“Do you still want that rematch?” I ask. “I’ll let you pick the prize this time.” He looks at me like I’m insane. “There’s no goalie.” “So?” “So, there won’t be a winner.” I grin. “That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Beck is arguably the best soccer player in the world. Yet he’s never once made me feel inferior, treated me as any less because I haven’t signed a pro contract or because I’m a woman. It’s one of many attractive things about him.
