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“If you’re doing the same as everyone else, you’re not going to be the best.”
Adler Beck may be German, but he’s mastered the French kiss.
He’s not here. Logically, I know that. But I keep waiting, pretending he’ll be standing over me any minute.
But I’m cycling through reasons why he could have possibly come here, and keep coming up with only one. Me.
“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’re not millions of other people to me.”
“You watching me play, you following my career, you saying I inspired you—that’s different from millions of other people doing those things.”
“You asked me why I came—you didn’t need to. You know the answer. I came to see you, Saylor.”
“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.”
“Do you think I do this shit with other women, Saylor? Because I don’t.”
“I don’t want to go skydiving with you, Saylor. I want to be the person you rely on when you’re acting like you can do everything on your own.”
Saylor Scott is it for me. No other woman will ever compare. She’s been in my life for almost exactly a year, and I can barely remember what it looked like before we met. Before
Our long-distance relationship has never felt like a sacrifice, because I don’t want anyone else.
But I know, kissing Saylor beneath the stars, that no moment in my life will ever matter more than this one.
