Chapter 8 Otto
OTTO
My office is clean, neat, and practically empty. Tucked in a corner at the end of a long hallway, on the back side of the facility, overlooking the outdoor practice field.
Despite the temporary nature of this arrangement, the engraved nameplate next to the door has my name on it. Seeing Coach Berger written in neat block letters is as strange as hearing it spoken aloud has been.
Today marks the start of my second week with the Siege, but it feels like it’s been longer.
Late June—my tentative return date—feels years into the future.
I keep waking up in the middle of the night, squinting at strange surroundings and cursing the constriction of the sling I’m stuck with.
Wearing it during the day is bad enough, but it’s especially uncomfortable at night.
The immobilization might be helping cartilage reattach to bone, but it’s doing nothing for my REM cycle.
I yawn, tossing my jacket on one of the two chairs facing my desk. The office’s furnishings are basic—desk, chairs, empty filing cabinet. Its former occupant cleared out any personal belongings, and I don’t have any to move in. All I packed were clothes.
A large bulletin board hangs on the wall facing the window, copies of the season schedule and team roster neatly attached with matching pushpins. The season opener—against Chicago—is set to take place in two weeks.
I walk over to the window to stare outside.
I have a perfect bird’s-eye view of the field.
The sky is gray and overcast. Snow covers the ground, pure white in some sections and stained gray in others.
The turf field stands out like a tropical island dropped on an iceberg, a neat rectangle of brilliant green.
Sharp longing jabs at my ribs as I look at it, recalling the thousands of hours I’ve spent on a football field. I took being on the field for granted. Wouldn’t change a minute of it, but I have a bad habit of not realizing how I feel about things until I lose them.
I knew I loved football. But I had no clue how gaping the hole of its absence would be.
Coaching isn’t the same. So far, I’ve enjoyed it more than I expected to, but it’s different from playing. You’re watching someone drive a car rather than holding the wheel or pressing the gas yourself.
I might never play again. I’ve tried to stay positive, but it’s a fear that resurfaces regularly, overshadowing any attempts at optimism.
I spent Saturday walking the Freedom Trail and Sunday wandering through the galleries in the Museum of Fine Arts so I had something to report to Will and so I didn’t sit in my apartment all weekend, wearing down all the shoulds and likelys the doctors used until I reached the worst-case scenario beneath what I hoped would happen.
I yank my eyes away from the field before my brain can spiral down that dark path now, swiping my empty water bottle off the desk and heading back into the hallway.
Aside from my prescribed physical therapy, walking is the only form of exercise I’m cleared to participate in right now.
I feel like a racehorse, pacing a small stall.
I stride around the corner, then come to an abrupt halt, nearly dropping the plastic bottle I’m carrying. The sole reason my grip prevails is the reflexes I’ve honed for two decades.
Claire Caldwell is standing at the water fountain, one hip casually propped against the metal ledge as she watches her thermos fill with water. She glances up, toward the sound of my approach, the relaxed expression on her face shuttering to blank as soon as our eyes connect.
She straightens immediately, shoulders tensing to a straight line.
I should say something. Hi at the very least. But my throat constricts, preventing air from entering or words from exiting as we stare at each other.
She’s been avoiding me. Subtly, but it’s no coincidence that she always goes to Meg when we pass out pinnies or footballs.
That, no matter where I stand, she’s on the opposite side of the circle.
That, when I’m working with Kristin, she opts to practice with Daniela.
And when I’m by Daniela’s goal, she chooses Kristin.
I haven’t made it harder for her. Haven’t pulled her aside and forced this conversation.
I knew it was coming, that we couldn’t coexist on the same team without talking for four months, yet I’m still foolishly unprepared for this interaction to actually take place.
I had a whole speech planned for Melbourne, expecting she’d be at the most recent summer Olympics with the American team.
And now that she’s standing directly in front of me, I can’t think of a single worthwhile word to say.
