First Flight, Final Fall

by C. W. Farnsworth

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply. “I’m guessing attire is casual?” I ask, nodding to his own outfit.

  “Wear whatever you want,” Beck replies in the indifferent tone most men have when it comes to fashion.

  “Well, I only have one outfit, so it shouldn’t be too hard of a choice,” I respond with a roll of my eyes, hopping off the bed to retrieve the shorts and top Beck dropped in a heap next to his hamper after yanking them off. At least it’s one of my cuter workout outfits, a matching tank top and shorts in a shade of light turquoise that draws out some of the blue in my eyes. Plus, I took a cab here, planning to run later, so it’s not even sweaty.

  I get dressed and then follow Beck out of his apartment into the hallway, although apartment is a bit of a misnomer. The square footage is probably double that of the house I grew up in. Beck’s door is the only one in the hallway. He has the top floor all to himself.

  We enter the elevator, and as soon as Beck taps the down button, we drop rapidly. I expect to see the marble lobby I entered earlier, but the door opens to a garage. I follow him over to his car, which is parked in the prime spot just to the left of the elevator doors. Once I settle into the passenger seat, we’re soon flying along the roads of Kluvberg. I take the opportunity to reply to Ellie finally, going for a garbled version of the truth.

  Nope, I’m meeting a guy for brunch.

  She replies immediately. OMG! Text me after.

  Great. More lies to concoct. Maybe I should just fess up.

  I switch my attention to Beck. “So, anything I should know?”

  “Hmm?” He keeps his eyes on the road, which I guess is a good thing.

  “Family skeletons? Awkward baby photos? Drama? What am I walking into here?”

  One corner, or at least the corner I can see, of Beck’s mouth lifts. “I wouldn’t be expecting any of that. You’ll probably be bored.”

  I eye him dubiously. It’s just now occurring to me, since he brought it up, that I’ve never been bored in Beck’s presence. Not once.

  “What if they ask about…” I make the same vague gesture between us I did earlier this morning.

  I’m not sure if Beck catches the motion I make, but he catches my meaning. “They won’t.” His voice is confident. “The media keeps them plenty well apprised of my sex life. They won’t be asking for details.”

  I have nothing to say to that, so the rest of the drive passes in silence. My sense of travel time is skewed thanks to Beck’s lead foot, but we take about forty-five minutes to reach a pair of black wrought-iron gates. I’d guess the trip was probably supposed to take an hour.

  I don’t say anything as we roll through the open gate and along a cobblestone driveway Beck has the sense to slow down for. I’m too busy gaping at the estate we’re driving toward. I shouldn’t be this shocked. I just left Beck’s penthouse suite that, if I had to guess, I’d estimate cost several million dollars. Logically, I know he, and his family, have money. Lots of it. But I’ve never lived anywhere besides the three-bedroom bungalow my parents bought when they got married, a dorm room, and the Colonial-style cottage I share with Cressida, Anne, and Emma that seems to need repairs constantly.

  The house before me looks far too dignified to contain leaky faucets or creaky floorboards. The Scholenberg house I’m staying in and the other residences I walk past daily are all designed in what I’ve come to recognize as traditional German style: brightly colored and half-timbered. But the mansion before me is Baroque in appearance, both symmetrical and stately. There’s a courtyard containing topiaries and statues that wouldn’t look out of place at a royal residence cradled between the two wings of the house that jut out to the left and right. Beck parks at the very edge of the cobblestones.

  “So, is your house behind the palace?” I ask, only half kidding.

  He grins. “Come on. We’re late.”

  “Oh, is that why you were driving like we were fleeing a crime scene?”

  Beck laughs. “No. I just like driving fast. And I’m not exactly worried about getting a ticket.”

  Of course he’s not. Any cop would probably just ask for his autograph.

  I follow him through the courtyard and glass-paneled doors into the marble entryway, feeling very out of place in my athletic apparel. One major I tried out before settling on public relations was architecture, and I feel like I’ve stepped inside one of the chateaus or palazzos we would study slideshows of in the intro class.

