Chapter 5 Claire
CLAIRE
PARIS
Six Years Earlier
Impatient knocks bang on my door while I’m brushing my teeth. I still, spit, and pad over to the door. After a quick peek through the peephole, I flip the lock and let the hinges swing wide.
Three disappointed faces stare at me.
“Really, Caldwell?” Mackenzie asks, hand on one hip.
“What?” I reply weakly.
“You can’t wear that”—Lucy’s finger draws an imaginary circle around the oversized, holey Lincoln University T-shirt that falls almost to my knees—“out clubbing in Paris.”
“Or, like, anywhere,” Mackenzie adds, equally aghast.
“Oh.” I squeeze the toothbrush handle tighter. “Well, I wasn’t sure if…”
Their plan to party tonight was hatched during dinner. I didn’t know if, one, I was invited to join them and, two, if I should join them.
My mom jokes that I’ve been parenting her ever since I arrived on January 5—her exact due date.
Others have put it less kindly—called me rigid or controlling or bland.
But following rules landed me here. In France, as one of the youngest members of the national soccer team.
By far the most excitement in my ordinary twenty-one years on this planet.
And an opportunity with no rule book to follow.
Less than 0.0013% of people alive are Olympians.
It’s not exactly a universal experience.
“We’re not taking no for an answer,” Gemma says, using my uncertainty as an opportunity to squeeze past me and enter my small room.
Lucy agrees with an emphatic nod. “We’re a team; we stick together.”
I doubt clubbing as a group is what our head coach meant when he expressed that sentiment earlier. I’m not really being offered a choice though, and a large part of me is relieved by it. If there was ever a time to get swept up in the current of spontaneity, the Paris Olympics are it.
“Where are the rest of your clothes?” Gemma asks, sifting through the contents of my suitcase. She drops a pair of athletic shorts atop a jean pair and aims an accusing look my way, like she already knows the answer.
“Uh, that’s all I packed,” I confirm.
Gemma snaps her fingers. “Mackenzie?”
“On it,” Mackenzie replies, darting out of my room.
“Are you done with that?” Lucy asks, nodding at the dripping toothbrush I’m still holding in my right hand.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll take that”—she plucks the toothbrush out of my hand—“so Gemma can do your makeup.”
By the time my makeover ends, my pores are invisible, and I’m wearing a dress I won’t be able to sit down in. I barely recognize the reflection staring back at me. My usual idea of dressing up is mascara and lip balm.
“Oh là là!” Lucy declares, pretending to fan herself.
I roll my eyes at her dramatics, but I’m secretly pleased.
I’m also tipsy on the intoxicating cocktail of inclusion.
Cool inclusion, specifically. I’ve been on teams with plenty of “popular” girls over the years, and we rarely exchanged words outside of practice.
Responsible and fun don’t easily coexist, especially in the cliques of high school and college.
“Let’s go!” Gemma declares, striding for the door. “I already ordered an Uber.”
I double-check I have my phone, euros, and the badge needed to get back into the building, then follow my teammates down the hallway.
Forty-five minutes later, we’re waved from our spot in line inside a dimly lit club.
It’s sophisticated. The air is cool and scented with expensive perfume. The first men I spot are wearing slacks and button-downs. A woman, wearing a shimmering silk dress, brushes past us, pulling a cigarette out of a sleek purse as she steps outside.
Nothing is similar to Watering Hole—the off-campus bar I’ve only been to twice since my twenty-first birthday, famous for its cheap beer and temperamental jukebox that rotates through a small selection of ’80s hits.
Gemma makes the executive decision to head to the bar for drinks. The rest of us trail behind her.
Lucy’s eyes are as wide as mine as she glances around. She goes to UNC, if I’m remembering right. I doubt Chapel Hill’s establishments boast the same chicness as Paris either. I’m not the only one out of their element here, but I think I’m the worst at pretending otherwise.
The rest of us look on as Gemma orders from the bartender in fluent French.
She smirks as she passes around the shots. “I looked up where the first Olympics I’d be eligible to play in were being held back in seventh grade. Language prep for London was unnecessary, obviously, so I learned some French.”
Mackenzie and I exchange an impressed look before we suck down our shots. I grimace, fighting the urge to cough, as smooth, chilled liquor slides down my throat and sears my stomach.
“To winning gold!” Lucy cheers.
“We’re supposed to toast before drinking,” Mackenzie points out, setting her empty glass on the metal counter with a dull clank.
“And to not draw attention to who we are,” I can’t help but add.
We are still in college. There are countless professional athletes here who are actually famous, who sign autographs and score multimillion-dollar brand deals on a regular basis.
