“I didn’t know you were going to Amnerallons, Reynolds,” I reply. It’s not on the same level at Scholenberg, but it’s still a competitive program. Worth bragging about.

“And of course you’re at Scholenberg.” She rolls her eyes. “I should have known you’d be here.”

“I didn’t have anything better to do for the next two months,” I reply with a grin.

Natalie cuts in, introducing the rest of the girls she’s with. Unlike Scholenberg, Amnerallons doesn’t limit how many players it accepts from a country. They’re all American; mostly from schools on the West Coast that Lancaster rarely plays.

“Where are we going first?” someone asks excitedly once we have made introductions. I already forgot her name, but I’m more concerned by how everyone’s suddenly looking at me.

“Guys, I barely know the city,” I admit. “I’ve been here less than a week. I’ve gone to the field and a couple restaurants, and that’s it.”

“You’ve been to Kluvberg’s stadium already?” Natalie asks eagerly. “How was it?”

“Yeah, we had a meeting there a couple days ago,” I divulge, opting not to share my trespassing earlier in the week.

“I still cannot believe you’ll be playing on the same field as Adler Beck has.”

Now would be the perfect opportunity to tell Natalie I met him. To share our electrifying, combative encounter; admit I’m probably on Adler Beck’s shit list.

But something stops me.

I’m not sure what.

Normally, I revel in sharing stories. When Trey Johnson shifted his attention from Hannah Mason to me, he was so confident I’d be interested, he stripped in the girls’ locker room when he knew I came in for extra practice. Athletes tend to be a cocky bunch, but he was significantly less sure of himself when I left with his clothes, forcing him to walk-of-shame through the athletic complex with nothing but a small towel covering his goodies. That anecdote was heard so many times on campus it practically earned triple-platinum status.

Trey Johnson peaked during his years as Lancaster’s quarterback, fading to irrelevance as soon as he crossed the stage.

Adler Beck’s in an entirely different league. Natalie’s new friends—even London—might be looking at me with admiration right now. The revelation that I met Beck would do more than earn me deity status. It would prompt questions—lots of questions I don’t feel like answering.

So, I just shrug in response to Natalie’s statement. “Let’s go to a beer garden,” I suggest. “I’ll text Ellie and see if she has any recommendations.”

“Ellie?” London questions.

“Ellie Anderson. She’s the other American at Scholenberg with me.”

“Oh, right. Her uncle’s a trainer for Kluvberg, right?”