Chapter 11 Otto
OTTO
Istare at the final score, prominently displayed on the Jumbotron of the Siege’s brand-new stadium.
My first win as a coach. It was a preseason match, and there’s a full season of games ahead.
Matches that will matter for rankings and playoffs and a championship.
Today’s victory doesn’t count, technically.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth anyway.
Winning is an addictive sensation. No athlete ever thinks, Okay, I’ve won enough.
Turns out, that’s true for coaching too.
I’m proud of the Siege, even though my role in their success is so different from what I’m accustomed to.
Even though there’s a full season ahead.
“Nach dem spiel ist vor dem spiel,” is probably what Wagner would say.
After the game is before the game.
Every victory marks the start of preparing for another match. No goals or saves carry over to the next opponent. Getting to the top isn’t nearly as difficult as remaining there, and there’s a reason Wagner has kept Kluvberg dominant for the past decade.
I wasn’t averse to the idea of coaching—not until Boston came up at least—but it seemed unnecessary. I’m discovering how necessary it was.
Since I arrived at the stadium, I focused on the Siege.
On watching Cascarino manage a shutout and saying some choice words to the ref who’d given Rodman a yellow card in the first half.
It got me out of my own head for the longest stretch since my injury had happened, a break that I desperately needed.
Most coaches would have told me to focus on nothing except recovery. But Wagner knew I needed an upcoming match to look forward to, even if I wasn’t in goal for it. I feel a part of something again, like I’m connected to the Siege’s success. Invested in the outcome of their season.
Not that I’ll be here to see it. If all goes to plan, I’ll be back in Kluvberg with a healthy shoulder by mid-summer.
“Nice work today, Otto,” Eliza tells me, tucking a clipboard under one arm and offering me her hand to shake.
I do, aiming a brief smile her way. “You too.”
Eliza smiles back. “I’ve got a good feeling about this season.” She grabs the clipboard, glancing at the emptying stands. “The organization hasn’t made an official statement about your role, but we might need to.”
She’s referring to the Kluvberg jerseys in the audience. My jersey, I’m assuming, although I didn’t look long enough to tell for sure. I was focused on the match.
“Whatever you think is best,” I tell her.
Eliza nods. “I’ll check with the team publicist.”
I nod back. As soon as Eliza walks away, Nicole approaches. “Your first win,” she announces, beaming. “How does it feel?”
A child’s shriek draws my attention left.
Preseason games are free to attend, and there were a lot of families in the stands.
Plenty of them have filtered from the stands down onto the turf field, congratulating players.
It’s been a long time since I witnessed a post-match celebration that was so casual.
Barricades block any fan entry onto the pitch at Sieg Stadium for security reasons.
The screeching child—a young boy—is hustling after a rolling ball as fast as his short legs will allow. A Siege player chases after him, lifting the child and swinging him around. He laughs and wiggles. She kisses his cheek before setting him down.
All the air exits my lungs, like a football just collided with my chest.
It’s Claire. Claire with a kid. Claire with a kid who looks just like her.
“Otto?”
I tear my gaze away, refocusing on Nicole. Shake my head. “Sorry. I was… It is strange, being on a different field, not playing. An adjustment.”
Her expression softens with sympathy, prompting a burst of guilt. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the full truth either.
“Took me a while to adjust too,” she tells me. “I had this fantasy of playing professionally. Getting to this level, but not actually playing…well—” Nicole laughs. “I know you can’t relate to that part. You’re Otto Berger.”
She says my name the way a lot of people do. Like I’m a brand, not a person. And it’s never bothered me before. But it bothers me now since that brand feels separate from me. That brand was a guy who never had to think about what he’d do aside from play football.
“I will get used to it,” I say.
More shouting comes from the direction of the field, but I don’t turn to look this time. My excitement about the team’s first win has sapped away, like air leaving a leaky balloon. The stadium’s celebratory, relaxed atmosphere suddenly seems stifling.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, barely registering Nicole’s nod before I continue along the sideline, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass.
Claire’s soccer career is public information. But her social media profiles are all set to private, and I never requested access. I didn’t want to know what her life post-Paris looked like.
But now, I know. She had a kid. He looked young, but not that young.
I’d guess four or five. Add nine months to that, and she didn’t wait long to move on.
He could almost be mine, but I know he’s not.
No matter what happened between us, Claire would have told me.
I shared things with her I’ve never mentioned to anyone—like how growing up without a father affected me.
I already resolved to keep my distance after yesterday.
Foolishly, it’d never occurred to me that Claire might still run on that path.
Seeing her there was a shock, and I expected her to breeze by.
Not to stop. Not to strike up a conversation.
I knew—maybe from the moment a mention of the Siege cut through the post-injury haze I was in—that Claire still affected me.
Being around her for two weeks should have shaken off any novelty.
Instead, the opposite seems to be taking place.
The more time I spend around her, the more I crave her presence.
And I fell in love with her once, during one of the biggest moments of my career, when football should have held all my attention.
Right now, I can’t even touch a ball. It would be easier than falling—to dig up all those emotions again.
Calls of my name pull my attention to the stands. Two boys are standing on the closest seats, both wearing my jersey.
I hesitate for a second. I’m here as a coach, not a player, and interacting with spectators in the latter capacity sets a precedent I’m not sure I want to. If the Siege does release a press statement, odds are, more people will start showing up to games to see me.