As far as I know, we’re not technically breaking any rules.
We’re allowed to leave the Village at night, and we didn’t drink alcohol on the premises.
Cautious is my default setting though. Especially since I was named to the final roster, an elusive dream I’m terrified could dissipate into wisps of smoke at any second.
“We’ll just have to do another round with a toast first,” Gemma says, signaling to the bartender. “But Claire’s right. We’re undercover, ladies.”
To my left, Mackenzie giggles.
I pass on the next shot, mindful of my low tolerance. Gemma wheedles the bartender into drinking it instead, waving the napkin he wrote his number on around like a sparkler as we migrate to the dance floor.
An hour later, the pulsing beat of the pop music isn’t enough to keep me from yawning every other minute. Between jet lag and the excitement of visiting Europe for the first time, I’m running on a serious sleep deficit.
All the girls offer to leave with me, but I can tell they’d prefer to stay longer.
So, I wave them off, saying I plan to call my boyfriend on the ride back and he’ll keep me company.
Which leads to ten minutes of questions about said semi-fictitious boyfriend, which I muddle through until a familiar song draws their attention back to the dance floor.
After promising to text them once I’m safely back at the Village, I emerge outside alone.
It’s cooler than it was earlier, but not by much. The night air smells like smoke from the cigarette butts littering the sidewalk. The ends of some still glow orange.
My nose wrinkles as I fish my phone out. For too long, I stare at the most recent message from Nolan, sent a few hours ago.
Nolan: Stop being so childish.
My thumb hovers, sorely tempted to swipe and delete it. To delete everything, the entire digital record of our relationship. I dated him to prove a point to myself, and the only lesson I learned is that’s a terrible reason to enter a relationship.
I sigh and shut off the phone. I’ll decide what to do about Nolan when I’m back in Boston. Right now, I have more important things to focus on.
Then I remember why I was on my phone to begin with and tap the screen again. This time, it doesn’t wake up. It remains stubbornly black, the empty battery flashing a few seconds later.
Fucking Nolan. Even thousands of miles away, he’s still managing to distract me. If not for his latest text, I’d have noticed the low battery and ordered a ride in time.
And fuck me for going out in a foreign city with a barely charged phone. I was ambushed about this outing, but still.
I glance at the long line of people waiting to enter the club, wondering how likely the bouncer is to recognize me and allow me to skip to the front. I decide to see if the man at the valet stand can help first.
“Excuse me?” I call out, stepping his way.
I have to repeat myself twice before he glances over, spitting out a steady stream of rushed French before resuming rifling through sets of car keys.
I stare at him blankly, struggling to decipher any of what he said. Unlike Gemma, I never expected to be at this Olympics. Hoped, sure, but never planned or prepared. I studied Portuguese in high school.
“Uh…auto?” I mime turning a steering wheel with my hands, then raise my thumb and pointer finger to pretend I’m making a phone call. “Taxi?” I tack on, hoping that’s a recognizable word in any language.
More French flows from behind me. The valet’s attention shifts past me, and he nods in response to whatever was said.
I sigh, shoulders slumping, resigning myself to the fate of standing in line a second time. Maybe my teammates will decide to leave soon, and I won’t have to wait long, but the evening didn’t seem to be trending that way. Gemma, at least, is waiting for the bartender to get off his shift.
“You need a ride?”
I spin toward the question like it’s a life preserver. “Yes! I…” My voice trails, the rest of what I was planning to say getting stuck somewhere in my throat when I see who spoke.
I stare.
He grins, amused by my muteness. Or maybe it’s his typical reaction. There’s an ease to the expression, like he smiles a lot.
The entire US team has a fascination with the German men’s team, considering our captain is engaged to the captain of theirs. And the entire soccer world is aware of who Germany’s goalkeeper is. Aside from Adler Beck—Saylor Scott’s fiancé—he’s the most recognizable player on the team.
In my opinion, goalie is the most challenging position on the field. One body guarding a net that’s eight feet high and twenty-four feet long against lethal aim? It takes a rare combination of talent and bravery to even attempt to stand in the way of a kick. At any level, let alone the very top.
The guy in front of me is colloquially considered to be one of the best in the world at it. He’ll be considered the best, if Germany wins the gold medal they’re predicted to.
And he’s looking at me with a familiarity that’s disconcerting, like we’re two old friends reuniting after a separation. Like he was out here, waiting for me, not the sleek sports car that another valet just pulled up.
His smile spreads wider as he holds out a hand. A dimple appears in the crevice of his left cheek.
Flutters appear in my stomach as I take it. Butterflies.
“I’m Otto.”