  There’s a flurry of German to the left, and a statuesque blonde girl who looks to be about my age appears, stopping at the bottom of the staircase.

  “Hi, Sophia,” Beck replies.

  The blonde switches to flawless English. “You brought a girl to brunch?” She sounds thoroughly displeased about it.

  “I thought you said you weren’t coming,” Beck replies.

  “Ah, that explains it. Plans change. People don’t, apparently.” She huffs out an annoyed sigh.

  I’m worried Beck’s managed to double-book his family brunch when she holds a hand out to me. “Hi, I’m Sophia Beck.”

  I see glimpses of the family resemblance. She’s got the same pronounced cheekbones and shiny blonde hair as her older brother. “Saylor Scott,” I respond, shaking her firm grip.

  “You’re American,” she realizes.

  “Yes,” I respond, tempted to make a joke but uncertain how it will be received. She still looks annoyed by my mere presence.

  “Are you a model?” she asks me.

  I laugh. “Ha. No. I play soccer. I mean, football.”

  Her eyebrows rise. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  “Are you any good?”

  “Yes,” I respond immediately.

  She laughs. “I like you, Saylor Scott.”

  “Thank you?” I reply, unsure how to take her quick about-face. But when her attention jumps right back to Beck, I realize bouncing between topics might just be her personality.

  “Do you not own any nice clothes?” Sophia asks him, surveying Beck’s clothes disdainfully.

  “Do you not own pants?” he retorts, studying Sophia’s admittedly short dress.

  “If I wanted your opinion, I would ask for it, Adler,” she retorts, and I have to admit it was worth coming just to see Beck get scolded by his little sister. It’s also the first time I’ve heard anyone address him by his first name, but I guess it makes sense. It would be strange to call someone by your own last name.

  Based on the wry twist of his lips, Beck notices my amusement. I’m distracted from his face when a massive tan and black animal appears around the corner and leaps on him. A loud bark alerts me to the fact that it’s a dog. A German Shepard, to be exact. I watch the exuberant canine leap and slobber all over Beck, who doesn’t seem the least bit fazed. He crouches down, allowing the excited dog to circle and rub against him. He murmurs something in German, and the dog’s tail wags even faster, something I hadn’t thought was possible. The whipping fur is generating enough of a breeze to be felt as it wafts across my bare legs.

  “My brother likes to act like he’s the shit, but he’s actually a big softie,” Sophia whispers to me. “At least when it comes to dogs.”

  “Interesting,” I muse.

  Beck raises his gaze to where the two of us are standing, eyes narrowing slightly as he watches us talk conspiratorially.

  “You should head out to the terrace,” Sophia instructs, not looking the least bit bothered by his scrutiny.

  “Why aren’t you coming out?” Beck asks, still looking suspicious.

  This time Sophia does look a bit guilty, shifting from foot to foot. “I may have invited Karl. He’ll be here any minute.”

  “Sophia! I thought you were—”

  “You do not get to have an opinion on my love life after what I’ve had to endure in school about…” There’s a quick glance at me, and then Sophia switches to German.

  Beck barks something back in his native tongue, and then I’m lost, feeling like I’ve stumble
d into the wrong theater and am stuck in a foreign film screening. Without subtitles.

  Sophia says something that makes Beck’s fists clench, and that’s when our trio turns into a quartet. A new voice spouts more German, and I turn to see Erika Lange—now Erika Beck—enter the imposing entryway. I straighten automatically. Beck’s mother isn’t in quite the same strata of notoriety as Christina Weber, but she’s close, and she probably would be if an ACL injury hadn’t cut her career short. Despite being in her fifties, she’s still got the lean build of an athlete, and her blonde hair only has a few ribbons of gray working their way through it. She’s stunning, in an ethereal, timeless way. It’s obvious where her children got their looks.

