As Asher's car pulls onto the roadside, Bastian Schweinsteiger engulfs me into his arms, uttering the words that make my heart swarm. "Manuel's jealous," he says.
"No," I murmur, breathing into his ear, softly caressing his cheek with my fingers.
"Azelie, he's glaring at Ash's car. I'm pretty sure Manu thinks he's your boyfriend."
"Really?"
"Really."
"You aren't lying to me?"
"Believe me, liebe. Now, pull away. This is beginning to look weird."
On command, I pull away from Bastian.
"Don't be mad at me, okay?" Bastian continues. "Things really did work out."
They haven't completely worked out, but I nod my head. "I won't be mad at you," I say, "and I'm sorry for being so impulsive earlier. I didn't mean to yell and point fingers."
"Apology accepted."
I smile, because Bastian is great. Before meeting him, the last thing I'd expected of him was him to be the way that he is. Basti is an impeccable mixture of funny, serious, and everything else, and as I saunter over to Asher Franke's car, I find myself developing a friendly crush on him.
I greet Asher with a smile—flirtatious, for the show—and, because I can still sense Manuel's eyes intently analyzing us, I try to make it look like Asher means everything to me. I must succeed, because Manuel moodily ambles over, motioning for us to unroll the windows, which Ash does.
"Hey," Manu says to Asher, awkwardly leaning into the car through the windows.
"Hi," Asher replies cooly.
"I vaguely recall Bastian telling me Azelie's boyfriend would be here to pick her up," Manuel confesses, the corners of his lips twitching into an unforeseen smile. "Are you her boyfriend?"
Startled, Asher's eyes widen. "What?"
"Whoa, okay, let me backtrack a bit," Manuel then says, as if coming to a stark realization; realizing what he just said, and how inappropriate it sounded. "I didn't mean to blurt that out. I'm sorry. I haven't even asked you for your name."
"I'm Asher," Asher introduces calmly, reaching over me to offer Manuel a handshake. "Asher Franke. Nice to meet you."
"Manuel Neuer," Manu replies, firmly shaking Ash's hand, "but please, call me Manuel."
Ash nods; the gesture polite, extremely suave. "Noted."
Manuel nods and the two continue talking and bonding and by the time Manu and Ash finish their exchange, they're surprisingly the best of friends. To my absolute shock, the two men even exchange numbers, and when Asher announces that it's time for him to go, Manuel looks more upset that I'd like to admit. As Ash turns on his ignition, Manuel looks at him sadly, and the last thing he says to Ash before we speed away on the car is, "Take care of her, Herr Franke."
☁
Asher and I spend the evening in Belo's bistro, ordering varieties of unique items on Belo's lunch menu, discussing everything and yet nothing at all. When our irrelevant conversations begin to falter, Asher parts his lips, asking me, "You want to explain to me why Manuel thinks I'm your boyfriend?"
Unfazed, I swallow the tapioca pudding that I had been chewing. "I wish I could tell you the answer to that, Ash," I answer, "but I really don't know. It's actually funny, because I specifically told Manu that I had a friend coming over to pick me up, not a boyfriend."
"I'm not complaining," Asher replies cheekily. Flashing me a shy smile, he adds, "Because Azelie, you're quite beautiful."
"Asher!" I scold, nearly choking on my pudding.
"What? I'm just saying."
"Don't flirt with me like that, okay?"
"Why?"
"Because!" I exclaim, playfully glaring at Asher.
"Because?"
"Because I said said so."
"Because you're in love with somebody who thinks you're in love with me?"
I playfully glare at Asher once more, and, twitching the corners of his lips into an amused grin, he drops the topic.
☁
The next day, Asher, Belo, and I watch Germany's match against Portugal in Belo's bistro with large bottles of Heineken sprawled before us.
Belo's siding with Portugal, just because.
I tell Asher and Belo that I'm siding with the winning team, whoever they may be, but it's quite obvious that I want Germany to win. It doesn't help to prove my point that I squeal in excitement every time Manuel dodges a goal, but I do, and every time the camera zooms in on one of the boys, I find myself smiling vapidly.
When the game reaches halftime, the boys have already scored three goals, and Asher boasts shamelessly. He chugs down Heineken, one bottle after another, and I feign indifference, not touching my drink at all.
"Fucking Germans," Belo cusses, fumbling behind the counter.
"Hey!" I shout. "You're dealing with two patriotic Germans here, Belo."
"Ya'll are just getting lucky."
"Luck doesn't score three goals," Asher points out cockily.
"Luck makes the same guy score two of the fuckin' goals!"
"Belo, calm down," I say, stifling a laugh. His seriousness is amusing, to say at the least.
"Thomas Müller is a fuckin' joke!"
"Thomas Müller is a cutie!" I counter.
"The entire national team are cuties," Asher remarks, and I laugh again.
"Asher, I'm pretty sure you're gay for the boys," I comment, "and Bastian and I heard you scream yesterday, by the way. You remember doing that?"
Asher's lips part slightly, and he says, "Wait, really?"
I nod.
"Oh, crap—"
"Bastian was flattered. Don't worry."
"How did he react?" Asher intently questions, his tone shifting into one that is anxious. "I mean, did Schweinsteiger say anything about me? Does he think I'm strange?"
"It's fine," I assure. "Chill out, Ash."
"Sorry."
"I get it," I say. "You really admire the boys."
"Yeah, I do. And I can be cool, Azelie, even though I may not be showing it. I don't know what's gotten into me lately. Ever since I met you, my head's been everywhere."
I blush.
"And I mean that in the most innocent way possible," Asher adds, smiling wearily.
But I'm still blushing and I don't think I can even begin to explain why. I can't blame the sudden temperature increase on the alcohol because I haven't touched mine. It might have to do with the way everything is unraveling and the fact that Manuel thinks Asher is my boyfriend and Asher saying boyfriend-like things to me.
I don't know.
Now, my head is everywhere.
I sigh, lingeringly taking a sip of beer.
As I chug down the liquid, Belo and Ash talk about irrelevant things and, soon enough, the World Cup game resumes. The three of us cling to our seats in anticipation and yell and jump and, at some points, even get on the verge of tears.
When Thomas Müller eventually scores yet another goal, Manuel rushes to hug Thomas, and I find my breath hitching in my throat. My mind goes back to the deal I'd made with Manuel just yesterday. Unless Cristiano Ronaldo goes berserk, there is no way Portugal is winning this match, meaning that Manuel will be escorting me to dinner sometime soon.
And I don't know how to feel.
I have no idea what's going to happen in that dinner—if we'll even go to the dinner—and the more I think about it, the more anxious I become. I mean, I don't know what Manuel is going to tell me or how I'm going to react to them. So, I simply cross my fingers, hoping for the best, but preparing for the worst. And by the time I uncross my fingers, Germany's officially won the match.
Asher is ecstatic and Belo, who is pissed, exaggerates his anger to high proportions.
I smile at Asher as he excitedly dances around Belo's bistro, pulling pretty girls into his arms and twirling them around on his arms, celebrating Germany's victory. As Asher approaches the women, coquettish grins materialize on their faces, and they all beam at him.
And, a several minutes later, when my cellphone rings, flashing the name Manu in dark, default letters, I beam too.