So, I keep staring. My gaze dips without permission, scanning the Siege apparel she’s wearing. The joggers and fleece cover her completely. But I don’t have to imagine what’s beneath the fabric. I’ve explored every inch of Claire’s body, and those memories are burned into my brain.
Splashing draws my attention to the water fountain. Her bottle is overflowing, water streaming down the sides. I watch it happen, and Claire follows my gaze. She swears under her breath, grabbing the bottle, and it fractures the silent stillness.
I clear my throat, the uncertain sound betraying my nerves. “Hey.”
If Claire finds my first word to her to be pathetic or underwhelming—it’s both—she doesn’t let on. It’s rare I’m unsure what to say, yet common around her.
“Hi.”
Her voice clings to me like smoke. A throaty rasp so distinctive that I would recognize the sound anywhere.
“Do they know?” she continues.
I blink at her, confused by the question. “They? Know what?”
She huffs once, impatiently, like I’m being deliberately obtuse. “Coach Taylor and the rest of the staff. Do they know about…”
Oh. About us.
“No,” I say swiftly. “I didn’t think it—I didn’t say anything.”
Claire nods once, visibly relieved by my reply. “Good.”
I swallow hard. “Sorry I didn’t let you know I was coming. I should have—I should have given you some warning. Things happened fast.”
I don’t add that, up until I stepped on the plane, I wasn’t sure I would be coming. Or that she—that avoiding this exact moment—factored in that decision.
Claire caps her now-full water bottle, breaking eye contact as she twists the lid shut. “I didn’t need a warning. It’s been six years.”
“I know how long it’s been,” I say, softer than I meant to.
Six words to sum up six years. Yet I couldn’t count the number of times Claire has crossed my mind since Paris.
She tucks her water bottle between her thighs, tugging an elastic out of her hair and twisting it into a neat bun. I catch a glimpse of the scar on her right thumb before her hands fall back to her sides. She still uses the same shampoo; I can smell it.
I knew, when I lost Claire, that she mattered to me more than I’d realized. But I never expected that dull ache of regret to linger for this long.
“It’s good to see you,” spills out without me consciously choosing to say the sentiment.
Claire takes a deep breath. “Look, Otto—” She pauses and flushes. “I mean, Coach Berger.”
“Otto’s fine,” I say, trying to ease her embarrassment. Still absorbing the shock wave of hearing her say my name again.
“Coach Berger,” she emphasizes.
I fight a sudden smile. My first real one since the fall that landed me in an operating room.
“None of my teammates know about our…history either, and I’d like it to stay that way. We’re… I mean, we’re basically strangers anyway, right?”
Wrong. We don’t feel like anything similar to strangers. But I wasn’t intending to treat her differently from any other player, which is what she’s concerned with.
“I wasn’t planning on advertising anything, Caldwell. If you haven’t told them about us, they won’t find out from me.”
“Okay then,” she says.
“Okay then,” I echo.
Claire doesn’t walk away, like I’m expecting her to. She’s looking at my chest, specifically at the sling partially covering my Siege polo. “Are you—”
“Caldy! I thought we were meeting—oh. Hey, Coach Berger.”
It takes me a second too long to drag my gaze away from Claire to look at the newcomer who interrupted whatever Claire was about to say.
Am I what?
Another few seconds pass before I’m able to sort through my tangled thoughts and come up with the correct name from the team roster. Mallory Wilson.
“Hello, Wilson.”
Mallory smiles, elbowing a stoic Claire. “We were supposed to meet in the weight room five minutes ago.”
“I was on my way there,” Claire responds. “Just stopped to fill up my water bottle.” She holds it up like proof. “Let’s, uh, let’s go.”
“ ’Kay!” Mallory flashes me a friendly smile, then follows after Claire, chattering away.
I stand motionless until they’re out of sight. I should feel better now that our first interaction is out of the way.
I don’t.
I remember why I walked up to a stranger outside a nightclub in Paris.