Three Years Later
Hamburg, Germany
“Benni! Benni!”
“Schieß den Ball empfindlich!”
Benedikt Breslau snapped to
attention as his friends burst out laughing, and a slow grin slid up his face
as he recognized why. Christian’s
words. Kick the ball sensitive!
Benedikt assumed he meant endlich. Kick
the ball, already! Though fluent in
seven other languages, Christian Rasmussen still had not been able to get a
handle on German, despite living there for eighteen months now. He moved to Hamburg to join FC St. Bonifaz
Hamburg, the team that they all played for, and, for the most part, he fit
right in. But despite his language
savvy, German was not Christian’s strong suit, and with the way Benedikt—and
nearly every other member of the team—had rescued Christian in interviews from
a translation-gone-wrong, he was surprised all of Germany didn’t know it by now.
He watched, with a slow grin, as
Florian Schiffer, the newer midfielder that Benedikt had taken under his
wing—adopted as a little brother, in a way—half-tackled Christian, while the
Dane grumbled something about perfekt
dansk sarcastically under his breath.
It was going to be a good day.
The sun had peaked out from the
clouds that had dumped torrential downpour on Hamburg—and the majority of
Germany, actually—for the past four days, and excitement was in the air. It was the final game of the Bundesliga,
Germany’s premier football competition, and St. Bonifaz had done well this
year. In forty minutes, they’d take on
FC Bayern München, who was arguably the best football team in the country. He could feel the excitement already building
in the stadium as it filled. Benedikt
was sure it’d fill to capacity today.
This was the game that would break the tie between Bayern’s and St.
Bonifaz’s rankings, and all of Germany was eager to see how the game would play
out. If the sun stayed out, despite the
muddy field, today would be a great day for a football match.
He could feel the excitement sizzling
in the air, and knew his parents would arrive soon. He wasn’t too old—or too stuck-up—to not
appreciate having them around, and he looked forward to sharing the day with
them. He looked forward to sharing the
day with all of Germany.
“Okay, okay,” he called to Florian
and Christian. “Break it up.”
Florian jumped off Christian’s back
with a grin, and Christian pretended to nurse his wounded pride.
Benedikt sent the ball flying over
Florian’s head, just for the fun of it, and as he went to chase it down,
Benedikt took the opportunity to glance up at the stadium seating again.
She wasn’t there.
It was the first time, he noticed, that
that she wasn’t. At least, the first
time since she’d begun attending their home games, late last September. She would show up, forty-five minutes before
the game, book in hand, and she’d sit on the front row, one eye on her book,
the other watching him (and whichever friends he could get to brave Karsten
Kohler’s wrath) warm up, like they usually did before a home game.
Everything about her intrigued and
perplexed him. She sat on the front row,
like an avid fan, but she came in sundresses and cardigans, braids and scarves,
pea coats and leggings. It wasn’t hard
for her to stand out from the crowd. She
never came with anyone, nor painted her face, nor wore a St. Bonifaz jersey,
like most avid football fans. She would
be content to read her book all night long, he surmised, and a football stadium
couldn’t have been her natural hide-out, he knew. She was intriguing. So what brought her, so religiously, to St.
Bonifaz’s stadium?
He couldn’t help but wonder if she’d
show up today. In a way, she’d sort of
become his good-luck charm. He usually
didn’t put stock in such things, and he definitely wasn’t the superstitious
type of person—at least, not as superstitious as most athletes—but even the
newspapers had picked up on his “home advantage,” and he had no other way to
explain it.
Benedikt doubted he’d ever meet her,
and he wasn’t sure he really felt the need to, but he liked having her around.
“Whoa—hey!” Benedikt shouted as he
brought his hands up to protect his face, and ducked to avoid getting hit with
the football. “Watch where you kick that
thing!”
He went to chase the ball, and when
he returned, Florian was grinning back at him proudly. “Should have been paying more attention to
the ball, dude! What’s so exciting up
there, anyway?”
