Chapter 9 Otto
OTTO
PARIS
Six Years Earlier
“Iknow who you are,” the brunette confesses after I introduce myself.
Her voice is unexpected. Low-pitched and husky. Sultry. So is the way she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth after dropping my hand.
“You do?” I reply, holding eye contact.
My ego’s oversized enough to fill Sieg Stadium, according to Coach Wagner, but I’m not so conceited as to assume every American is up-to-date on the German football roster.
I’ve gotten used to a certain level of recognition around Kluvberg, but notoriety in other countries, like the scene when we arrived at Charles de Gaulle, is new.
She nods once. “I do. I have a thing for goalies.”
I grin.
The hue of her cheeks darkens to red, and I think it’s unrelated to the summer heat radiating off the sidewalk.
“Respect,” she adds hastily. “I have a respect thing for goalies. Not like an…other thing.”
“Other thing?” I ask innocently. “Like a kink?”
A word I learned from the American dating show Beck claims to only watch so he can follow Saylor’s rants about it. I watch it to support Beck being a good fiancé, of course.
“Right! I mean, right, as in, yes, that’s what I did not mean.
Not as in, yes, I have one.” She mutters something else under her breath, too low for me to hear.
“I played goalie for a single season because no one else wanted to do it. And it sucked when the opponents were seven-year-old girls who forgot which end to score in. I don’t—I can’t imagine what it must be like with higher stakes than that. ”
I grin. Again. Or still. I think I’ve been smiling ever since I saw her mimic driving a car. “You played football?”
“I play soccer,” she replies, pride in her voice. “That’s why I’m here.”
And she’s American. So, she’s one of Saylor’s teammates.
“This is your first Games?” I ask. My guess is, she’s younger than me.
She nods. “I’m still in college. I’ll be a senior at Lincoln University.”
I’ve heard of it. One of the more prestigious American schools.
She taps her phone against her thigh, drawing my attention back to her dress. The dress itself, I couldn’t care less about. But I’m very intrigued by all the smooth skin it exposes. She’s tall, nearly to my shoulder in heels, the sculpted muscles of her thighs and calves on full display.
This isn’t the first time I’ve checked a woman out without knowing her name. It’s the first time not knowing it has bothered me though.
“Is it an American thing—to share your kinks instead of your name?”
She tilts her head, a rueful smile appearing. “It’s Claire. Claire Caldwell.”
“Claire Caldwell,” I repeat, memorizing it.
“Yep.” Claire sucks on her lip again.
I’d think she was being provocative on purpose, but she seems oblivious to her own appeal. Innocent almost, though not naive. Her eyes are alert as she tracks the people passing us in the street.
“Are you headed back to the Village?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She glances at the unhelpful valet, who is waiting with my keys. “I came with some teammates who weren’t ready to leave—”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
The offer is out before I decided to make it, and I’m almost as startled by it as Claire appears to be. Her green eyes widen—a vibrant color eerily similar to my favorite sight.
“Oh,” she says. “Thank you. But I’ll, um, I can figure it out.”
“We’re headed to the same place,” I remind her, entertained by her hesitation.
Women usually pursue me. That was true before I signed my first contract with FC Kluvberg and has only become more common since I did. If I made a habit of offering rides, which I don’t, I could accurately predict the response. And it’s not no.
“I’ll just…” Claire’s voice trails.
“I can call Saylor?” I suggest, reaching for my phone.
Her “No!” is panicked. “I’m not sure we’re supposed to be…out.” She almost whispers the last word.
I’ve partied with Saylor Scott dozens of times. Captain or not, I doubt Beck’s fiancée would discipline a teammate for having some fun. It’s not like they have a match tomorrow.
But I relate to Claire’s caution. I remember that teetering sensation of excitement and terror in London, eagerness to prove myself warring with the fear of fucking up if Nübel faltered and I was subbed in.
The valet calls out, asking if I’m ready to leave. There’s a line forming behind the Maserati I rented for some sightseeing.
I ignore him, telling Claire, “I can call you a car if you want. But I would be happy to drive you back myself.”
She studies me.
And I literally hold my breath, waiting for her decision. It’s the same sensation as when I’m watching a kick fly my way. That suspension where the rest of the world is quiet and still. My surroundings blur, and it’s just me and the incoming ball.
It’s never happened anywhere else… Until now.
“Okay. Thanks, Otto.”
A strange fizziness appears when she says my name. Like a bottle of champagne was popped inside my chest and is carbonating my bloodstream.
I don’t know why I walked over here. I don’t know why it mattered so much that she said yes to me. All I know is that I’m happy both happened.
