Chapter 4 Claire
CLAIRE
When I’m halfway across the parking lot, a “Hey,” is grunted to my left.
I recognize the low grumble instantly.
My reply to Reyna Rodman isn’t much more coherent.
Waking up early for a jog along the Charles sounded like a better idea when I set my alarm last night. I’ve never been a morning person, but another thing I’ve learned about kids since Tommy moved in: they don’t like to sleep in. Or tiptoe around quietly.
The cold air and exercise woke me up fast, but I spent the subsequent drive to the Siege’s practice facility wishing I’d slept in an extra hour instead. If we were starting with drills, like we normally do, I’d be fine. But first on today’s agenda is a team meeting.
I chug half of my remaining coffee in one go.
The bitter liquid burns my mouth. Cassidy bought groceries yesterday, part of her apology slash thank-you for my picking up Tommy the other day.
Unfortunately, she forgot to buy soy milk.
I avoid dairy—not as a personal preference, but because I’m lactose intolerant—so I was stuck with black.
It tastes more caffeinated this way at least.
“Morning!” Savannah Robbe, a fellow defender, skips over to me and Reyna, who plays striker.
Savannah is younger, recently out of college, and grew up in Southern California. Cheerful. And currently sporting a sun-kissed glow since she spent the offseason in her home state.
Reyna and I, born and raised New Englanders, are pale and cranky.
We both manage greetings, bookended by yawns, which draw a knowing smile out of Savannah.
“New assistant coach is here!” she announces, her chipper tone undaunted by our low energy and the brisk wind.
Coach Willis announced her pregnancy at the end of last season. The team has known for months that someone else would be stepping into her assistant coach role for at least part of this season.
Selfishly, I’m irritated about a replacement. This season is going to be difficult enough. A change in staff is an unwelcome start. Temporary assistant coach for a women’s team isn’t a position many qualified candidates are scrambling to apply for.
“Know anything about her?” Reyna asks warily, likely thinking the same thing.
“Nothing,” Savannah replies. “Except Coach Taylor said he was here.”
Reyna and I exchange a quick, displeased glance.
“Great,” I state flatly. “More men coaching women, in addition to all the men coaching men.”
There are twenty teams in the women’s league. Three have female head coaches. Coach Taylor is one of them. And she’s the only one with an all-female support staff. Or, she was the only one with an all-female support staff.
Walking into the lobby of the Siege’s brand-new facility improves my sour mood some.
I lost count of the number of times I’ve entered this building a long time ago.
But it still feels special. It still hits me, every time, that I’m a professional athlete, playing for the city I grew up in.
No matter how disappointing parts of my career have been, that’s an accomplishment I can be proud of.
I resolve to enjoy it.
I default to defense off the field too. I’m always preparing to climb the next challenge rather than appreciating the flat section. Not that there’s anything easy about competing at soccer’s highest level, but it’s simpler than the rest of my life has been lately.
Savannah and Reyna chat about a new television show as we walk down the hallway, passing a couple of administrative offices and the team nutrition area—a fancy term for cafeteria.
The Siege is the second-newest expansion team in the league.
Keeping with Boston’s dominant sports dynasty, this facility was a multimillion-dollar project.
It boasts an indoor field, two weight gyms, a playroom for children of players and staff, a sauna, plus our current destination—a video room that’s essentially a mini movie theater.
In addition to film sessions spent reviewing game footage, it’s where our longer or more formal team meetings take place.
“Hey, Caldy!” Mallory calls out as she approaches from the opposite direction. She’s holding two half-eaten granola bars, one in each hand.
I’ve learned that any attempts to dissuade my teammates from shortening my last name are taken as an encouragement, so I just say, “Morning, Mallory.”
Her smile expands as she reaches us. She greets Savannah and Reyna, then falls in step next to me.
“Late night clubbing?” Mallory teases as a massive yawn overtakes my face.
If someone were handing out team superlatives, I’d win Most Likely to Bail on Going Out.
“Exactly,” I deadpan as we enter the video room.
At twenty-seven, I’m not the oldest or the most experienced player on the team.
But my entire career, even as a rookie, I’ve been known as reliable and responsible.
In elementary school, I organized the team snack schedule.
In high school, my teammates would tell their parents they were sleeping over at my house, then sneak out to parties.
