Thank God I didn’t compliment the décor out loud. It would ruin my perfect record of not feeding his ego. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?” He grabs his beer from the maybe-marble surface and takes a sip.

“You don’t really look like the nightclub-owning type. Show me some paperwork.” That sounded a lot less lame in my head. I’m speaking like some sort of amateur gangster. I blame it on the fact that I never expected to see him again.

“What exactly does the nightclub-owning type look like?” Beck inquires.

“Not you,” I reply, unable to think of anything wittier. I would love to leave this conversation where I can’t come up with anything clever to say, but it’s fairly obvious I’m standing here waiting for my drink, and there’s no cocktail to be seen.

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” There’s the barest hint of a smirk, which makes me think Beck might be aware of the fact that I’d very much like to leave his beguiling presence.

“No idea,” I tell him honestly. Yup, there’s definitely some amusement in his expression now. “Maybe you should spend less time managing your club and more time practicing penalty kicks.” I went there, and Beck’s expression makes it clear he didn’t think I would.

I turn to look at him fully for the first time, enjoying watching him decide how to respond. Defend or ignore?

“Otto’s new.”

I smirk. Or blame the goalie. “He blocked one of yours,” I’m quick to point out.

“You caught him a bit off guard.”

“I can’t think of a single game I’ve played in that progressed the way I expected it to.”

“I was referring more to the fact that you’re American.”

“I actually wasn’t talking all that much,” I respond cheekily, finally finding some footing in the conversation. I’ve never fished for a compliment in my life, but for some reason I really want Adler Beck to acknowledge he means my appearance, not my heritage.

Eyes the exact color of the sky when it’s marred by only a few fluffy clouds flit away from my face, down the navy slip dress I’m wearing, and back up. “Hard to ignore that accent,” he remarks.

Fine. He’s a worthy competitor off the field, too. Adler Beck doesn’t just have confidence; he oozes charisma. It exudes from every invisible pore, clogging the surrounding air with cockiness.

“The only player in the club over ninety is me.” Grudging, barely discernable respect lightly coats his tone.

Adler fucking Beck checked my conversion rate. “You looked me up?”

“Mm-hmm.” He takes another sip of beer.