“That’s what I thought, too,” Natalie replies. “But I think Gamma’s colors are pink and white, and I don’t want people thinking I’m part of that shitshow. Or is it Kappa that’s pink?”

“I associate pink with Alpha Sigma I-don’t-give-a-shit,” I respond, grabbing three postcards. “Just get whatever shirt you like better.”

Natalie deliberates for a minute. “Okay, I’ll get both.”

She heads for the cashier, and I move farther into the store. The back wall is entirely dedicated to clothing. I spot both the shirts Natalie found, along with a variety displaying the German flag; faded, as a heart, as a soccer ball. The last iteration is located next to the top displayed front and center.

An Adler Beck jersey.

The sight of it prompts a strange reaction, reminding me of our outré encounter. Thanks to his breakout performance on the world stage as soon as he was eligible to play, he was living the life of a professional athlete back when I was a freshman in high school, despite being just eighteen months older than me.

Ever since then, I’ve admired his athleticism and appearance—along with the rest of the world. Our interaction both exceeded my expectations and fell short. I want to relive it and also pretend it never happened.

“Are you going to get one?” London asks, appearing next to me. I startle. She nods to the Beck jersey I’m staring at. Busted. “You could wear it to practice in Kluvberg’s stadium.”

The mere suggestion makes me cringe. My impression is Scholenberg does everything it can to separate its female attendees from FC Kluvberg players because: hello, distractions. It’s part of the reason Kluvberg supposedly spends the summer months training elsewhere. Although, I have to say, my experience so far has suggested that’s some pretty spectacular false advertising.

FC Kluvberg’s official season doesn’t span the summer months, but professional athletes don’t really have an offseason, as evidenced by Beck’s presence at the field just the other day. The thought of Adler Beck seeing me practicing in his jersey is rebarbative. I’ve always been the type to push back just to show I can. Falling in line as an Adler Beck fangirl feels like capitulating, lessening my small victory against him.

“Nope, just grabbing this,” I reply, taking a baby onesie with a German flag on it off the shelf.

London eyes me speculatively. “Something you need to tell me?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s for my sister. She just had a baby.”

“Look at you being a doting aunt.”

That adjective seems like a stretch considering I’ve never even met the kid, but I don’t argue. “Are you getting anything?” I ask.

“No, I’ve bought way too much at Amnerallons already. Thank God there’s only a week left, or I’d have to get a new suitcase, too.”