“What did Ludwig say?” I ask Otto. He looks incredibly uncomfortable, which confirms it was about me.

“I don’t think he meant offense,” Otto mumbles.

Yeah, right. “I’m just curious.” I flash him my most dazzling smile. “Something about bananas? And mulch?”

Otto’s lips quirk. Then there’s a long pause. “Bananenbieger is doing something stupid or pointless. And lustmolch means sex crazed. He said there’s only a female player here because Kaiser can’t resist pretty women.”

I bristle. The only reason I’m here is because I’m sleeping with Adler Beck, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a damn good soccer player, one who’s most definitely capable of teaching some kids to dribble.

The field is the busiest I’ve ever seen it. Energy radiates and resonates across the broad expanse of grass. I can only imagine what it’s like during one of FC Kluvberg’s home matches. There are children everywhere, far more than I was expecting, and about a dozen adults. I see Beck’s parents talking with an older man sporting a bushy shock of graying hair. There’s also a line of photographers with cameras along the side of the field.

I should have been expecting reporters, but I wasn’t. Adler Beck coaching children will probably be front-page news.

I forgot he’s famous.

Completely, totally forgot. It’s no longer how I view him. It’s a strange realization, but not as bizarre as the very obvious reminder that he is.

Beck is clearly the authority figure here, and everyone, both adult and adolescent, falls into line when he starts rattling off a rapid stream of German. Since I can’t understand anything he’s saying, I study the crowd of children that’s gathered around him. I’d guess their ages range from ten to thirteen, but they’ve all got one characteristic in common: the adoring expression aimed at one Adler Beck.

Beck stops speaking, and there’s an abrupt flurry of movement as the large gathering splits off into smaller sections. Otto, Hermann, Ludwig, and Fischer all leap into motion, and I’m left trying to figure out what the hell is going on. Beck comes over to me.

“Take that group.” He points to the children on the farthest side of the field. “Just run them through some ball-handling drills.” Then, he leaves my side, presumably to coach his own group. I’m torn between appreciating his faith in me and wanting to call after him. It’s been nearly a decade since I was a middle schooler myself. I barely recall what my practices at that age contained.