First Flight, Final Fall

  FIRST FLIGHT, FINAL FALL

  Copyright © 2021 by C.W. Farnsworth

  Print ISBN: 9798714971440

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Editing by C. Marie

  Proofreading by Burden of Proofreading

  Cover Design by Okay Creations

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books By This Author

  To everyone who has supported my writing so far.

  You are the reason this book exists.

  Prologue

  Find beauty in the broken pieces. That’s what my mother used to tell me. My father would scoff and say life is about accomplishments, not beauty.

  Given the fundamental difference in those two ideologies, it’s probably not a massive surprise their marriage crashed spectacularly, but my five-year-old self was not expecting to leave for my first soccer game with two parents and come home to one.

  Maybe I should have hated the sport after that; resented it for the loss that took place during the hour I kicked the black and white ball into the goal for the first time, clueless to the fact that my mother was speeding out of the town limits at that very same moment.

  I did the opposite.

  I shut out everything besides soccer.

  After we became a family of three, my older sister Hallie retreated into normal things like friends, boys, and school.

  My father retreated into destructive things like alcohol, insane work hours, and a series of flings with women half his age.

  I played soccer.

  If my teachers had gotten ahold of my father, they probably would have passed on their concerns that my obsession with soccer was unhealthy. That I sketched passing drills on the sides of my worksheets and read biographies about legends in the sport during class.

  If my coaches had been able to get ahold of my father, they probably would have informed him I had heaps of natural talent and a work ethic that put the Energizer Bunny to shame.

  Instead, I shrugged at my teachers and informed my coaches of all the things I still needed to work on.

  Before she left, my mother would say she named me Saylor because it sounded bold.

  Fearless.

  Brave.

  It was the only thing she left me with that I took to heart.

  To Hallie’s credit, she tried to fill the gaping hole left by our mother’s literal departure and our father’s metaphorical one. Even so, we were never close, due to both our six-year age gap and our polar opposite personalities.

  And it wasn’t just Hallie. I didn’t let anyone in. Not my many friends, not my soccer teammates, not any of the boys I’d kiss under the bleachers.

  I never wanted to.

  Until him.

  Chapter One

  I tend not to think before I speak.

  “Yellow is really not your color, Anne,” I inform my redheaded housemate as she enters the kitchen through the opening to my right. “Red and yellow should only be combined on a hot dog.”

  Anne rolls her eyes as she grabs a hard seltzer from the fridge.

  “Don’t be a bitch, Saylor,” Cressida chastises. She doesn’t look up from the chocolate cake she’s icing as she scolds me. Multitasking at its finest.

  “Saylor can’t help it. It’s her default setting,” my best friend and co-captain Emma Watkins contributes as she mixes whatever disgusting cocktail she’s come up with tonight.

  I flip Emma off. “I’m just being honest,” I retort from my perch on the kitchen counter as I drum my bare feet against the cabinet below the butcher block. My body is thrumming with excess energy. The last time I missed my daily run was three months ago, thanks to the snowstorm that hit right before the start of winter break.

  If only extreme weather were at fault today. Instead, there was my father’s unexpected phone call, followed by a half-hour lecture from my older sister Hallie to detail the many, many ways in which I did not respond appropriately to the news that our father is getting remarried sixteen years after our mother zoomed off solo into the metaphorical sunset.

  Actually, lecture is probably the wrong word.

  Hallie made it clear my lackluster “okay” wasn’t what our father was hoping for, but most of our conversation was her going on about how wonderful it is that our father is finally settling down with an age-appropriate, stable woman who’s just as boring as he is. I added the last adjective—boring—in my mind while I painted my nails bubblegum pink and scrolled through social media on my laptop. I wouldn’t have even indulged the conversation if not for the fact that Hallie’s eight months pregnant. She’s a worrier, and I didn’t want sending her into an early labor on my conscience.

  “Ignore her, Anne. She’s having a bad day, and she’s drunk,” Cressida explains, smoothing things over like always—as she literally spreads chocolate icing.

  I shrug because both are true. Doesn’t mean I’m wrong about the bright yellow top, but I don’t care enough to press the point. I’ve got other things to worry about, like which sports team captain to bring back here tonight. I’ve narrowed it down to lacrosse or hockey when Anne interrupts my inner debate.

  “Bad day? I thought you were celebrating, Saylor?”

  I shrug again. My interest in sharing what prompted my quick trip from euphoric morning to vexed afternoon is nonexistent. Given the fact that I’m the only player on Lancaster University’s women’s soccer team who has never had a family member attend a game, I’m sure my teammates have all surmised my upbringing was not the idyllic white-picket-fence-golden-retriever fantasy many of them took for granted. The best part of coming to Lancaster was finally shedding the sympathetic stares regarding my perennial lack of parenting. I’m in no mood to expound upon my fractured family—even to my best friends. It will either lead to pitiful looks and awkward apologies, or more of the amateur-family-therapist lines Hallie spouts at me.

