“She’s never played football. Never had to deal with the expectations. I mean, do you have any idea what it’s like to walk on the pitch and see your parents sitting there, expecting you not to fuck up their legacy?”

“No, I don’t,” I reply honestly. “My dad’s idea of exercise was walking from the couch to the fridge for a beer. He couldn’t win a gold medal for anything except ‘Absentee Parent of the Year.’” Yeah, didn’t mean to say that. “I hope you’re not spouting this ‘woe-is-me-I’m-a-famous-athlete’ narrative during interviews,” I tease, trying to distract him from my confession and lighten the mood.

“Nope. We covered that during media training when I was ten.”

“Ten?” I gasp. I know the European football system is a far cry from the American one, but media training before middle school seems obscene.

Beck shrugs and shoots me a smirk. “Feel bad for me now?”

“Give me a minute to summon some sympathy.”

He snickers. “Yeah. Guess I’ll just keep making the best of it.” The words are followed by an exaggerated sigh.

“Yeah, I think the entire world is aware of how you ‘make the best of it.’”

“Well, you are.” The words drip with innuendo that makes my skin sizzle.

I open my mouth to respond but snap it shut when a security guard steps out of the booth to the right of the gate, interrupting the fence that surrounds Kluvberg’s famous stadium. I was so focused on our conversation I didn’t realize we’re practically atop it. The whole reason I walked was to appreciate the scenery, and I missed most of it.

Beck lets out a rapid stream of German and then the man responds, giving him a friendly smile as he waves both of us through the gate. Every other time I’ve entered the stadium this way, the guard made me swipe my temporary badge. And go through the metal detector. Yeah, definitely not feeling any sympathy toward the plight of being Adler Beck right about now.

My phone rings right as we enter the stadium. “Fuck,” I grumble, and Beck shoots me a curious glance. “Hi, Dad.” What is he doing up at this hour? He doesn’t have an infant to feed.

“Saylor. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Is something wrong?”

“No, everything is fine. I just—”

“I’m running late for practice. I’ll call you later.” I hang up, immediately compiling a list of possible reasons for his call. The last time we talked on the phone was in March when he told me he was getting married. We mostly communicate through Hallie. The wedding can’t be off though, or she would have just told me.

Beck, grabbing my phone from my hand, snaps me out of any speculating. “Hey! What are you doing?”