“Nothing!” he shot back a little too
quickly to be believable, but he kicked the ball to Caspar with enough power to
hopefully get their attention back on their “warm-up”. It really wasn’t enough exercise to proper be
defined as a warm-up, but they weren’t playing an actual game. They came out here mostly because Benedikt
loved to people-watch as the stadium filled, and kicking around the football
was as good an excuse as any. They’d
rather made a habit of it, shortly after Benedikt had joined the team, and it
had sort of become a St. Bonifaz tradition, watching the boys hang out before
the actual game.
They managed to go unnoticed by
Karsten Kohler, the head coach for St. Bonifaz, for nearly 20 more minutes,
while they joked around and Benedikt greeted the new fans who came to sit down
within shouting range. He’d even tried
to talk a little six-year-old boy, Jonas, to come kick the ball around with
them. The boy’s father would have let
him, too, until Caspar and Christian talked Benedikt out of it, spewing
caricatures of Karsten’s threats.
It was really a perfect set-up for
Benedikt—he got to interact with the fans on a controlled basis, like he loved,
but he also took his friends’ minds off the coming game, and the expected
jitters. Fans knew to come early for a
St. Bonifaz game.
Benedikt was just greeting a set of
twin boys and their parents, handing out high-fives, when he heard it. “BENEDIKT!”
The voice came from the opening in
the stadium closest to the locker room. Only
one person shouted his name that way, and it put the holy fear of God into his
friends. He turned around and grinned at
Karsten Kohler sheepishly.
There he stood, hands on his hips,
clearly unhappy. He’d complained many a
time about Benedikt warming up before a game on the football field while the
stadium was still filling, but Benedikt did it anyway. Mostly because he knew he could get away with
it, and he liked seeing their fans show up.
He loved being a part of the German football world, signing autographs
when asked, feeling the excitement building in the air before a big game. Hamburg had always been his home, but, more
than that, this stadium had become his home, and he loved sharing it with the
German football community. He was far
and wide considered St. Bonifaz’s golden boy, Karsten Kohler’s prized
weapon. The striker who could make any
goal. Karsten, who was barely nine years
his senior, clearly adored him, and Benedikt knew he could charm his way into
getting away with just about anything when it came to the head coach of their
team.
Benedikt glanced at Christian and
grinned. “Uh-oh. The volcano’s about to explode.”
Christian rolled his eyes as he
scooped up the football with his left arm.
“You know,” he said with a lazy grin, “one day he’s going to explode and
there will be nothing you can do to keep away from his wrath.”
Benedikt grinned. “Maybe.
But that day’s not today.”
He glanced up at the overcast sky as
he jogged after Christian and the others, and sighed, happy. Mercifully, the torrential downpour that had
cursed Hamburg for the past three days had abated. He could feel the sizzling excitement in the
air, could already hear the fans chatting about the game to come. If they were lucky, the rain would stay up in
the heavens, and they’d have a cool afternoon for a really good football match.
As he reached the edge of the field,
he slowed to a walk. Lord, let it be a good day, he breathed.
‡ ‡ ‡
Grace
grinned as she jumped on her little brother’s back. “Sammy!”
Sam groaned as he braced himself,
adjusting Grace on his back. “Gracie!”
he complained.
She grinned as she hugged his neck
and rested her chin on top of his head.
She could see the whole stadium from where she sat, perched on his back,
and she knew this was going to be a good day.
She hummed happily. “I’m just
glad you’re here.”
She’d moved to Hamburg in September,
to accept a first-chair violinist position for the Philharmoniker Internationale,
the prestigious philharmonic orchestra based in Hamburg that collected the best
and brightest musicians from all over the world and whose music was world-renowned. She hadn’t wanted to come. In fact, originally, she’d ignored it as an
option. She had no desire to leave
home. She’d always been a home body,
with nary an adventurous bone in her body, and was loathe to leave her family
and her best friend, Emmy, who meant the world to her. And if Henry ever came back, she wanted to be
there for him. But as soon as Sam had
found out, she was as good as gone. Her
whole family ganged up on her, refused to hear the word no. She hated that they were
so nosy sometimes, but she just had to look at the kindness, wisdom, and pain
in her mother’s eye to know Helene Saint-Dreyfus was right. She had been driving herself crazy in
Boston. Everything reminded her of
Henry, and what she’d lost, so, in the end, it was mere survival. A new start.
