Chapter 6 Otto
OTTO
My first introductory session with the Boston Siege is mostly spent staring at a ten-foot-tall photo of number five mid-kick.
Directly in front of it, the actual Claire Caldwell refuses to make eye contact with me. She nods in response to something the woman next to her leaned close to whisper, she twirls the end of her ponytail, she sips from a water bottle. She listens intently as Eliza Taylor addresses her team.
One thing she doesn’t do? Look at me.
Every other player stares. Some try to be surreptitious, but none succeed.
My presence is an anomaly, and there was no announcement ahead of time, if the sea of stunned faces when I walked in the room was any indication. I scrolled through the entire roster yesterday, but I couldn’t have named a single player who was looking my way when I entered.
I’m so aware of Claire; it stuns me. I’m attempting to focus on Eliza talking, on paying attention and acting professional. And it’s like there’s a leaky faucet in the back of the room, a persistent drip, drip, drip that makes it impossible to direct my full concentration elsewhere.
It’s a relief when Eliza dismisses her players from the media room for a brief break before today’s training session begins. The tap turns off for a minute.
That was terrible.
“That went well,” Eliza states once the entire team has left, hoisting two binders off the table.
I almost laugh at the irony. Turn it into a cough instead. “Seems like a great group.”
Something a coach would say, right? Leon Wagner, Kluvberg’s head coach, isn’t the nurturing type.
His attention means you’re making mistakes while silence is a stamp of approval.
He has a nonexistent tolerance for negligence and never coddles.
I knew for certain how fucked my shoulder was when he showed up to the exam room as soon as that fateful match ended.
Normally, he relies on trainers to relay injury updates.
“I had a feeling the team would be excited about you joining us.” Eliza’s tone is dry as she tucks the binders under one arm. “I decided it would be better to spring it on them rather than invite any speculation.”
I nod. “I’m excited too.”
I glance at the floor-to-ceiling poster of Claire one final time before walking out of the room. Her arms are raised in victory, a huge smile stretched across her face.
She looks happy. Euphoric even. I’ve existed around that vibrant version of Claire, and it’s nothing like the woman who paid attention to everything except me.
I’ve been so consumed by how I’d be affected by this change that I failed to consider how my arrival might affect her. I’m selfish, accustomed to making decisions centered around myself. It also felt arrogant to assume my presence here would matter to Claire in any way.
As we walk toward the indoor field, Eliza points out a few additional areas we didn’t pass on the walk to the media room. I nod along, asking a few questions about the impressive facility.
I liked Eliza as soon as we met in her office this morning.
She’s exactly as Saylor described—firm and fair.
Someone I respect already. And I probably should have disclosed I had a past personal relationship with one of her players, no matter my first impression of her, but I feel extra guilty about failing to do so now.
Nothing about this arrangement is typical.
I didn’t apply or interview for the assistant coach position.
No one expected me to peruse the Siege roster while I was recovering from surgery in a hospital bed.
If I hadn’t kept track of Claire’s career and already known which club she currently played for, I wouldn’t have known she was on the Siege until I landed in Boston.
I no longer can claim any ignorance, but I’ve still yet to mention it. I’m here, committed to working with the team. And what’s there to say really? It’s been six years.
Meg Jackson, the other assistant coach, meets us midway to the field.
She shares Eliza’s brisk attitude, her hair cropped short in a no-nonsense style.
I get the distinct impression I’m being tested as she asks what coaching experience I have.
Rattling off the long list of clinics I’ve participated in seems to mollify her.
I name-drop Saylor, too, mentioning we’ve coached together, which seems to improve Meg’s opinion of me even more.
Nicole Green, the head of goalkeeping, is the friendliest face I’ve met yet.
She gushes over my performance in the semifinals of the most recent World Cup, then begins offering Boston recommendations. I nod along, although Will has already sent me a year’s worth of them.
“The path along the Charles is chilly this time of year,” Nicole tells me. “But there’s a beautiful view, and it’s a lot less crowded than it’ll be during the summer.”
I nod. “Good to know. Thanks.”
I don’t mention I’ve already explored it. Or that it was the first place I went. Or why.
No one, not even blunt Eliza, has asked about my shoulder, despite the black sling. I wore a black T-shirt to make it less conspicuous, but my injury’s obvious. My presence here makes it obvious. I should be on Kluvberg’s practice field right now, preparing for Saturday’s match.
