“Nope,” I respond lightly. Now that I’m reasonably certain he’s not going to call security, I’m anxious to get the hell out of here. Ellie told me FC Kluvberg was practicing at their training facility today. If there are other players at the stadium instead, I’m not eager to wait and see if they’re as trusting of an American stranger. “But don’t worry, I’m headed out now.” I turn to leave for a second time.

“Wait!” the guy calls, jogging over toward me. I spin back around to see his friendly expression has turned flirtatious and bite back a groan. “I’m Otto,” he shares, holding a pale hand out to shake. His fair complexion matches his light blond hair. Either he spends little time outside or is liberal with his sunscreen usage.

Since he’s a professional soccer player, I’m assuming the latter. Even after the long, cold Connecticut winter, my skin has already accumulated enough melanin from spring training—what little of it my sprained knee allowed me to participate in—to appear several shades darker than his.

“Nice to meet you,” I tell him, gripping his offered hand and then dropping it after a quick shake. A flash of disappointment crosses his boyish face, and I wonder if he was expecting me to act like more of a fangirl. Unfortunately for him, I’m not easily impressed. “I’m Saylor.”

Belatedly, I wonder if I should have made up a name in case Otto mentions this to anyone later. No one at Lancaster will ever let me live it down if I get sent home from the most competitive soccer program in the world the day before it officially begins.

For trespassing, the most mundane of all the misdemeanors.

“Saylor,” he repeats, drawing out the final syllable of my name so it’s lengthier than the first. “Would you like me to give you a tour of the stadium?” Otto grins, the insinuation obvious.

“Another time, maybe.” Like never, most likely. My primary goal at Scholenberg is to minimize the time spent with my butt parked on a slab of pine. “I have to head out. I’m meeting some friends.” Temporary teammates who will likely become future opponents, actually, but that doesn’t seem like the type of detail he needs to know to effectively end this encounter.

Otto opens his mouth to respond, but we’re both distracted by the sound of pounding footfalls.

A new figure emerges from the cement tunnel out onto the field, silhouetted by the blazing sunlight. I don’t realize who it is until he stops about twenty feet from where I’m standing, blocking the brunt of the sun.

It’s the poster on Emma’s bedroom wall come to life.

Adler Beck.