beck takes over, stepping forward and holding a hand out to my father. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Scott. I’m Adler Beck.” There’s no flash of recognition on my dad’s face, and for once I’m glad he’s never taken any interest in soccer. This moment is awkward enough already.

“Marcus, please,” my dad responds, shaking Beck’s offered hand.

“And you must be Sandra?” Beck asks, shifting his gaze to her. She nods.

My dad’s eyes flash to mine, and I flush. It’s now pretty obvious this isn’t just some booty call I was shoving out the door.

Beck makes it worse when he adds, “Congratulations. From what I’ve heard, it was quite a wedding.” I wince at his thinly veiled reference to my phone call.