There had been no leads in Henry’s case for over two years, and, as much
as it pained her, she needed to start letting him go. So here she was, and at least Hamburg didn’t
bring Henry to mind at every street corner.
But it had been a long eight months without Sam, Emmy, her parents, and
her grandfather.
“Where am I going?”
She gestured down toward the
front. “Over there. Do you want me to get down?” she asked,
letting her legs fall.
He grabbed them and secured her
tighter to his back, turning around to grin at her. “Gracie, relax. You’re lighter than a birdie.”
She grinned and hugged him
again. She’d missed him. As cautious and safe as she was, Sam was the
total opposite—adventurous and impulsive.
If either one of them had decided to move to Europe for a job, she would
have pegged it on Sam, but here she was, living in this beautiful, ancient
European city, and she’d felt all alone.
Having him here made her feel human again.
He was attending college on a full
soccer scholarship, and seeing a Bundesliga game was the only item on his list
of things he wanted to do while in Germany.
She knew that he eventually wanted to play for a German team, if given
the opportunity, and she was happy to share this moment with him.
She didn’t know how he’d convinced
her to buy a St. Bonifaz jersey, or why she’d let him talk her into painting
her face the St. Bonifaz colors—maroon and navy blue. Sam exuded life, and she lived just a little
bit more with him around.
He led them to their seats, and she
slipped to the ground, and took her seat.
She watched, with a smile, as Sam took it all in. He was enthralled with the place. Football—although he still probably called it
soccer—was his whole world, and she laughed as he exclaimed over every new
discovery.
Being here with Sam just made these
frequent football games all the more special.
Football was a family affair, and she’d attended countless of Sam’s
games with her parents, her grandfather, and even Grandma Daisy, when she’d
been alive. When she’d started dating
Henry, he’d come, too, and sometimes even brought his little sister, Audrey. Attending the games had made her
feel a little less homesick.
Shortly after she’d moved to
Hamburg, her cousin, Christian Rasmussen, had gotten ahold of her, and invited
her to come to one of his games. She had
known he was a footballer for a German team, but she hadn’t known his team was
centered in Hamburg. Up until then, she
hadn’t known Christian very well, but they made a habit of hanging out,
afterward, and Christian had quickly become one of her best friends. She loved that in the middle of this vast and
foreign country, at least she had Christian.
And someone to cheer for. She’d
missed being at Sam’s games, cheering him on, watching him succeed, and she
loved that she got to do it for Christian, now.
Sam pointed to the field. “No, way.
Is that Christian?”
Grace glanced to where her brother
was pointing. Several St. Bonifaz
footballers were jogging off the field, one of whom had Rasmussen written
across his back. She grinned as she
bumped shoulders affectionately with her little brother. “Yeah.
Several of the St. Bonifaz footballers always come out and kick a
football around before the game. I don’t
know why. The coach always comes out to
yell at them. Sometimes Christian’s
there, but not always.”
She glanced at Sam, and saw the
yearning in his eyes. She could just
tell that he wanted to get down there, to test his mettle against
Christian’s. “Just wait. You’re going to love tonight.”
‡ ‡ ‡
Benedikt
couldn’t contain the grin on his face as he emerged onto the football field,
absorbing the raucous applause. He loved
being a footballer. He loved being a
part of something so iconic, so international.
When he entered a football stadium full of fans, he couldn’t help the
grin that followed. Everything about
being a footballer for FC St. Bonifaz Hamburg was a dream come true.
As the announcer began to speak, the
crowds quieted a little, and Benedikt took the opportunity to look around. He’d wondered if she made it, after all. As his eyes scanned the arena for the girl
with the dress, he almost missed her. He
would have, if he hadn’t memorized the shape of her face, that same seat she
always sat in.
