Seated at the head of the table is a tall, silver-haired man I immediately know is Beck’s father. Hans Beck raises his head from the newspaper when we approach, blue eyes flitting between his wife and son, then to me. He snaps the paper back into its original fold and tucks it under the place setting already set out on the table.

Beck and Sophia favor their mother in appearance. Hans Beck cuts an intimidating figure, with a domineering presence similar to Beck’s, but it’s a rougher one. His face is tough and weathered, and what remains of his original hair color is darker than the rest of his family’s, combed back neatly to emphasize his hewn features.

Beck says something in German to his father that I’m guessing is a greeting. “Hello.” Hans greets me in a gruff tone. Or maybe Beck was instructing him to address me in English.

“Hi, Mr. Beck.” I hold out a hand to shake his. “I’m Saylor Scott.”

“Hans is fine,” he replies, studying me curiously.

I shift nervously under his scrutiny. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’m not easily starstruck. I’ve met dozens of famous former athletes before and wasn’t the least bit nervous. I managed to beat Beck in a shootout the first time we met, for fuck’s sake. I know their names, but Erika and Hans Beck retired before I was even born. I’ve never seen either of them play. And yet I’m acting like a teenager meeting my date’s parents before prom.

“Your home is beautiful.” I sweep a hand toward the yard like they’re not aware their back lawn looks like it could be featured on the cover of a gardening magazine.

“Thank you,” Erika says graciously. “Saylor is here attending Scholenberg,” she informs Hans.

Something that looks like respect glints in blue eyes the same shade as Beck’s. “Congratulations. That’s a competitive program.”

“Thank you,” I respond. “I’m a competitive person.”

There’s a small twitch of his mouth, and I’m fairly certain it’s as close to smiling as Hans Beck gets. “The best athletes are,” he replies.

I smile.

There’s a chattering of German, and then Sophia appears in the opening between the french doors with a guy with light brown hair close behind. He’s handsome in a preppy, male-model kind of way that’s been artfully prepared. His t-shirt displays the faded logo for a band I’ve seen advertised around Kluvberg, and gel glints in his hair, suggesting the messy look he’s sporting is purposeful.

Erika greets him first. “Hello, Karl.”

There’s a pause. “Karl,” Hans grunts.

I watch Sophia level Beck with a sharp glance. “Hi, Karl,” he says.