I mastered the art of appearing indifferent a long time ago, but the knowledge that Adler Beck took the time to look up my conversion rate for penalty kicks is surreal—not that I have any intention of telling him that, or telling him I’m impressed he found my conversion rate based on nothing but my first name. My soccer stats aren’t exactly splashed across the internet the way his are.

Thirty seconds of silence pass before Beck speaks again. “You here alone?”

“No, with a teammate from home. She’s at Amnerallons and came for a visit with new friends. I needed some… I came to grab a drink.”

“What did you order?”

“Gin and tonic.”

Beck turns and says something in German. I look behind me to see the bartenders are now rushing about. Maybe he really does own this place. Or maybe they’re just responding to the presence of the world’s most famous footballer. In seconds, a glass filled with bubbly, clear liquid and topped with a lime wedge appears before me.

“Tha—” Beck swipes the glass mid-word. “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t reply, just starts walking to the left, clutching what I assume is my drink. Foolishly, I follow him. He takes an abrupt right and heads down a short hallway. Then pushes open a side door. I walk after him into what must be the stock room.

Glass bottles line shelf after shelf after shelf, barely illuminated by the solitary lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. Beck grabs a blue bottle and sends a generous splash of its contents into the glass he’s holding. Wordlessly, he holds it out to me. I take the glass and sip some of its contents. Lime, botanicals, and expensive gin hit my tongue.

“It’s good,” I inform him.

“Good.”

Beck doesn’t move. Neither do I. But I meet his cool blue gaze unflinchingly, suddenly very aware—excruciatingly aware, in fact—that the two of us are in a room alone. Together. There shouldn’t be any familiarity between us, but I know what he’s about to do before it happens.

Beck steps forward.

One step.

Two.

Three.

I hold my ground, only moving back and setting my glass down once our bodies make contact. Once the warmth of his skin sinks through the thin satin I’m wearing.

He presses me against a shelf, prompting loud clangs as the glass bottles shift in protest. And then Adler Beck kisses me. I’m kissing Adler Beck. But it doesn’t feel like I’m kissing a soccer superstar. There’s no distance—literal or metaphorical—from which to view the body pressed against mine as belonging to a famous footballer. There’s just a chiseled frame exuding the temperature of a furnace and forcing a pool of lust to form in my stomach.