  “It’s not that big of a deal. I knew I would get in.” I down a third shot of gin. It’s the only liquor I’ll touch.

  My brash words are a stretch. I was confident, sure, but Scholenberg is the most exclusive training camp in the world. I wasn’t just competing for admission against the top college-aged players in the United States, but around the world. An invitation is an honor, not a forgone conclusion—something Emma, Cressida, and Anne are all well aware of.

  Emma scoffs as she measures out whiskey.

  “Didn’t they accept two Americans?” Anne asks, moving on. She’s never been one to stoke animosity, and she, like everyone else who’s ever met me, knows if I don’t want to talk about something, I won’t. Period.

/>   “Yup,” I respond, popping the P. “Ellie Anderson got in, too.”

  “That’s a surprise,” Cressida remarks. “I would have expected Cotes or Stevens.”

  “Ellie’s got connections,” I reply. “Her uncle’s an assistant trainer for Kluvberg.”

  “That’ll do it,” Emma states, sticking the carton of pineapple juice back in the fridge. With whiskey? Gross. “I can’t believe you’ll be playing on their field.”

  “I know,” I admit. The allure of attending Scholenberg isn’t just the exclusivity or the prestige. The camp also provides an opportunity to play on the most famous field in the world: the home of FC Kluvberg.

  “I literally have a poster of it on my wall,” Emma continues.

  “No, you have a poster of Adler Beck on your wall,” I correct, leaning my head back against the upper cabinet so I can study the cracks in the plaster blemishing our kitchen ceiling.

  “But I purposefully chose the photo of him on the field, not the shirtless one from the ‘Sexiest Athletes’ cover.”

  “Big of you.”

  Anne laughs at my comment, and Emma rolls her eyes as she downs her drink.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Cressida announces, dropping the now empty bowl and spatula in the sink. “The cake is done.”

  “It’s sweet how you think that will make it until tomorrow,” I tell the ceiling.

  “Saylor, I swear, if you…”

  Emma laughs. “Cress, you need to hide it if you want there to be any left tomorrow.”

  “All I need is for Saylor to—”

  “Hey!” I’m the one who interrupts this time. “I’m not the one eating the stuff, okay?”

  “But you are the one telling your overnight guests where my baked goods are,” Cressida points out.

  “They’re not overnight guests, they’re her boy toys,” Emma interjects.

  I ignore Emma. “I don’t tell them where they are. They’re hungry, and—”

  “She uses the sweets to kick them out,” Anne cuts in.

  “Here’s a cupcake for the three orgasms,” Emma adds with a wicked smirk.

  My gaze stays fixed on the jagged line that runs a couple of feet from the corner of the kitchen. That probably shouldn’t be there, right? The four of us snagged this house sophomore year, so eager to escape dorm living we signed a lease for the first place we looked at, and then we were too lazy to explore other options for junior year.

  The Colonial-style cottage serves its purpose: a place to crash between classes, practice, games, and parties. If only any of us had any talents with a hammer or a screwdriver, as there’s an endless list of tasks our landlord never seems to get around to. The only nailing and screwing happening around here is of the non-construction variety.

  I down one more shot and slide off the kitchen counter, adjusting my light blue dress so it covers some of my thighs. It’s a cotton frock more appropriate for a country club in summer than a frat party in Connecticut’s version of spring, which feels no different from winter. If Lancaster wasn’t ranked as the top soccer program in the country, I definitely would have stayed in the South for my college years. Dress for the weather you want has become my wardrobe motto.

  “Ready,” I announce, tossing my blonde hair over one shoulder.

  Emma pours her whiskey and pineapple concoction into one of the travel mugs we use for transporting coffee to morning practice and claps a lid on top. “Me too.”

  “You better remember to wash that,” I inform her, wrinkling my nose in response to the smell emanating from the container as she draws closer to me.

  “First thing I’ll do when we return from this shindig,” Emma replies, sending me a saccharine smile.

  I roll my eyes. Emma’s notorious for her inability to wash anything without leaving some form of residue behind. It’s why she’s perpetually assigned to trash duty while the rest of us alternate completing the remaining household chores.

  It’s a short walk to the frat house hosting tonight. I’ve never bothered to keep track of the various Greek letters and who belongs to which fraternity or sorority. I go to the parties I feel like going to, and I tend to be followed around by the rest of the soccer team. Being the top female recruit in the country gained me a celebrity following among the niche few who keep up with women’s soccer before I even stepped foot on campus.