Once we reach the field, Eliza runs through the plan for today’s practice. I listen carefully, tensing each time another teal-clad player arrives and starts to stretch, only relaxing when I comprehend it’s not her.
Claire is one of the last arrivals. I don’t have any reference to if that’s typical, but I’d guess not. She’s not a morning person, but she prides herself on being punctual.
I track her in my peripheral vision, watching her smile at one teammate and shove another with a smirk. Her ponytail is higher than it was earlier, the strands barely brushing her shoulders.
She’s gorgeous. And utterly unaware of it, which irritated me before and still does now.
But before, I wasn’t one of her coaches, so I look away before she catches me staring.
I lean against one of the support beams, letting my good shoulder hold all my weight, observing closely as Eliza begins talking.
She’s running through the same schedule she already shared with me, so I allow my attention to drift.
My eyes flick over the assembled players, attempting to better remember faces now that I’m seeing them in person.
A few make eye contact, glancing away quickly. Some miss my assessment, focused on their head coach. One—Savannah, I think—holds my gaze and winks.
Claire is angled as far left as physically possible.
I stare hard at the 5 on the back of her practice jersey, my jaw tensed tight enough to ache, regretting taking Eliza up on her offer for me to only observe today.
If I were the one running through today’s practice plan, she wouldn’t be able to ignore me.
Or she couldn’t without being more noticeable about it.
I’m used to attention being aimed at me. But I’ve never been more bothered by the lack of it until today. By her pretending we’re not in the same place.
Or maybe she’s not pretending. Maybe Claire is truly experiencing the indifference I’m striving hard for.
Considering I was too nervous about seeing her to eat breakfast this morning, that possibility doesn’t make me feel any better.
Practice begins a couple of minutes later. The women run through a series of sprints, followed by reps of sit-ups and push-ups. Then split into position-specific drills.
I walk down to one end of the field with Nicole, introducing myself to the goalkeepers—Kristin McKinnon and Daniela Cascarino—before watching them work with Nicole.
I offer a few suggestions, which are enthusiastically integrated, but mostly continue to observe.
It’s fucking weird, standing right next to a goal, knowing I’m currently incapable of blocking any of the kicks Nicole is aiming at it.
She played in college—one local to the Boston area, she shared earlier—joining the Siege staff after the club’s inception last year.
“Any improvements for me?” Nicole jokes as we head back toward midfield.
She’s dragging a bag of footballs, which I offered to help with. She insisted she had it, staring at my shoulder, and I didn’t offer again.
“Nope,” I say lightly, tucking my left hand in one pocket.
“Really?” She lengthens the word, filled with disbelief. “I haven’t played since college, which was…gosh, six years ago.”
“Wouldn’t have guessed,” I lie. Not only would I suggest changes to her footwork, but I also figured she was in her early thirties, not younger than me.
We reach Eliza and Meg, who are passing out pinnies to players for the scrimmage that will end practice. I scan the field, a prick of disappointment appearing when I see Claire already has one on, then resume my same pose by a support post.
Play commences a minute later. A red player, whose name eludes me, sprints up the field, met by a yellow pinnie worn by the one Siege player I can immediately identify.
I lean forward involuntarily, watching them clash, studying the defender’s movements like I’m trying to memorize them.
Claire triumphs over her opponent, stealing the ball and streaking up the field.
She passes to another yellow player before she pivots around a red defender.
The ball returns to Claire’s foot a few seconds later—she’s the only open player.
She takes the shot without hesitating, a beautiful black-and-white bullet that blasts toward its intended target at an impressive trajectory.
I know it’ll land long before Kristin lunges and misses, fighting a smile as the back of the net bulges from the ball’s impact.
To my left, Eliza shouts, “Nice work, Caldwell! Masters, get there faster next time.”
Claire jogs back to position for the kickoff, a brief smile crossing her face as a teammate pretends to bow to her.
Just before she crosses the center circle, her gaze slides from the turf to me.
I’m not expecting the eye contact. By this point, I’ve convinced myself I was the visual equivalent of white noise to her. And I’m definitely not expecting the jolt that travels through my entire body like an invisible lightning strike.
I should smile, offer silent approval and friendliness, but my facial muscles are as frozen as my immobilized arm. It feels wrong to flash a grin like we’re strangers. Even weirder to pretend we parted on good terms or that she’s possibly pleased to see me.
So, for the few seconds our eye contact lasts, I just stare.
And realize why I’ve never been able to watch the ending of that match.