But he finally spotted her, and a
grin lit up his face. He wasn’t sure why
it mattered so much that she was here, but he was finally put at ease when he
saw her.
Today, however, was different from
all the other games. She was dressed in
a St. Bonifaz jersey and jeans. And her
face was painted! No book, no dress, and
surprise of surprises, she wasn’t alone.
She was talking animatedly to the guy on her left, touching his arm with
her hand and pointing things out to him, and at one point, she wrapped her arms
around him in an impulsive hug.
She had a boyfriend.
She must really like him, too,
because he effortlessly pulled that grin out of her, caused her to throw back
her head in laughter.
Benedikt forced himself to turn
away, to grin at the cheering crowds. He
was happy for her. She deserved to be
happy—with her head in her book, her eyes so somber and serious. She deserved something good in her life, and
if that athletic-looking blond could give it to her, then all the better.
He needed to get his head in the
game. Girl or not, this was the biggest
game of the year, and everyone was depending on him. He didn’t even know her. And he wanted to hear the papers singing his
friends’ praises in the morning, not those of Manuel Neuer and Thomas Müller.
‡ ‡ ‡
“Benni! Benni!”
Benedikt whipped his head around
behind him, breaking free just in time to contact with the ball, sailing for
his chest. Despite all the joking around
they did, he and Christian worked exceptionally well together, and the risks
they took in the sport usually paid off in their benefit.
It was 25 minutes into the second
half, and the game was going well.
Christian had scored a goal early in the first half, and, although
Bayern had scored fifteen minutes later there was only twenty minutes remaining
in the game, St. Bonifaz was performing above average, and Benedikt was
confident that they could win. The rain
had picked up again at the beginning of the second half—a slow drizzle at
first, but it had picked up in intensity, and the rain dripped into his eyes
and would blur his vision if he wasn’t careful.
He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back, hopefully to
redirect it from dripping into his eyes.
The ball bounced off his chest, and
when it hit the ground, he stopped it with his foot to gain a bit of control as
he assessed his surroundings. Jack
Appleby, the other St. Bonifaz striker, an Australian, had broken free, and was
waiting, should Benedikt not be able to make the shot. Benedikt could see him running scenarios in
his head, preparing for any situation.
Bayern’s goalkeeper, Manuel Neuer, stood at the ready. He had a free shot to the goal.
He lined up to make the shot, and
just as he did, he felt the leg of a Bayern defender snake around his to steal
the ball. For one second, he lost his
cool, his sense of determination and focus, and he blindly shot the ball out of
reach.
At the last second, his range of
motion hampered by the defender, he slipped on the mud, and the ball went
flying out of his control.
Benedikt fell with a crash, his legs
tangled with those of the Bayern defender.
His head bounced off the other man’s before he slid to the ground
completely, and he groaned as he lifted his head off the ground, trying to see
where the ball had gone, as the announcers exploded into conversation. He didn’t see it anywhere, and his eyes
lifted, of their own accord, to the girl in the stands. Her hands were covering half of her face, and
tears were forming in her pain-filled eyes.
A sick feeling started to build in
his gut. It was the only option, the
only thing that could have
happened. The ball he had kicked had
slammed into her face. He’d probably
broken her nose.
He felt sick.
Benedikt scrambled to his feet,
horrified, only to find himself pulled back down to the ground, hard, from
behind. He whipped his head around to
find Caspar Gottlieb staring at him hard, daring him to move. When it looked like he was going to climb to
his feet again, Caspar gave him the stink-eye.
“Benedikt, I swear. Don’t move.”
If anyone understood Benedikt’s need
to get up to her, to make sure it was all right, it was Caspar. He was the most compassionate—and wise—man
Benedikt knew, and he saw something Benedikt couldn’t, in his feverish attempts
to get to the girl. She needed medical
attention, rather than an apology, and Benedikt would just be in the way.
Caspar beckoned to the paramedic
waiting to look at Benedikt. He wasn’t
even sure his friend had realized that he might be injured, after the fall he’d
taken.
