Chapter 3 Otto
OTTO
Will answers on the third ring. For a few seconds, all I can hear is the rap music he likes to work out to blaring. The volume gets turned down, and then I hear his voice.
“Hey, man. Did you check out the burger place I told you about?”
He’s breathing heavily. I definitely caught him in the gym.
“Yeah,” I reply, glancing at the takeout container by my elbow. It’s empty, aside from a smear of ketchup. “The food was really good. Thanks.”
I tried to summon some excitement in my voice. The pause that follows tells me I didn’t do a great job.
It took me two hours to reply to most of my messages this morning. It was easier to sound upbeat in texts, but Will’s called me four times since I left Kluvberg. If I messaged him back, he’d probably just call again. Since I’m in his hometown, he seems determined to act as my virtual tour guide.
“Beck said he hasn’t heard from you.”
Great. They’re talking about me instead of focusing on salvaging the remainder of Kluvberg’s season. Banks is solid. They can—will—win without me.
I shove the burger container away, watching it sail along the marble counter and land in the sink. “I texted earlier, letting him know I landed. There’s not much else to say.” I glance around. “The apartment’s fine. Small.”
“Did you meet the team yet?”
“Tomorrow.”
“That’ll be good!”
I keep my contrary thoughts to myself.
I’m dreading tomorrow. Increasingly bothered by how easy it is to pinpoint the source of my unease.
I’ve interacted with plenty of celebrities. Models and actors and influencers. Political figures—presidents and prime ministers. I’ve played in matches attended by British and Spanish royalty. An introduction to a group of American soccer players shouldn’t be a big deal.
Being around her shouldn’t be a big deal. Yet my stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself every time I picture it taking place.
“Juliette keeps texting,” I say to fill the silence.
Will chuckles. “Poor you, receiving get well soon wishes from models.”
I squeeze the foam ball in my fist. The physical therapist I met with yesterday recommended it as an exercise to maintain my grip strength.
“Weird timing, is all.”
“What do you mean, weird timing? She obviously heard what happened and is using it as a reason to reach out.”
He’s close, but not completely right.
Juliette’s interested again because I’m injured. Because she thinks I might be done. Because football was the biggest obstacle in our relationship, and it’s been temporarily—maybe permanently—cleared.
“Wagner enlisted every specialist in the States.” I’m not even exaggerating our head coach’s efforts. One of the doctors at yesterday’s appointment flew in from Cleveland. “I don’t need a nurse,” I add.
“My guess is, she’s offering more than medical care, Berger.” I can hear the grin in Will’s voice.
I roll my eyes. Toss the ball in the air, wincing when catching it causes a twinge in my shoulder.
The adjustment from my in-season training regimen to walking and squeezing a chunk of foam hasn’t been an easy one.
But I’ve been warned how catastrophic any attempts to push my shoulder too soon could be.
For a perfect recovery, I’d do absolutely anything.
I relax my fingers, allowing the ball to fall to the floor silently.
“She’ll be in New York for a shoot next month. I agreed to meet her there for dinner. So, I guess we’ll see.”
“I don’t know everything that went down with you guys, obviously. But if you ever want to talk about it, let me know. This could be an opportunity to figure things out.”
I nod like Aster can see me. Then add, “Thanks,” because he can’t.
Will sounds nothing like the cocky troublemaker who swaggered onto Kluvberg in the midst of a media firestorm. He’s seemed settled—content—lately, especially since he and Sophia got engaged.
I felt the opposite after I proposed to Juliette. Stifled, like the oxygen around me was being sucked away, slowly suffocating me.
Probably shouldn’t mention that during our dinner.
We broke up like it was a business decision, opting to focus on our individual careers.
Juliette wanted an entertaining date who was available to attend the endless industry parties she sought out.
And I wanted… I don’t know what I wanted. To breathe easy again, I guess.
“I emailed you the flight details for April, by the way,” Will tells me.
That catches my attention. “You’re really coming?”
Before I left Kluvberg, Will told me he was hoping to make a trip to Boston for his brother’s birthday. Since Kluvberg would still be in season then, I wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it work.
“Yep, Wagner signed off since I’ll only miss one practice. Sophia’s coming too. We’ll spend more time on a plane than in Boston, basically, but it’s worth it to see Tripp. And you, of course.”
Will and I chat for a few more minutes before he ends the call. It’s past seven there, and he and Sophia are headed over to Beck and Saylor’s for dinner.
If I were in Kluvberg, there’s a fifty-fifty chance I would’ve gone too. Even odds because, as much as I enjoy spending time with my teammates and their significant others, hanging around two happy couples while you’re single sort of sucks.
I abandon my spot at the kitchen counter and head for the couch.
It takes about ten steps. The furnished apartment I’m staying in is about a hundredth of the space I’m accustomed to living in.
It would probably bother me less if I had somewhere to go.
People to see. I’m in an unfamiliar city filled with strangers, except for the one person I’ve met before, who’s the same woman I’d voluntarily avoid.
Once I’m settled on the cushions, I open my laptop and search the Siege roster. It takes longer to type—to do everything—one-handed, but I manage.
The roster is sorted by jersey number, so she’s in the second row.
I stare at her headshot, wishing she’d done something drastic to her appearance. Her bright smile and curly ponytail make it harder to convince myself it’s been six years since I last saw her.
I navigate to Bookmarks next, clicking the first link.
“Why do you have a US women’s soccer game saved on here?” Juliette asked once while borrowing my laptop.
“It’s a good match,” I replied, like I’d ever had the balls to watch it in its entirety and judge so for myself.
I battled against the urge to question why she was browsing through my Bookmarks in the first place. We weren’t engaged yet. Weren’t even living together.
“With Americans playing?” she responded, laughing.
Juliette’s French accent always sounded sophisticated, even when she acted childish.
I didn’t answer. If we’d been discussing the men’s team, I’d have jumped on board with bashing them.
But I couldn’t do that to Claire.
Not when I’d already done too much. And…not enough.
The video’s a full recording. Coverage starts with commentators discussing the stars on both sides. Most of the conversation on the US team is centered around Saylor Scott, anticipating another stellar performance from Beck’s now wife.
I zone out for the first half, my attention sharpening when players return after halftime. I mostly watch the ticking clock, hating each higher minute, knowing what’s coming.
Then I hear it. “And what a moment for Claire Caldwell, who’s subbing in for Sierra Sanders. Caldwell, out of Boston—”
I slam the laptop shut. Lurch forward, resting my good elbow on my left knee and ignoring the way my shoulder protests the abrupt movement. The burger I ate for lunch is a leaden lump in my stomach.
Six years later, I still can’t watch the end of that damn game.
And tomorrow, I’ll have to see her.