Chapter 1 Otto
OTTO
Everything is gray. The clouds. The seat in front of me. The sweatpants I threw on early this morning, stained by a single drop of coffee that splashed mid-thigh.
My mood.
A few minutes later, wheels hit the tarmac with a jarring jolt.
The collision of rubber and asphalt wakes the woman seated across the aisle from me.
Probably would have woken me, too, if I hadn’t been staring blankly out the window for the entirety of the eight-and-a-half-hour flight, adrift in a sea of self-pity as fathomless as the Atlantic below.
The impact of landing jostled my right arm, and my shoulder is protesting with a dull throb. An unnecessary reminder of how drastically my life changed in a handful of weeks. Of who I used to be.
I was midway through a winning season.
I was FC Kluvberg’s starting goalkeeper.
I was a living legend—at least according to the collection of hardware displayed at my house outside the city.
And I was replaced.
I’m replaceable.
That reality stings worse than the healing incision from my shoulder surgery, even knowing I’m physically incapable of playing and my club had no choice but to bench me.
Because I’ve built my career on being willing to do whatever it takes to win, and this isn’t a setback that can be solved by training harder or by digging deeper.
The opposite has been prescribed by the hordes of doctors who assessed me. Sleep. Rest. Inactivity.
Passengers are perking up in the surrounding seats as we taxi toward a gate, yawning and stretching, happy to have nearly reached the end of a long flight.
Me? I roll my head right to look out the oval window and study Boston’s airport. To glower at it, glaringly empty of the relief that normally accompanies safely arriving at a destination.
The sprawling structure is huge. Twice the size of the airport I flew out of. I’ve never been to Boston before, but I know it’s a major American city. According to the online search I browsed while waiting to board, its population is estimated at six hundred fifty thousand people.
The odds of running into one would be infinitesimal—if I weren’t here to help coach her club.
It’s a matter of when, not if, I see Claire Caldwell during this long-term stay in the States. I know that, and I’m avoiding thinking about it because I don’t want to think about it and because I’ve got enough weighing on my mind already.
The plane’s intercom crackles to life after a brief screech of static, requesting all passengers remain seated until we reach the gate.
I’d prefer to stay in place until this aircraft returns to Germany.
I was on board with the suggestion that I leave Kluvberg for the remainder of the season.
No keeper wants to sit on the sidelines, watching his team win or lose without him, helpless to assist. And while I don’t mind fan attention—some would say I thrive around it—the months of recovery ahead are going to be frustrating enough without fielding questions, wondering how soon I’ll be back on the field, every time I leave my house.
I was also on board with the suggestion I assistant coach on a temporary basis. I don’t have much else to do for the foreseeable future, aside from regular physical therapy appointments, except feel sorry for myself.
By the time the part of the plan I was not on board with was revealed, backing out would have raised a lot of questions.
With a sigh, I power on my phone. The device buzzes with dozens of new messages.
I scroll through the flood of notifications, scanning them quickly. Most texts are from my teammates. Even Trent Banks, my backup, who should be focused on tomorrow’s match, checked in.
Adler Beck, FC Kluvberg’s captain—better known as Kaiser or Beck—messaged me the most. It’s one of his unwritten responsibilities as the club’s figurehead, and we’re close.
Close enough that Beck is worried about me for reasons unrelated to football.
His wife, Saylor, who also plays football professionally, helped set up this arrangement with the Boston Siege.
Her former college coach, Eliza Taylor, is the Siege head coach now.
I shut my phone off without replying to anyone. The clock on it already adjusted. It’s five forty p.m. local time—nearly midnight in Kluvberg. I’m too tired and irritable to muster replies that will reassure anyone I’m handling this adjustment well, and the plane has reached the gate anyway.
My fingers drum against my thigh impatiently as I wait for the sealed door to open so that the five rows ahead of me can disembark.
German echoes around me in a flurry of clipped consonants.
Likely the last time I’ll hear my native tongue spoken for a while.
My English is excellent, superior to my subpar Spanish or passable French.
I’m unconcerned about a language barrier, but it’s yet another reminder I’m far from home.
I’ve traveled around the world with Germany’s national team and with FC Kluvberg, attending tournaments and exhibition matches and international competitions.
Those were much shorter trips than this one.
More importantly, I was an active member of the roster.
My name pops up in a few of the surrounding conversations. I attempt to tune them out, fingers tapping faster as my impatience increases.
“Are you an actor?”
I glance toward the voice automatically. The question stands out: unexpected, spoken in English, and—based on the near proximity—aimed at me.
The speaker is young, appraising me with a curious frown wrinkling her forehead. She’s seated diagonally across the aisle, staring straight this way.
