First Flight, Final Fall

by C.W. Farnsworth

“It isn’t sacrifice if you love what you’re doing.”

Find beauty in the broken pieces.

There are moments you can achieve through hard work and perseverance. Others take place whether you fought for them to or not.

Yes, I’m attracted to him. Partly because of his appearance and partly because I admire him as an athlete. Those were known variables. But I wasn’t expecting to feel nervous around him. To enjoy talking to him. To care what he thinks of me.

“You’re the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

He’s not turned off by my dedication to soccer, not incredulous or annoyed by it the way other guys have been. I’m pretty sure he’s attracted to my commitment, not just that incessant training means I have a great ass.

“I didn’t buy this car.” “You stole it?” He snorts. “I did an ad campaign for them. The car was part of the deal.” “Must have been one hell of an ad. Did you have to show your dick?” “If I had, I could’ve gotten a lot more than this car.” I roll my eyes. “Your penis isn’t that impressive.” “Impressive enough for you to text me about a rematch on your day off,” Beck shoots back.

I don’t know how to put this fragile feeling into words. How being around him feels different than spending time with anyone else. How he’s the cocky, talented superstar everyone sees but entirely different.

“Why didn’t you let me touch you last time?” I ask, suddenly needing some answers about our…whatever this thing is. “Why do you care that I didn’t?” he replies. I huff a sigh. “You got off.” “Yeah, I know. Thanks.” Beck smirks at me, but it slowly melts into a serious expression that has my heart slamming against my ribs. “We don’t have to keep score, Saylor,” he tells me. He swims away before I can respond. I always keep score. Because I hate losing. Because I like to know where I stand with people, and especially with guys. And because Adler Beck is the furthest thing from a sure bet.

start to take the seat without a plate or silverware, but Beck grasps my elbow and pushes me down a spot to the chair that’s already set. “Take that one,” he instructs. “Wow, so you can be a gentleman,” I whisper to him as I do as instructed. Beck smirks as he sits in the chair next to me. “You like when I’m not a gentleman.” Yeah. I do.

“You’re fucking fantastic at football, Saylor.” “Thank you,” I say quietly. Unexpected warmth covers my left hand.

Adler Beck is a terrible idea because I suddenly know with absolute certainty that if I let myself, I could care about him. Like him. Maybe even love him.

“You shouldn’t be talking to guys like that.” “Guys like what?” I spit out in response. “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.” He raises one eyebrow. “You were talking about me?” “You done being jealous?” “I’m not jealous.” “You’re mad at me for talking to another guy. That is the textbook definition of jealousy.” “You’re in a strange city and you know two German words. Leaving with some random guy is stupider than playing with a bad knee.” “I can take care of myself, Beck,” I retort. “I’ve been doing it for a long ass time. And you didn’t seem to mind when that random guy was you.” “That’s all I am? Some random guy?”

The clock isn’t completely imaginary, though. We have an expiration date, and I never thought that would terrify me the way it does.

He fucks me like a whore, then treats me like a queen, and I absolutely love it.

But Beck’s expression is what affects me the most. He’s looking at me with the same awe that’s been aimed at him all morning. With some pride too. With too much I’m scared to name. My emotions are raw and all over the place. I’m so tired of having to prove myself and I’m so grateful he knew what I needed from him. We’re so similar, in the most important ways.

“What’s up, Coach?” “I had my doubts about you, Scott,” she states. “Oh-kay,” I say, taken aback. “I knew you were talented. I expected you to skate on that, especially after an injury. But…I was wrong.” She gives me a rare smile. “You’re the most dedicated—not just talented—player I’ve ever coached. That will take you far, you understand me? You’ve got confidence on the field, but I also get the feeling not many people have told you this. Some players are talented. Others work hard. But it’s rare—extremely rare—to have both, to never lose the drive to be better. Keep at it, and there won’t be anyone left to surpass, Scott. I’m expecting to one day be known by nothing aside from the fact that I coached you for a summer.”

“You ever going to let anyone in, Saylor?” he questions softly. I let him in. Way more than I meant to. It’s hitting me now how far, as I try to keep breathing through the pain of realizing this will be our last conversation. That he’s never going to touch me or tease me or smile at me again.