Also, I’m in a shitty mood. The longer I linger, the more likely I am to see Claire’s…
boyfriend? Co-parent? She’s never worn a ring.
And that’s a reunion I have no interest in witnessing.
If he’s not here, it’ll just piss me off that she’s ended up with someone who doesn’t support her the way she deserves to be celebrated.
But the boys are bouncing with excitement, staring at me like they can’t believe I exist in real life.
So, I veer in their direction, pasting a grin on my face. “Hey, guys! How is it going?”
One is too stunned to speak. The other starts talking a mile a minute—so fast that it takes me a few seconds to realize he’s requesting I sign his jersey.
I accept a marker from a middle-aged woman, who also offers a fervent, “Thank you so much. They’re huge fans of yours,” as her kids clamor about, spinning so I can scrawl my signature on their backs.
Once I have, a few more fans have appeared. I sign everything they hand me, pose for a few photos, and then hustle toward the exit.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I stride through the gate toward the private parking lot. I pull it out, expecting it to be Beck or Will. Kluvberg played yesterday—a loss—so they’re both off today.
It’s Mila calling. She’s been my grandfather’s caretaker for the past few years. Despite having four children of her own to keep her busy (and that I only pay her to look after Opa) she checks on me regularly.
“Hallo, Mila,” I answer.
“Otto! How are you, liebling?”
The warm endearment is nostalgic. So is hearing German.
“I’m better.”
The past few times we’ve talked, I’ve pretended.
My entire world was crumbling around me, my current life unrecognizable from my old one.
But I am adjusting—and not just with the Siege.
I bought an art print at the MFA to add to my apartment’s spare furnishings.
I walk along the Charles every morning. I buy my own groceries.
It’s different, but if not for the glaring absence of football, I wouldn’t even say it’s in a bad way.
I tell Mila about the win today. About the bookstore across the street from my new apartment. About Will and Sophia’s upcoming visit.
I can sense Mila’s excitement—her relief—as she prompts me for more details.
After she updates me on what her kids have been up to, we lapse into the awkward pause that predates every discussion about the reason these calls started.
“How is he?” I finally ask.
I don’t have a bad relationship with my grandfather; I don’t have a relationship with him.
Opa was pleased—relieved, undoubtedly, to not have the burden of caring for a kid—when I was accepted to Kluvberg’s academy at age nine.
Up until he realized football was all I intended to do with my life.
I was eighteen by then, no longer his ward.
He couldn’t do a damn thing to stop me from signing a contract.
He tried, told me he’d never forgive me for abandoning the construction company he’d built from nothing; I signed the contract anyway, and we’ve barely spoken since.
He was wrong—I did have what it took.
He was right—his company folded a few years later without me stepping up to help run it.
I hired Mila when he started struggling to care for himself, and that’s the only financial help he’s ever accepted from me despite my attempts to do more.
He refuses to cash checks, locks out housekeepers, and chases off landscapers.
Mila, somehow, became the one person he tolerates assistance from.
And it takes me too long to realize she hasn’t replied, swamped with the regret and resentment that accompanies any thought of my sole family member.
Mila sighs. “He’s having surgery next week.”
I fumble with the keys in my hand, pressing the lock button instead of the unlock one and nearly dropping the phone.
My grandfather is in his early eighties. His health was going to decline eventually. It already has—he hit a neighbor’s fence, which was what prompted Mila’s hiring. But that was cataracts, nothing serious.
Opa has always reminded me of a mule. Steadfast and sturdy.
I manage to open the car door and sink into the driver’s seat. “Surgery for what?”
“He fell on the stairs and told no one.” The sentence is rife with disapproval. “I took him to the doctor yesterday. He needs a new hip.”
Fuck.
“I tried to have him call himself,” Mila continues. “He didn’t want to…bother you with it.”
I’m sure Opa put it far less politely, but Mila has always been diplomatic about the disconnect between me and my grandfather. She’s the one way our lives overlap, the single means of communication we have. A saint for tolerating our disfunction.
And I’m mad at her for telling me.
I haven’t spoken to my grandfather since last summer.
I spent a week in Tannfeld, handling all the repairs I’d hired workers for and that he’d chased off.
He didn’t call after the game that landed me in the hospital, let alone visit me there.
I’m sure he’s heard I’m sidelined for the remainder of the season.
Mila would have mentioned it; so would have his neighbors. And still…nothing.
I blow out a long breath, staring at the row of cars in the parking lot. All stationary, and I feel stuck too.
I can’t play. Can’t fuel this conflict into anything productive. Can’t use football as a barrier to block everything else out or as a scheduling excuse.
Mila stays silent, patiently letting me process.
“What day is the surgery?” I ask.
“Friday.”
I could fly back Thursday. Stay a day. Return Saturday. I’d miss the Siege’s first game next weekend, but it’s a game I’m not playing in. Nothing I did on the sidelines today was anything Eliza, Meg, and Nicole couldn’t cover for one match.
“He agreed to have a nurse stay with him after. We’ll set up his bedroom in the living room. He’ll love being closer to his books.”
She knows Opa well. Better than I do.
“I know it’s a difficult time for you right now. But I thought I should mention it.”
“Thanks, Mila,” I say.
I don’t promise anything.
But we both know I would have told her I wasn’t coming if I wasn’t.