I snag the keys from the rude valet, who’s full of apologies now that he’s assumed Claire is with me. Again, I ignore him, walking to the passenger side to open the door for her.
“Surprised you don’t have a vanity plate,” Claire comments, glancing at the trunk as she passes it.
“Is that an insult?”
“Just an observation,” she replies, eyes sparkling with a mischievousness that’s new.
“It’s a rental,” I admit, grabbing the door handle.
“So, you have one on your car at home?”
“You’ll have to ride with me again to find that out.”
Claire glances at the open door, a flash of surprise appearing. She wasn’t expecting me to open the door for her, and it makes me very glad I did.
“What a gentleman.”
Her breathing is rapid, like she’s reacting to our close proximity.
“Not often,” I admit.
She smiles before lowering herself to the seat slowly, careful to keep her knees close together. I plant my body directly in front of hers, blocking her from any passersby the same way I protect my goal.
Once she’s settled, I shut the door and round the hood. I slip the valet a tip despite my lingering annoyance before climbing in the driver’s seat.
I feel her eyes on me as we zoom down the street, and there’s a flip in my stomach that’s happened…never.
I’m weirdly nervous. Antsy. I clear my throat and fiddle with the volume knob of the stereo.
“I love this song,” Claire comments.
I glance at the screen. “Dreams” is the name of the song playing.
“I mostly listen to older music,” she continues. “Fleetwood Mac has some of my favorites. I only knew two of the songs they played in the club earlier.”
“Did you have fun?” I ask, curious to know more about her night. About her.
“Yeah,” she answers, not sounding sure. “It was…different.”
“Different from what?”
“I grew up outside Boston, in this small suburb where nothing that exciting ever happened. As you might have noticed, based on how I freaked out about you calling Saylor, I’m sort of a rule follower.
I didn’t go to parties in high school, and I don’t go out much in college either.
I bartend at a pub in the summers, but I don’t go to places like that often. I don’t party much. I play soccer.”
There’s a defensiveness to her tone, like she’s expecting me to think less of her for it.
“Me too,” I tell her.
When I glance over at a red light, Claire appears dubious. “You know where we met, right?”
“I never went inside the club,” I say. “If I had gone in, we would have met earlier.”
She scoffs, like she doesn’t believe me.
And I want her to believe me, so I press the point. “You think I am lying, Boston?”
“You expect me to believe that you’d walk right up to me in a club and ask for my name?”
“I walked up to you outside a club and asked for your name. What is the difference?”
Claire doesn’t reply right away. But then she says, “You were just being nice since I was obviously out of my element.”
“I’m not nice.” We’re stopped at a red light, so I mimic her driving motion. “I was amused.”
That’s not quite the right word, but I’m not sure I’d be able to come up with it in German either. It was an instinct, to approach Claire, and I’ve learned to rely on mine.
I take a left, although I should’ve gone right, to prolong the drive with her.
“Why did you go out tonight if you do not normally?” I ask.
“My teammates wanted me to.”
I frown. “And they let you leave alone?”
“No, they all offered to leave with me. I told them I was calling my boyfriend.”
I don’t get attached easily. Probably because so much of my life has been transitory. Football has been the one reliable constant. But I’m bothered Claire isn’t single. It hits me like a letdown—a trip you were looking forward to taking getting canceled at the last minute.
“He did not answer?” I ask.
“He doesn’t exist.”
Just like that, my mood rebounds.
“Well, he exists. Just not as my boyfriend anymore.”
“His loss,” I say, taking another detour.
“You don’t even know him.”
“Yeah, but I have met you.”
Her smile grows before she glances away, out the window. “He didn’t get soccer. Said I was wasting my time.”
“How many gold medals does he have?”
She laughs. “He’s not an athlete.”
“Do not take advice from anyone who does not share your goals, Claire.”
I learned that lesson the hard way. My success boils down to one source—me. I never had anyone cheering me on, not until I reached the top.
She’s silent. I think she’s looking at me, but I keep my eyes on the street rather than check.
“Oh. Wow. There’s the Eiffel Tower.” Claire leans forward, and a vent blows her curls toward my side of the car. I can smell her shampoo—feminine, but not overly sweet. “You know where we’re going, right? We didn’t drive past it on the way to the club.”
I wait until she glances over to smirk. “I know where we are going.” We pass Paris’s iconic landmark and reach another intersection. “Right—back at the Village in ten minutes. Left—will take a lot longer. Which way, Boston?”
She holds my gaze, and it’s another hold-my-breath, incoming-shot moment.
“Left.”