  Her voice is quieter than Beck and Sophia’s, but both of them fall silent as soon as she speaks what is clearly some sort of admonishment. Then she notices me and says something else in German. Beck jumps back in, and then Sophia laughs and says a few words.

  I wish I could get a transcript of this conversation to plug into Google Translate later, but they’re speaking too fast for me to catch so much as a single word to look up.

  “Hello. I’m Erika,” Beck’s mother says, switching to English and giving me a warm, albeit guarded smile.

  “I know,” I blurt.

  Her smile grows a bit more genuine. “You’re American,” she observes, echoing her daughter. I’m guessing it means the girls Beck referenced earlier have all been German.

  “Yes. That’s why I don’t know German. I mean, I didn’t think I’d need to know it. I’m just here for a few more weeks.” Oh my God, stop talking! I scold myself. “I think it’s a great language, though,” I add, worried I’ve somehow offended everyone in the room.

  Beck snorts at my side, and I elbow him in the stomach. Unfortunately, I think the contact hurts my arm more than his torso.

  “Are you here on a university trip? Or vacation?” Erika inquires politely, a small smile playing on her lips that I hope means she found my awkward babble charming and not idiotic.

  “I’m here for Scholenberg.” Both Sophia and Erika’s eyebrows rise. “I was just planning to play socc—football. That’s why I didn’t bother to learn any German. I wasn’t expecting to be around so many… Germans.”

  There’s a second snort beside me, and I jab Beck a bit harder this time. Still rock solid.

  “I’d love to hear more about Scholenberg,” Erika remarks. “I haven’t seen Christina in ages. She’s still the head coach, yes?”

  “She’s more of a drill sergeant, but yes,” I reply.

  Erika laughs.

  “Where’s Papa?” Beck asks, strolling farther into the mansion.

  “On the terrace,” Erika replies. “It’s so nice out I thought we’d eat outside.”

  We walk through a tastefully decorated living room, leaving Sophia behind in the soaring entryway to wait for the mysterious Karl. I’m guessing they covered that in the German portion of the conversation.

  The terrace is covered by a wooden lattice woven with bright greenery that shades the table and chairs beneath it. It overlooks a broad stretch of grass framed by tall, trimmed hedges that block any neighbors.

  Seated at the head of the table is a tall, silver-haired man I immediately know is Beck’s father. Hans Beck raises his head from the newspaper when we approach, blue eyes flitting between his wife and son, then to me. He snaps the paper back into its original fold and tucks it under the place setting already set out on the table.

  Beck and Sophia favor their mother in appearance. Hans Beck cuts an intimidating figure, with a domineering presence similar to Beck’s, but it’s a rougher one. His face is tough and weathered, and what remains of his original hair color is darker than the rest of his family’s, combed back neatly to emphasize his hewn features.

  Beck says something in German to his father that I’m guessing is a greeting. “Hello.” Hans greets me in a gruff tone. Or maybe Beck was instructing him to address me in English.

  “Hi, Mr. Beck.” I hold out a hand to shake his. “I’m Saylor Scott.”

  “Hans is fine,” he replies, studying me curiously.

  I shift nervously under his scrutiny. I don’t know what is wrong with me. I’m not easily starstruck. I’ve met dozens of famous former athletes before and wasn’t the least bit nervous. I managed to beat Beck in a shootout the first time we met, for fuck’s sake. I know their names, but Erika and Hans Beck retired before I was even born. I’ve never seen either of them play. And yet I’m acting like a teenager meeting my date’s parents before prom.

  “Your home is beautiful.” I sweep a hand toward the yard like they’re not aware their back lawn looks like it could be featured on the cover of a gardening magazine.

  “Thank you,” Erika says graciously. “Saylor is here attending Scholenberg,” she informs Hans.

  Something that looks like respect glints in blue eyes the same shade as Beck’s. “Congratulations. That’s a competitive program.”

  “Thank you,” I respond. “I’m a competitive person.”

  There’s a small twitch of his mouth, and I’m fairly certain it’s as close to smiling as Hans Beck gets. “The best athletes are,” he replies.

