Klaus saw the ball first, arcing up like a black-and-white meteor from the scuffle of players. Somebody in that mess was really clever, he thought sourly. Too bad it wasn’t one of his team! Ah, well, that was what ‘team captain’ was all about -- marshalling his lads, and stepping in when they couldn’t achieve what he wanted.
He intercepted the ball when it came down, swiped it from the side with a kick that deftly sent it back where it was supposed to go: howling right down the unguarded middle to North Academy’s goal.
“Fuck you, Eberbach!” one of the Academy’s finest called, laughing, as he raced by the still-tangled teams. Klaus grinned back at him, sparing no more than a moment to appreciate long legs and steel-grey eyes under a shock of muddy brown hair.
Ja, that was Steinmann, the Academy kicker. The golden boy. He would be, with those legs.
Shit! One moment was all they’d needed, another of Steinmann’s cronies darting in to stop the ball. It shot away again, and Klaus knew his own boys couldn’t reach it in time. He shoved away daydreams about World Cup finals, and the petulant feeling that Frankfurt’s North Academy always ranged pretty Jan Steinmann against him _on purpose_, because he couldn’t help looking --
Almost, almost. He dodged the ever-obliging Jan, who seemed determined to trip him one way or another. Klaus dove, hitting the ball with his shoulder this time. A clumsy move, but at least that delivered the game back to one of his team-mates. He hit the mud and grass, rolled upright with fluid grace -- and collided with Jan’s foot, which had been a second away from stealing the ball.
Klaus had time to register a lurching sensation, less pain than a feeling of being hurled sideways at immense velocity.
Then he had a very strange dream.