I’ve been berated for being “too serious” before, but my teammates on the Siege seem to have accepted it.
A few have told me they admire me for it, as if my predisposition to color inside life’s lines was a conscious choice.
That sounds better than being afraid to take many risks.
We’re not the first players to arrive for the meeting, but there’s no sign of Coach Taylor or any other Siege staff yet.
I exchange small talk and smiles with a few other teammates before settling into a seat in the back row.
The wall facing the screen is covered with floor-to-ceiling posters.
I’m featured on the largest one, located directly in the center.
Sitting as close to it as possible means I won’t turn to talk to a teammate and accidentally lock eyes with a giant version of myself.
I’m not sure why I was selected as the main feature, but I would have turned it down if I’d been consulted.
I’m one of two Massachusetts-born players on the team and the only one who grew up in a Boston suburb.
Tasha is from Sheffield. It’s surreal, playing for my hometown team.
But it means I’m never sure how much of the attention on me is assigned rather than earned.
Whether the girls who attend games, wearing my jersey, chose it because I’m their favorite player or because I went to a neighboring high school and am the most obvious example of a path they’d like to take themselves.
“Seriously, you good?” Reyna asks after I yawn again, nudging my knee with hers.
She’s on my left; Mallory and Savannah took seats to my right.
“I’m good,” I promise, then drain the rest of my coffee to wash away the bitter taste of the partial lie.
This is, in my opinion, the worst part of being on a team. And of working with people you genuinely consider friends. All the typical boundaries between personal and professional are erased when you travel and sweat and commiserate with each other.
More players filter in. Tasha teases me for sitting in the back row, knowing exactly why I chose it, before taking the seat in front of mine.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to squint at the screen. Probably Cassidy, asking me to pick up Tommy. She has another interview today. At least I’ll be finished with practice with plenty of time to pick him up on schedule.
It’s not my sister; it’s my dad.
Heartbeats thunder in my ears as I stare at the preview line of his message.
Mark Caldwell: We need to talk about …
I bite the inside of my cheek, torn between curiosity and contempt as I wonder what he could possibly want to talk about. My father and I have the dictionary definition of a strained relationship. In addition to the house, Mom got me in the divorce.
“Caldy,” Mallory hisses, elbowing my ribs. “Caldy.”
I drop my phone in my lap and glance at her. “Huh? What?”
“He’s here.” The whisper is so low that I practically have to read her lips.
“Who? Oh.” I glance toward the front of the theater, registering that she must mean the new assistant coach. There’s no other he here.
I spot Coach Taylor first. She’s busy unpacking a couple of thick binders onto the table beneath the screen. To her right, a blond man nods in response to what she’s saying to him. He’s unexpectedly tall—well over six feet—surprisingly young, and oddly…familiar.
His head turns to watch Grace and Maddie sneak into two remaining seats in the front row, revealing more than his profile, and realization dawns with rising urgency as I get my first clear glimpse of his face.
No.
I’m numb, no longer aware of the solid surface I’m sitting on. I’m floating somewhere above the three rows of seats, stuck in a state of utter disbelief. The surrounding room spins, then stands eerily and entirely still.
Nothing about the scene in front of me has changed.
No, no, no, no, no.
He looks different yet the same. Hair longer and a shade darker. Harder, expression serious instead of smiling, the edge of his jaw a straight angle, and his posture perfect. He takes up so much space; maybe that’s why I can’t seem to suck in enough air.
And the biggest change? He’s not a photo on my phone screen or a face in my dreams.
Distantly, I register the prick of pain as my fingers curl into tight fists, nails creating crescents on my palms. No matter how rapidly I blink, he refuses to disappear.
“Do you know who that is?” Reyna says quietly.
She’s not actually asking. It’s a reverent, rhetorical question she already knows the answer to. Spoken in an admiring tone, echoed in the awed mutters around us.
Nothing was announced about who would be replacing Coach Willis. Most—I—assumed the replacement would be a former college coach or a recently retired player. Someone who would, at best, meld well with the team and, at worst, fill a spot on the sidelines.
A nonevent.
Not him.
Otto Berger is widely considered to be one of the best goaltenders to ever set foot on a field. Legendary to anyone with more than a superficial knowledge of the sport he calls football.
Everyone in this room already knows who he is.
What they don’t know? He broke my heart.