  I smile.

  There’s a chattering of German, and then Sophia appears in the opening between the french doors with a guy with light brown hair close behind. He’s handsome in a preppy, male-model kind of way that’s been artfully prepared. His t-shirt displays the faded logo for a band I’ve seen advertised around Kluvberg, and gel glints in his hair, suggesting the messy look he’s sporting is purposeful.

  Erika greets him first. “Hello, Karl.”

  There’s a pause. “Karl,” Hans grunts.

  I watch Sophia level Beck with a sharp glance. “Hi, Karl,” he says.

  I look at Karl, only to see he’s already staring at me; in a way that seems a bit more appropriate for a poorly lit bar than a family brunch. “Hey, Karl,” I say casually. “I’m Saylor. Nice to meet you.”

  His eyes widen when he registers my American accent, and then his eyes drift downward over my body. I thought Beck was just being protective earlier, but it seems Karl is not the most upstanding of teenagers.

  “I’m hungry,” Beck says abruptly. “Is the food ready?”

  “Yes, it is.” Erika lurches into motion. “Take your seats, everyone.”

  Hans returns to the same chair he was seated in previously, and I round the edge of the table to sit on the side facing the house. There are six chairs, but only five place settings. Obviously, my attendance wasn’t planned upon. I 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. “I’ve gotten the impression you like it when I’m not a gentleman,” he mutters back.

  “How exactly did I give you that impression?” I ask innocently, still keeping my voice quiet as I brush my arm against his.

  “Saylor.” There’s a note of warning in his voice, but the syllables of my name also sound thicker than usual.

  I grin triumphantly. I bet he’s hard.

  I’m distracted from our flirting when my name is said again, this time in a bubbly, female voice.

  “Yes?” I reply, turning to look at Sophia.

  “I was wondering if you’d like a tour of the house?” she asks.

  “Sure,” I reply, standing. I don’t miss the way Karl’s eyes follow my movements as I walk back around the table to the doors that lead inside. As we enter the living room, I hear Hans ask Beck something in German.

  “This is the living room,” Sophia announces, smiling widely and spinning in the center of the plush rug. The color scheme is muted, and one I’m pretty certain was crafted by a professional interior decorator. It’s almost too perfect; the light grays, pale pinks, a
nd muted blues melding together like an early morning sunrise. There’s an oil painting hanging above the fireplace that depicts an old building, some sort of cathedral or church, I think. Below it a series of photographs rest on the mantle.

  There are several staged family portraits and a few candid shots. One in particular catches my attention, and I study it closely. A sixteen-year-old Beck stands between his two parents, beaming. I know he’s sixteen because of the stadium in the background, the German flag draped across his shoulders. It’s a snapshot of the moment following his breakout performance that allowed Germany to win a championship.

  “Do your parents play?” Sophia asks me, following my gaze.

  “No,” I reply, laughing a little at the thought. “I don’t think either of them have even seen a game.”

  “Not even yours?” Sophia asks, sounding surprised.

  “Nope,” I respond, keeping my tone light. “Have you ever played?”

  Sophia scoffs. “Definitely not. They’re a hard act to follow.” She nods to the photo of her parents and brother.

  “Did you want to?” I ask, curious to hear her perspective after what Beck had to say about Sophia enjoying the perks without the pressure.

  “Not really. I still remember the first time we played football in school. My parents had retired already, Adler was only at the academy, but everyone still expected me to play, to be good. It was exhausting. I don’t know how Adler does it, to be honest.”

  “Do you guys get along?” I ask curiously. “It seemed like I was walking into some pretty thick tension earlier. Not that I understood anything.”

  Sophia laughs. “Yeah, we do. For the most part, anyway. It was mostly because of—well, you.”

  “Me?” I say, surprised.

  “Not you, specifically. Just that he brough home another girl.”

  “So…. he brings a lot of girls home?” I ask. Not that it matters.

  Sophia nods. “He promised to cut it out, but then, well…”

  “He brought me,” I surmise.