“It’s not that big of a deal. I knew I would get in.” I down a third shot of gin. It’s the only liquor I’ll touch.

My brash words are a stretch. I was confident, sure, but Scholenberg is the most exclusive training camp in the world. I wasn’t just competing for admission against the top college-aged players in the United States, but around the world. An invitation is an honor, not a forgone conclusion—something Emma, Cressida, and Anne are all well aware of.

Emma scoffs as she measures out whiskey.

“Didn’t they accept two Americans?” Anne asks, moving on. She’s never been one to stoke animosity, and she, like everyone else who’s ever met me, knows if I don’t want to talk about something, I won’t. Period.

“Yup,” I respond, popping the P. “Ellie Anderson got in, too.”

“That’s a surprise,” Cressida remarks. “I would have expected Cotes or Stevens.”

“Ellie’s got connections,” I reply. “Her uncle’s an assistant trainer for Kluvberg.”

“That’ll do it,” Emma states, sticking the carton of pineapple juice back in the fridge. With whiskey? Gross. “I can’t believe you’ll be playing on their field.”

“I know,” I admit. The allure of attending Scholenberg isn’t just the exclusivity or the prestige. The camp also provides an opportunity to play on the most famous field in the world: the home of FC Kluvberg.

“I literally have a poster of it on my wall,” Emma continues.

“No, you have a poster of Adler Beck on your wall,” I correct, leaning my head back against the upper cabinet so I can study the cracks in the plaster blemishing our kitchen ceiling.

“But I purposefully chose the photo of him on the field, not the shirtless one from the ‘Sexiest Athletes’ cover.”

“Big of you.”

Anne laughs at my comment, and Emma rolls her eyes as she downs her drink.

“Okay, let’s go,” Cressida announces, dropping the now empty bowl and spatula in the sink. “The cake is done.”

“It’s sweet how you think that will make it until tomorrow,” I tell the ceiling.

“Saylor, I swear, if you…”

Emma laughs. “Cress, you need to hide it if you want there to be any left tomorrow.”

“All I need is for Saylor to—”

“Hey!” I’m the one who interrupts this time. “I’m not the one eating the stuff, okay?”

“But you are the one telling your overnight guests where my baked goods are,” Cressida points out.

“They’re not overnight guests, they’re her boy toys,” Emma interjects.

I ignore Emma. “I don’t tell them where they are. They’re hungry, and—”

“She uses the sweets to kick them out,” Anne cuts in.

“Here’s a cupcake for the three orgasms,” Emma adds with a wicked smirk.