  The past two-and-a-half years of on and off-field antics have only added fodder to my notoriety.

  So did winning Lancaster a national championship.

  Drunk students have already begun to spill out on the lawn as we approach the frat house; many laughing and stumbling about. It’s March—far too early to be spending time outside voluntarily. No one has ever said drunk people make smart decisions, though. Also, when we step inside the house, I sort of get the inclination to head outside. Every square inch of the floor is covered by feet or littered with empty cups that skitter across the hardwood as people mill about. The scent of sweat and spilled beer hangs heavy in the air. Anne sighs at the scene, but I grin, feeding off the boisterous energy swirling around with sweet-smelling smoke.

  I lead the way toward the kitchen, ignoring the shouts and suggestions being hurled my way. I got used to the attention guys pay to me a long time ago—about the same time I figured out how to use it to my advantage. A well-timed hair toss, or suggestive smile is a pretty powerful tool when it comes to the opposite sex.

  Jason Williams’ eyes light up as soon as the four of us step inside the kitchen already packed with drunk college students. “Hell yes! The party has arrived!”

  “And she’s in fine form tonight,” Emma responds. “You’re… what? Four shots deep, Scott?”

  “Drink your gross concoction and stop counting my drinks, Watkins,” I retort.

  Jason sends Emma a questioning look. Emma sighs. “She’s in a mood.”

  “Hello, I’m right here!” I roll my eyes and stalk over to the counter covered with an assortment of cheap liquor. “Do you guys not have gin tonight? I said I wasn’t coming back unless there was gin, Williams!” I call out as I survey the limited options.

  Jason sighs and picks up one of the labeled glass bottles sitting directly in front of me, which is in fact gin. Probably a sign I shouldn’t be imbibing its contents—a warning I don’t heed.

  “I’m sorry, Saylor,” he says. “I know how much you wanted it.”

  I scoff and splash a generous amount of gin into a plastic cup, adding some ginger ale I find in the fridge in a half-assed attempt at a cocktail. “What are you talking about, Jason?”

  “The German camp? You heard back today, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know it’s the most competitive soccer—or football, whatever—program in the world. You should be honored you were even considered. “

  I snort. “What are you talking about? Of course I got in. I’m ranked first nationally.” Raising the full plastic cylinder, I shout, “To the fucking Germans!” I’m far from the only one who started drinking early, so my toast is met with hearty cheers. Satisfied by the enthusiastic response, I take a large sip of my drink.

  “Wait, you did? Then why…” Jason’s voice trails off as I wander over to where Anne is standing a few feet away, leaving him with Emma and Cressida. They’re probably speculating about my mood.

  “Which one are you eyeing?” I ask Anne, giving her arm a soft nudge as I lean against the counter next to her. She glances over at me, abandoning her feeble attempt to look like she’s texting, not eyeing the baseball players who have set up a makeshift bowling alley on the kitchen table. I smirk as I watch one try to knock over an empty glass beer bottle with a ping pong ball. Yeah, good luck with that, bud.

  Anne shoves her phone into the back pocket of her skinny jeans. “I’m not.”

  “Convincing.” I take a sip of my drink. “If you just—”

  “Hannah Mason.”

  “Come on! That’s not—”

  “Hannah Mason, Saylor!”

&n
bsp; “I can’t believe you’re still bringing that up. It was three years ago!”

  “And she still hasn’t returned for a single alumni game,” Anne replies.

  “That is not my fault. She was interested in Trey, and I made it happen. Anything that happened after is not on me.”

  “It’s the ‘made it happen’ part I’m worried about,” Anne remarks.

  I roll my eyes. Freshman year, our team captain was obsessed with Trey Johnson, Lancaster’s quarterback. I shared that information with him. Like most college hook-ups, their relationship burned hot, fast, and out. I got none of the credit for instigating their short-lived romance and all of the blame when Trey ended their infatuation by trying to hook up with me instead.

  “Saylor!” Natalie, a sophomore on the soccer team, bounces over to me.

  “What’s up, Nat?” I ask, keeping an eye on Anne in my peripheral vision to see if I can figure out which guy she was looking at before.

  “I heard you got into Scholenberg! That’s amazing! I mean, everyone knew you would, but…”

  I laugh a little as I tune out her excited babbling. My badass soccer skills and series of flings with Lancaster’s hottest male specimens have cemented a form of hero worship among my soccer teammates even running together until we puke hasn’t tarnished. Mostly I find it entertaining, but there are certainly moments when I wouldn’t mind fewer starry eyes.

  “…Visit at the end.”

  “Wait, what?” I ask, fully aware that I sound like I wasn’t paying attention. Mostly because I wasn’t.