“No,” I answer since she does appear to be speaking to me.
“Are you sure?”
“Very.”
I’ve appeared in a few advertisements, but no films. Unfortunately.
I’d love to star in a spy thriller. But I could never risk getting injured in a stunt.
At least tearing my labrum jumping off a roof would have been an entertaining story.
Falling awkwardly after a failed save is simply a sad anecdote.
“So, you’re not famous?” the stranger presses, still staring.
I’d guess she’s around university age, in her late teens or early twenties.
“I play football,” I tell her.
Meaning, in some settings, I’m very famous. And in others—like an American airport—I assumed slash hoped no one would give a shit I was here.
Her nose scrunches. “You mean soccer?”
“Yes,” I respond wearily. “I mean soccer.”
Wasting my dwindling energy on an argument about proper terminology—why wouldn’t you call a sport played with your feet football, especially when that’s how the rest of the world refers to it?—feels pointless. I’d better get used to the American verbiage.
“Are you good?”
“Yes,” another voice answers before I can. The emphatic reply came from the middle-aged man seated on the woman’s other side.
She and I both look at him.
He flushes, fiddling with the strap of his seat belt. “Sorry to interrupt. I’m-I’m a huge Kluvberg fan. This guy”—he points at me—“is incredible. My favorite player.”
The praise should make me feel good. Anyone commending my performance on the pitch typically ignites a warm glow of pride in my chest. I worked hard for success.
I bled and sacrificed and fought for my shot to become one of the players I had grown up admiring.
Having others acknowledge that is something special.
But this compliment cracks an icy frisson of panic in my chest, cleaving the cavity in two.
Never achieving a dream is a common fear.
Rarer and equally devastating? The realization that you reached your dream, yet your time living it might be over. I want to retire on my own terms, years from now, not because of a tear that necessitated surgery and should heal fine but could not.
“Thank you,” I tell the fan, hoping he misses the raw emotion that roughens the edge of the words. My voice sounds like the uneven edge of a serrated blade.
He nods rapidly, expression reverent as he stares at me like I’m a holy apparition that might disappear at any second.
The fear in my chest expands. There are a lot of people invested in my recovery, and that’s a heavy weight to carry.
But no one is more invested in my recovery than I am.
If I’m done, this guy will pick a new favorite player.
Wagner will keep coaching. Beck will keep scoring.
The team will move on without me if I can’t resume at the same level as before surgery, and it’s a terrifying realization.
I have little clue who I am, separate from my identity as Kluvberg’s keeper.
All I have to offer, all I’ve ever been exemplary at, is a single skill a shredded muscle in my shoulder has rendered useless.
“What are you doing in Boston?” the girl chirps.
She’s smiling, intrigued by her seatmate’s admiration and oblivious to my inner tornado of turmoil.
“I can’t play for a while,” I say, shifting so she can see the sling cradling my right arm. “I’m here to help coach the Siege. Temporarily.”
I hope it’s temporary at least. I’ve never given much thought to what I’ll do after I stop playing, but coaching probably would have been on the list. I enjoy helping out with clinics for younger players, watching others discover their passion for football.
She gasps. “The Siege?”
Her enthusiastic, surprised expression reminds me that, as far as I know, neither my club nor Boston’s team has announced my new role while I recover.
This reaction was unexpected. From what I’ve heard from Saylor and observed at international tournaments, football—soccer—isn’t a huge deal in the States. Especially women’s soccer.
“My family has season tickets for Siege games,” the girl continues. “I grew up on the same street as Claire Caldwell. She used to babysit me.”
I blink at the stranger, praying I misheard. That my ears are messed up from the air pressure and are playing tricks on me.
“She’s a defender on the Siege—”
“I know who she is.”
And I was already nervous about meeting the team in two days. Registering my body’s reaction to hearing her name spoken aloud—quickened pulse, dry throat, uneven breaths—is accelerating my anxiety.
I’m just stressed about my shoulder, I tell myself.
It’s a lie, or maybe it’s not, but it’s enough to refocus on the present. To register that the row ahead of me is standing, exiting, and I’m about to be able to do the same.
I aim a, “Nice to meet you,” across the aisle as I straighten to my full height. My muscles protest, stiff from disuse. I went from a daily routine of sprints, push-ups, squats, lunges, and lifting weights to being told to limit all movement as much as possible to not disturb my shoulder.
I think the guy across the aisle snaps a photo as I walk by, but I don’t glance back to confirm.
And I definitely don’t look at the girl Claire used to babysit.
I didn’t mention my name, but the man next to her certainly knows it.
Is she texting Claire right now, telling her Otto Berger is on her flight?
Better question: Why do I care? Still?