“You’re six years into your career. Mine hasn’t even started.” I want Coach Weber to be right about me. I want all the years of hard work to pay off, to be worth the effort. If they’re not, if I waver, I’d lose my entire identity. “You don’t want distractions.” “I don’t want distractions.” There’s nothing else to say after that. I remain in place for a few more minutes, soaking in his presence the same way I’m absorbing the sun’s rays. This is a moment I want to memorize, even if it hurts.

I swallow. “Bye, Beck.” I’ve said those two words before, but they sound different this time. Finality has a bitter aftertaste that lingers in the warm air around us. “Bye, Saylor.” There’s more I could say. 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 altered me viewing him as a once-in-a-generation athlete. We’re more than two people who both love soccer. Making this moment about sport seems wrong. So I turn and head for the tunnel without saying another word. This is where we started. This is where we’ll end.

“You’re done?” I nod. “Do you want to be?” I stopped dancing for a cold drink and somehow stumbled into a therapy session. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” I pause. “It doesn’t matter.” “Of course it matters.” “I don’t—it was just supposed to be sex. I’ve never…cared. I shouldn’t have let it happen.” “I don’t think we get to choose who we fall in love with,” Alexis says softly.

I knew saying goodbye would hurt. But I wasn’t expecting this ache in my chest. Or the echo of “You ever going to let anyone in, Saylor?” in my head. I turn and continue walking toward to the Scholenberg house, pushing through the pain the same way I always have. Not caring that it’s begun to drizzle. Appreciating it, actually. It hides the fact that there was already salty water dripping down my cheeks.

But I’m cycling through reasons why he could have possibly come here, and keep coming up with only one. Me.

I knew she would have questions, which is why I never told her. Not only have I not wanted to discuss Beck, it’s felt like I physically couldn’t. I’ve gotten better about burying the ache, but it hasn’t faded the way I hoped. Every time I’m reminded of him, there’s a twinge, just like when my knee was injured. And it hasn’t healed the way that sprain did.

He plays with me like we’re equals, and that’s all I’ve ever wanted to be. I’m not keeping track of the score, which has never happened before. Even during scrimmages or practice, there’s a constant clicker in the back of my head. I love soccer, and it’s amplified around Beck. By Beck. Because we’re the same when it comes to this sport, in comparison to all the ways we’re different outside of it. Because he makes me better without saying a single word. Because I love him too, I think, not just the game we’re playing together.

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” “Beck.” He stills immediately. Then turns back around. Like he was expecting—hoping—I might stop him. I swallow. “We had our first preseason match a few weeks ago.” “I know.” There’s a sinking sensation in my stomach. “You, uh, saw the interview I did, then?” “After. They didn’t include it in the game coverage.” Game coverage? “Wait, you watched the game? My game?” “Yes.” He says it simply, like it should be no surprise. “Why?” “I wanted to see you play.” “You’ve seen me play.” “Not at home, with your team. I was curious.” He didn’t forget about me the second I left, at least. “That interview…it was stupid. I didn’t think you’d see it. That anyone would see it. It was a surprise any press even showed up for our scrimmage—it used to be a struggle to get them to come to our playoffs game—and I was distracted and just said the first thing that popped into my head and I didn’t know it would become a thing that⁠—” “Did you mean it?” I swallow. “Yes.” He clicks his tongue like he’s disappointed by that answer. “It wasn’t supposed to be about anything related to what happened between us,” I continue. “Just, you know, you as an athlete. It was a compliment. I’m sorry if you’re mad that I⁠—” Once again, he interrupts. “I’m not mad.” “You seem mad,” I state. “It would have been nice if you’d told me that yourself, is all.” “Told you what? It’s news to you that other soccer players have followed your career? Surprise, you’re famous.” He scoffs. “It’s news to ...

Truthfully, Beck was the only guy I looked twice at, the whole time I was in Germany. In the month since I’ve been back.

Beck starts toward the lodge, speaking rapid German. And all I can wonder, watching him walk away, is if he ever felt this awful any of the times that I did.

“You asked me why I came—you didn’t need to. You know the answer. I came to see you, Saylor.”

“Is it hard for you? Because I can’t figure out what I am to you. If I’m anything to you. You left after Scholenberg like it was nothing. Like it was easy for you.”

