I remain on the field, savoring my last moments on this rectangle of grass. It hits me harder than I imagined it would—the fact that these are my last—as I stroll toward the center of the expanse. I drop down on the middle line and stare up at the cloudless sky.

I’m not sure how long I’ve been lying here when a shadow falls across my face. Somehow, I know who it is before I shade my eyes to squint upward.

“What are you doing?” Beck inquires.

I could ask him the same thing. Instead, I reply, “Stargazing,” shifting my eyes back to the sky.

There’s a whoosh of air to my left as he drops down beside me in the center circle.

“It’s the middle of the day,” he observes.

“I like a challenge.”

“Are you upset about Alesandra?”

A logical conclusion, since I’ve avoided him ever since. I track a puffy mass of condensed water vapor as it drifts across the brilliant blue backdrop. “No.”

Beck doesn’t say anything for a while. We lay side by side, staring up at the sky.

“What are you thinking about?” he finally asks.

“How I spent two months in Germany and only learned two German words.”

There’s a huff of air that could be interpreted as amused or exasperated. I don’t let my eyes stray from the sky to check.

“I doubt it will matter once you return home,” Beck responds. He’s right, but the insinuation still smarts. I’ll never need to know German again. “You’ve got other talents,” he adds teasingly.

I don’t flirt back. “I’ve got to go. I’ll hold the bus up.” I jerk upright, then shove away from the turf so I’m standing.

Beck mirrors the first motion, but not the second. I study him sitting there. Sun-kissed skin. Azure eyes. Blond hair. His practice jersey covers the work of art that is his torso, but visible lines of muscle run the length of his forearms, bunching into defined biceps. The perfect portrait is framed by the famous arches of his home stadium.

“Bye, Beck.”

I’ve said those two words before, but they’re expelled differently this time. Finality has a bitter aftertaste that lingers in the air around us.

“Bye, Saylor.” He mimics my minimalistic farewell.

There’s more I could say. Regardless of his notoriety or appearance, I’ve always admired Adler Beck as a soccer player. This is my last chance to tell him that, but the past couple of months have forever vitiated any chance of me viewing him through a vacuum of just his athletic talents. I could thank him for the sex. For the glimpses into his world not portrayed on shiny covers. For making this trip not only about soccer.

Instead, I turn and head for the tunnel without saying another word.