“So… you won’t mind if I go talk to him?” There’s a challenge dancing in her brown eyes, but I don’t engage. I don’t think Beck will take her up on it, but I don’t care either way. Or rather, I shouldn’t care. Same thing.

“Be my guest.”

I turn back to the bar to grab my freshly made drink as the rest of the girls disperse. A dark-haired guy sidles up next to me and begins flirting. The first few sentences are in German, but one clueless expression is all it takes for him to switch to English punctuated by a thick accent. I think he says he’s a medical student, but I’m only able to catch every other word he says, so I’m far from confident about that. He’s very attractive, and I’m much more focused on that than whether he’s a doctor or a dropout.

He asks what I’m doing here, or perhaps something about my hair, and when I tell him I play “football,” his eyes light up.

I should see it coming, but I don’t.

The next ten minutes are spent gushing over Adler Beck, and any attraction seeps away like water in a sink with an open drain. I down the entirety of my drink as he continues to praise Beck’s performance this past season. It’s not like he’s asking for my opinion, anyway. He’s just the type of insensitive male I like to shred for sport, but tonight I’m not in the mood.

Once my glass is empty, I simply tell him I need to use the restroom. I’m gone before he acknowledges the excuse. All my Scholenberg companions have drifted away from the bar by now, and I spot Alexis and Ellie crowded in one of the round booths along the edge. I start toward them, only to be pinned unexpectedly against the rough brick wall. Angry blue eyes meet mine.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Beck asks me.

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” I snap, struggling against his firm grasp. Most times, I don’t have any issue being shoved against his defined obliques. Right now? No thanks.

“You shouldn’t be talking to guys like that.” Beck drops his hands but doesn’t move away.

“Guys like what?” I spit out. “Hot guys? German guys? Guys who learn a girl plays soccer—sorry, football—and start going on and on about how incredible Adler Beck is? You’re going to need to be more specific.”

Some of the anger recedes from Beck’s face. “You were talking about me?”

“Jealous fit over?” I riposte.

His face hardens again. “I’m not jealous.”

“You just got mad at me for talking to another guy. That is the textbook definition of jealousy.”