Chapter 10 Claire
CLAIRE
“The Chain” blares in my ears. Cold wind blasts my cheeks.
I tug the knit cap Lydia gifted me lower mid-stride, ensuring the wool covers the tops of my ears as I continue jogging alongside the Charles. It’s early, barely March, and a Saturday. Only the hardcore are out this early, braving the elements.
And the avoiders.
Cassidy found a job; she’s working at the same accounting firm Dad has been part of since before my sister was born.
She swore that Dad had nothing to do with her hiring, that he’d merely mentioned an opening and she applied because nothing else was working out, but we both know that’s bullshit.
Not that Cassidy isn’t qualified. She’s one of the savviest people I’ve ever met.
But Caldwell isn’t that common of a last name.
Dad and Lindsey, his wife, were coming by the house at nine to take Cassidy and Tommy out to breakfast to celebrate.
I know Cassidy told me in the hopes I’d have an actual face-to-face conversation with my father.
Instead, I set my alarm and snuck out earlier than she’d be awake.
I don’t have the energy to deal with that drama.
I’m preoccupied with Mom’s upcoming move to Echo Glen.
With transitioning into a new season. With getting to know my nephew better.
With Otto’s low, “It’s good to see you,” which has been on repeat since our conversation on Monday.
I’ve said that to acquaintances who hadn’t crossed my mind in years. But Otto didn’t just say it. He said it like he meant it, like him being in Boston was a coincidence instead of a calamity.
It’s been fucking with my head ever since, along with the fact that he didn’t tell anyone about me.
I figured he would have said something after seeing my name on the roster.
Not the details, but an, Oh, Caldwell? I’ve met her before, at the Paris Olympics, would have made complete sense.
Saying nothing seems more meaningful, somehow, but it’s probably the wrong assumption.
It’s been six years. His eyes might have skimmed right over my name on the roster.
“I know how long it’s been.” He said that like he meant it too.
I run faster, harder, trying to drown out my thoughts with exertion even though today was supposed to be an easy jog.
We have a preseason scrimmage tomorrow. The final score won’t count in any official capacity, but it’s an opportunity to set the tone for the coming season.
To showcase what sort of opponents the Siege will be.
We were so close last year, and I’m determined to end this year as champions.
My phone buzzes with an incoming call, interrupting my music, but I don’t answer it. I’m certain it’s Cassidy. She’ll find the note I left on the kitchen counter soon enough.
“Everywhere” resumes, and I relax into the reassuring rhythm of left, right, left, right, left, right.
Air rushes in and out of my lungs in steady streams. I’m moving too fast to see my breaths linger in the chilly air, but I know that they are.
The car read twenty-eight degrees when I parked.
Sunshine might have raised the temperature to thirty by now, but it’s definitely below freezing.
The gray clouds hovering overhead suggest more snow is coming soon.
I pass a woman walking a poodle, and then my eyes snag on a figure ahead. I squint, blink rapidly, do everything I can think of to morph the shape into someone else. Praying this is one of those instances where my subconscious is playing a trick on me, finding familiarity in strangers.
But it’s him. I’m disturbed by how certain I am. I’ve avoided every opportunity to look at him, doing so only when absolutely necessary.
I blow past him, slow, pivot, and walk back the dozen feet to where Otto is leaning against the rail that separates the path from the bank of the frozen Charles.
There’s no indication he noticed or recognized me. Even if he did, I could have claimed to have not noticed or recognized him.
But I have this fascination with Otto Berger. It runs deeper than his athletic talent. Than his perfect physique and rogue grin. Than anything superficial.
I convinced myself that interest had faded with time. That I occasionally checked Kluvberg scores out of habit, nothing else. But it’d been smothered, not extinguished, and Otto walking into the media room was a gust of oxygen, fanning flames back to life.
I exhale, vapor hovering before dissipating, as I stop beside him, gripping the railing with my gloves. “Hey.”
“Hi.” His voice sounds muted, somber, so unlike the adventurous, animated guy I remember. Blue eyes especially piercing against the pale, icy backdrop of a Boston winter.
This would be so much simpler if I’d only known Otto Berger for the two weeks he’s been a Siege assistant coach.
It could be a casual conversation, commiserating about how cold it is.
Involving a little internal fangirling on my part—because he’s even more famous than he was when we met.
Otto’s spent the past six years becoming better known and more successful.
My career, by contrast, has, at best, plateaued and, more accurately, declined.
I haven’t earned a single cap since leaving Paris. He’s won another World Cup.
He doesn’t seem surprised to see me, which I assume means he did spot me running. But I can’t tell for sure, and that bothers me.
“What do you think of Boston?” I ask.
“It is nice.” He leaves it at that.