“Are you hurt, Mr. Breslau?” the
paramedic asked, flashing a light in Benedikt’s eyes, checking for a
concussion.
He tried to wave the paramedic
away. “No. I’m fine.
Just… help the girl.”
The paramedic helped him to his
feet. “Any pain anywhere? Dizziness?”
Benedikt tried to push him
away. “No. I’m fine.”
The paramedic nodded and backed
away, and as Bayern threw the ball back into play, Benedikt sighed and cast a
lingering glance at the girl as she was led out of the stadium. He felt sick to his stomach. What had he done?
‡ ‡ ‡
“Oncle
Benoît!”
Benedikt grinned in spite of his
frustration with the game. Even with the
fall he’d taken, Matthias Ritter, one of the midfielders, had managed to make
the winning goal twelve seconds before the end of the last half, and they’d
held their own through the penalty time afterward. But his whole game had been off. That goal should have been his. And he had attacked his muse. Even if he caught up with her at the
hospital, she might never forgive him, and he wouldn’t blame her for a second.
But that little voice had the power
of one thousand suns to brighten his day.
Amélie Schuster.
She was the four-year-old daughter
of Pascal Schuster, St. Bonifaz’s prominent goalkeeper, and another of
Benedikt’s best friends. Pax was half
French, half German, so he was teaching Amélie French before German. Benedikt loved her like a niece or an adopted
daughter, and her affection for him was cemented by his ability to speak to her
in her own language, a feat most people she knew did not possess.
She was the only one who could make
today better. The newspapers would be
talking about him tomorrow, but not in the flattering way he had been hoping
for.
Amélie was already running to him,
and he grabbed her under the arms and threw her into the air, grinning as she
giggled the whole way down. She made a
face when her little hands landed on his rain-and-sweat-soaked jersey. “Ew!!” she squealed, her laughter pealing
across the field as he tickled her sides mercilessly. “You’re sweaty, Uncle Benedikt.”
He laughed in return. “Your daddy’s sweatier than me.”
She glanced over at her father and
wrinkled her nose. “At least he doesn’t
stink.”
Benedikt feigned a look of horror,
although Pax’s was genuine. “Amélie!”
He laughed. “Just wait until I teach you football one
day. Then you’ll be just as stinky as
me.”
Amélie ran her little fingers
through his sweat-and-rain-soaked hair, pushing it away from his forehead. “Uncle Benedikt?”
“Yeah, baby?” he asked.
“Did you really break that lady’s
nose?”
Benedikt sobered at the image of
her, her hands covering her bloodied nose, pain and tears welling in her eyes,
as her boyfriend gently unplastered her hands from her face, and the paramedic
took a look. He felt sick with regret.
He gave Amélie a sad smile and
nodded. “Yeah, baby, I think I did. But that’s why I gotta go,” he said, kissing
her temple affectionately before he handed her back to her father. “But I’m gonna see you Saturday afternoon for
lunch, right?”
Her little brow furrowed. “Why, Uncle Benedikt?”
Benedikt was hosting a lunch among
his closest friends—almost all of which included friends from the football team
and their family, but also his parents, Peter and Annie. Christian, Caspar, and Pascal would all be there,
along with Jack, and Florian.
Pascal took Amélie back and planted
raspberry kisses all over her face.
“Because we’re going to Uncle Benedikt’s house for lunch.”
Amélie’s face lit up, and she
reached out and wrapped her arms around Benedikt’s neck in a childish hug, and
she kissed his cheek. “Au revoir, Oncle
Benoît!”
He grinned and waved to her as he
walked away, only to walk straight into Sascha Schwarzkopf, one of the most
well-known sports reporters in Hamburg.
“Sascha, call me later, and I’ll tell you whatever you want to know about
the game.”
He didn’t bother turning to see if
the reporter had heard him, and was relieved to find Caspar already at his
side. Caspar nodded toward the exit and
guided his friend with a hand on his back, compassion evident on his face. If anyone understood his heart, it was Caspar
Gottlieb. “C’mon, Ben. I’ll take you to the hospital.”