My voice lowers. “I thought–I thought we were just having fun…” “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself.” The words are inscrutable. I huff. “Like you didn’t.” He steps closer, and I pull in a quick breath. “Of course I did. Of course I want to fuck you again. But it was more than sex for me. I let you walk away because I thought it was a lost cause. But then you did that damn interview and I thought…” He runs a hand through his hair. “I thought that maybe it was more for you too. I guess I was wrong.” “You weren’t wrong. But I…” I chew on the inside of my cheek. “I don’t know how to do this, okay? Not at all, and definitely not with you.”

Most of me loves that Beck is such a major part of the soccer world. That he shares the same competitive fire. That he gets what being an athlete is like entirely, without me having to explain anything. That he easily accepts what others have called me crazy for. But it comes with one major downside. The attention one interview I mentioned his name during was overwhelming. I can’t imagine what it would be like on a larger scale. It’s what I’ll be known for. Any article about my career will include some reference to him. Dating Adler Beck would become my biggest accomplishment. That’s a sacrifice for me, one I’m not sure I’m willing to make.

“A lot of women want you.” “I want you.”

His smile only grows. “She’s not my type. I prefer strikers.” “She is a striker, Beck.” He shrugs. “I didn’t know that. Should tell you everything you need to know.”

“Relationships are complicated. Doesn’t mean they’re not worthwhile.”

“I don’t need a psychology degree to know I’ve got trust issues because Mom left, Hallie. That’s my shit to figure out…sometime.” She’s quiet for a minute. “Don’t let her take anything else, Saylor.”

Everyone’s focused on the bride’s arrival. I’m the only one who glances at my dad, taking in his expression. His smile is soft and a little stunned. A reaction I might have made fun of, once upon a time. Before I saw that same look on Beck’s face, aimed at me.

My mom took a lot when she left, just like Hallie said. She stole my belief that everything will be okay. Taught me that things don’t work out. Since I was five years old, I’ve reserved trust and faith in anyone except myself. You can’t let yourself down. And then I met Beck, and that changed. I’m realizing it changed, right now, as Sandra reaches my dad’s side and the ceremony begins. I’m not assuming my father’s second marriage will fail, that the love and happiness on his face will fade over time. I’m cynical, but I’m not certain of collapse. Because of Beck. Because…he makes me believe happy endings might be real. And I wish he was here, instead of so far away, so I could tell him that.

“Relying on people is not a mistake. Relying on someone who doesn’t rely on you is.

You’re strong, Saylor. So, so strong. You don’t need someone to hold you up, but it’s nice to have someone to lean on.”

“Change my mind about what?” “About me. About wanting me.” He doesn’t reply right away, so I brace myself for the worst. “I’m never going to change my mind about wanting you, Saylor.”

My chest feels a little lighter when I leave the post office. I’m bad with words. With feelings. But I saw the painting and thought of Beck, so I’m hoping he’ll look at it and think of me. Some physical acknowledgement that the time we’ve spent together mattered to me. That he means something to me.

I can’t believe he’s here. That he came all this way.

It still doesn’t feel real that he’s here. That he dropped everything and flew to see me—again. I’m flattered. I’m also anxious, registering what that means. He takes soccer as seriously as I do. Yet he came all this way—while in season—to talk to me. I’m not the only one strongly affected by this thing between us, like I’d selfishly assumed.

“I need to know if you’re letting me in or shutting me out, Saylor. Because the back and forth…I can’t keep doing it.”

I’m hurt, and I hate that I’m hurt. He’s given me so many chances, and I’ve blown every single one of them. Of course he’d reach a breaking point eventually. We all have one. “I will want you, regardless. But I can’t be in a relationship with someone who doesn’t answer my calls for two weeks.”

Having him in my life won’t help me win games. But he’ll be someone to call after each victory or loss. I’ve never had that support. Never realized it was something to look for until I found it.

“Me wanting you doesn’t mean much if you don’t want this too. Me coming here doesn’t matter if you keep running away.”

“Do you think I do this shit with other women, Saylor? Because I don’t.”

“I’ve never been sure about anything when it comes to you, Saylor, except you’re the one person who can make lying in the grass feel more thrilling than skydiving.”