“I’m surprised you left Kluvberg,” I admit.
He turns his entire body toward me, not just his head, resting a hip against the railing. It’s oddly intimate and extremely distracting. Too reminiscent of how he’d focus on me, even when others—lots of others—were trying to capture his attention.
“Why?”
“I just…figured you’d want to recover at home?”
Otto doesn’t reply right away, and it gives me too much time to look.
I’ve run this route since I got my driver’s license.
The path is so familiar; I could navigate it blindfolded.
And standing here, staring at him, is surreal.
I returned from Paris and jogged along this path, praying no one would recognize me from the feature the Globe had run and holding back tears.
It’s déjà vu and a dream—or nightmare—rolled into reality.
We’re still just…looking at each other.
Otto never planned to be standing here either, if six years of silence were any indication, but only one of us chose this, and it sure wasn’t me.
“This move made sense,” he answers finally.
You’d think he was getting charged by the word to have this conversation with me. And forgot he was a multimillionaire.
“You’re different,” I blurt before I can think better of it.
“I cannot play,” Otto replies, bitterness soaking each syllable.
When we met, I admired his focus on soccer.
When we ended, I accepted it. When I saw he was engaged, I thought his priorities had finally shifted.
If they did, his response revealed they’d moved back.
I wasn’t talking about his injured status; I was referring to the way he seemed to be a black-and-white version of his colorful self.
“You’ll be back next season.”
He sighs, the cloud of his breath hovering between us temporarily. He reaches to adjust his sling with his left hand, the strap making it impossible for his jacket to zip all the way up. The cold doesn’t appear to be bothering him. He looks healthy—solid and capable.
“You will,” I insist, his silence scaring me a little.
The smallest of smiles tugs at his mouth. “You a doctor now, Claire?”
There’s nothing small about the reaction to him using my first name, paired with a glimpse of his former playful self.
“What did the doctors say?” I ask, forcing myself to remain in the present only.
Otto blows out another breath. “It was a bad tear. The surgery went as well as it could have. Nothing to do now but wait. I am stuck wearing this”—he adjusts the sling again—“for a couple of more days, and then physical therapy will start. After a few months, I will be cleared to start training again. Or not, and I will… I don’t know what. ”
“You’re not a terrible coach,” I tell him.
Kristin and Daniela have been singing his praises ever since Otto started working with them.
That earns me a short laugh. I hate—hate, hate, hate—how I almost smile in response.
“Thank you, Caldwell.”
I also despise the brief burst of disappointment when he reverts to using my last name. But it’s a needed reminder of our current roles. We’re not old pals or friendly exes. We might be in the same place again, but it’s temporary—again.
I straighten. “I should keep moving.”
His eyes skim over the leggings and thermal top I’m wearing. The tight layers suddenly feel too flimsy. I fight the urge to cross my arms, erecting more of a shield between us.
“Today is your day off,” Otto comments.
“I’m aware.”
“You should be resting before the match.”
I bristle at the imperiousness in his tone. “We’re not at work, Coach Berger. I’ll prepare for tomorrow however I want to.”
Rather than appear offended, he smiles again, prompting another cardiac event in my chest. “You are the same.”
I can’t tell from his voice if that’s a compliment or an insult.
And he must see it on my face because he adds, “Still stubborn, I mean.”
There are very few people on this planet who would describe me as stubborn. But I can be, if it’s related to something important or if I’m around someone I trust enough to stick around when I’m not shiny and accommodating.
“So are you,” I tell him. “Which is how I know you will be back in goal next season.”
Otto nods once, shoving away from the metal railing.
I can’t tell, from the slight movement, if he believes me.
He opens his mouth, then closes it again.
Rubs the back of his neck, and I want to close my eyes so I don’t have to battle the urge to stare at the sliver of abs the motion reveals.
I think I catch a glimpse of a boxers band and wonder if he wears the same brand.
Wonder how different he truly is, beneath the depression about his injury.
“See you tomorrow,” he finally tells me, starting in the opposite direction I was running in.
Does he live near here? Does he have a car in Boston? Was this his first time walking here, or has he come before?
I shove the questions deep down, close to the forbidden ones I’ll never ask. Near, Did you ever think about me? and, Do you have any regrets? and, Why didn’t you marry her?
Before I begin jogging again, I check the time on my phone.
It’s later than I expected; we talked for longer than I’d realized.
Sure enough, I have a missed call from Cassidy, and I’ll need to head home soon to check on Mom.
Turning back now runs the high risk of running into Otto, so I resume my music and continue running the same way I was before.
Not because I don’t want to see him again.
Because I do, and that’s more dangerous than a swim in the frozen Charles would be right now.