‡ ‡ ‡
Benedikt
jogged up to the counter of the emergency room nurses’ station, breathless,
and, with relief, his eyes landed on the nurse sitting behind the desk. Caspar had dropped him off at the emergency
room entrance, and had left to park, promising to follow him in as soon as he
could.
He gave the nurse his best grin,
and, after another deep breath, he said, “Hello. I’m looking for the girl that was brought in
from the St. Bonifaz-Bayern football game?
She would have been brought in about forty minutes ago. Petite, long dark hair, St. Bonifaz jersey
on, painted face? She had a broken
nose?”
The nurse looked up from her
computer. “Do you have a name?”
“No,” he answered sheepishly. “I’m sorry.
I was playing football on the field.
If the announcers said her name, I missed it.”
She looked at her computer again, and
she looked like she might have found something.
“Please,” he interjected. “I have
to see her.”
The nurse at the desk hesitated like
she was going to tell him she couldn’t help him, and despair set in. He wasn’t going to see her, after all. And then, he’d never see her again, because,
after what he’d done, what reason did she have to come back? She was his muse, his inspiration, and he’d
shot a football at her face. He’d broken
her cute, pert nose.
The football season was over, so
even if she did come back, it
wouldn’t be for months.
“Bitte,” Caspar called out behind
him, and Benedikt turned, relieved that his friend was here in the middle of it
all. Please. “Can’t you see how miserable he is?” Caspar stood at Benedikt’s side, arm wrapped
around Bendikt’s shoulders. “This is Benedikt Breslau,” he said, giving him a
little shake. “Famous footballer? The Bundesliga’s golden boy? He slipped in the mud and nailed that girl in
the face. He feels terrible. He just wants to apologize to her, make sure
she’s okay. Can’t you help us?”
The nurse sighed. “I’m sorry, I can’t. She’s already gone, you see.”
Benedikt studied her
incredulously. “Gone?”
The nurse smiled gently back at
him. “Yes. Gone.
She’s fine. There was no
corrective surgery required, and she left not five minutes ago.”
Benedikt didn’t know whether to be
despondent or relieved at that. She was
okay. She’d be okay. But he’d been looking forward to meeting the
girl behind the pretty face, if only for five minutes. To find somehow to thank her, even if he
didn’t say it outright, for inspiring him to play better. But mostly, to say sorry. Because, of all the people Benedikt Breslau
loved—and there were many—he’d never wanted to hurt a soul.
He sighed. “Thank you.”
He turned, dejected, toward the
doors, and he heard Caspar whispering his echoed gratitude to the nurse before
he caught up to Benedikt. “C’mon,” he
said, leading Benedikt back to where he’d parked his car.
“Where are we going?”
He dialed a number by memory and
held his phone up to his ear, even as he turned to look at Benedikt. “You need to blow off some steam after that,
to let it go. It’s just a broken nose,
and I’m sure she knows you didn’t mean to, but you’re going to keep beating yourself
up about it, because I know you. And you
need to get all that frustration off your chest. There’s only one way I know to do that.”
As the person on the other end of
the phone picked up, Caspar spoke into his phone. “Hey, Pascal.
Do me a favor and round up the guys.
No, no, no… just Florian, Jack,
Christian, maybe Matthieu and Sebastian?
Meet us at that park with the new football field by that French café
Florian likes so much.” There was a
pause. “No, bring Amélie, too. She can watch if she likes.”
Caspar finished up the call and
unlocked his car, nodded for Benedikt to get in. “They’re coming,” he said with a grin as he
pulled his door shut behind him.
Benedikt wasn’t sure he agreed with
the logic of playing more football after just winning a game—they should be
celebrating, and most of the team probably was—but it was unspoken, among them,
the fact that they weren’t just friends or coworkers. They were family, and if Benedikt needed
their help, they’d be there.
And if anyone could break him out of
his sour mood, it was Amélie Schuster and his friends.
