I shrug. “Access sounds boring.”

Beck’s lips stay in a flat line. His sense of humor sure didn’t last long.

We reach the edge of the pitch, and Beck pulls his gym bag over his head and drops it, unzipping it to reveal a smorgasbord of equipment. All he grabs is a soccer ball, tossing it out onto the grass.

Some nerves start to appear. This isn’t just a guy I met at a club last night and slept with in a storage closet. This is the guy who is worshiped for a lot more than his appearance and resulting sex appeal. Adler Beck is good at soccer. Really good. The kind of talent that comes around once in a generation—once a century. His parents were both successful, but Adler Beck is revered on a staggering scale. He’s beloved. He was winning international championships when I was attending high school games where half the participants were stoned, and he’s far from a washed-up has-been at twenty-two.

I know he’s better than me. I’m used to being the best on the pitch.

I stride farther onto the field, expecting him to follow me. He does, dribbling as though it’s second nature to him. Which it is, I guess. Aside from our shootout, I can’t recall the last time I played against a guy. Middle school, maybe? I think one of the club teams I played on was co-ed.

Beck doesn’t ask me if I’m ready to play or stop for a face-off. He just keeps dribbling along, forcing me to back up or else let him pass. He looks light years away from how he did when he first approached me, his movements as carefree and easy as his expression. Either playing has the same freeing effect on him as it does on me, or he was as apprehensive about how to act around me as I was about him.

Beck grins as I do my best to mirror his movements. I’ve watched enough footage of him playing to know a few of his moves, but he’s not exactly pulling out all the stops right now. We’re barely jogging. When he finally spins to get around me, I’m ready. I snake my foot between his, knocking the ball into my possession. There’s a nod of acknowledgment that lets me know I passed some test. It also tells me he’s still underestimating me.

We weave up and down the field, neither of us allowing the other to score, but guarding each other loosely. It’s… fun. I can’t recall the last time I played soccer so casually. So carefree. Normally, I’m showing off—for coaches or teammates, to preserve the reputation I’ve carefully constructed; to smash expectations. Based on his comment earlier, I realize Beck feels the same. The spotlight on him is a thousand times brighter.