“They’ll keep an eye on it, obviously, but I’m cleared. Starting training tomorrow, and I’ll be in goal for the charity match against Ludlin.”
Beck exhales, “Great.”
“Yeah. I was pretty sure, based on what the American doctors said, but injuries are unpredictable.”
“You headed out then?”
I nod. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to check on you.” His answer makes it sound like an unnecessary question. “Want to go grab a pint to celebrate? Saylor took Gigi with her to look at wedding dresses with my mom and Sophia, so I’ve got the afternoon free.”
“Yeah, that sounds great. But first, uh, first, I need to tell you something.”
This news might land better over beers, but I don’t want to risk anyone else overhearing if we’re out in public.
“Now?”
I nod. “Now.”
“All right.” He props a hip against Banks’s locker, crossing his arms. “Go ahead.”
I rub the back of my neck, gathering my thoughts.
This is harder than telling Wagner was.
Beck isn’t just my captain. He’s been my mentor. An older brother. Not to mention one hell of a teammate. You can’t win a football game by stopping every shot that comes your way. Any legacy I leave in this sport will be largely thanks to the number of Beck’s kicks other keepers couldn’t save.
I thought we had longer than one year left to play together. I’m sure he did too.
“Next season is my last,” I state.
Beck connects the dots faster than Wagner did. “You’re going to play in the US?”
“Yes.”
He releases a long sigh, shaking his head once. “I owe Saylor fifty euros.”
I roll my eyes, miffed but mostly relieved. “You told her?”
“She toldme. Why do you think she invited Claire back to your apartment? Saylor wanted to hang out with her more, but she was convinced something was going on between you guys. You weren’t exactly subtle, staring at her in the bar all night.”
I scowl. “Fuck off.”
Beck just chuckles. “I’m happy for you. Banks was solid this spring. He’s not you—no one is—but the club will be fine. I’d rather you be there and happy than here and miserable. If Saylorhadn’t decided to play here, I would have done the same damn thing.”
My throat feels thick, but I choke out a, “Thanks, Beck.”
As we walk out of the locker room, he asks, “What’d she say?”
“Claire?”
He nods.
“She, uh, doesn’t—I haven’t told her.”
This time, his reaction is identical to Wagner’s. Once he’s finished laughing, Beck tells me, “Usually, that’s the sort of thing you discuss.”
“She’d try to talk me out of it. I don’t want her to know yet. It’s my decision. No matter what she says, when she finds out, it’s been made.”
