Chapter 14 Otto
OTTO
Much sooner than I expected to be, I’m back in Germany. Beck insisted on picking me up from the airport, and he’s driving a black SUV that became his default ride once his daughter was born.
“You didn’t need to do this,” I tell him, watching Kluvberg’s familiar scenery fly by outside. It’s nice to look out the window and know exactly where I am.
Eliza didn’t hesitate to tell me to take all the time I needed after I explained the situation, even though this trip meant I’d be missing the first game of the season. So, with no excuse not to, I booked the flight home.
Beck scoffs at my comment, not bothering to reply. “You look good,” he says instead.
The sling is gone. It’s a massive improvement, not wearing a physical reminder of my injury, but it doesn’t change the fact that my shoulder is still stiff and sore.
“I always look good, Kaiser.”
I grin when he includes gro?spurig in his response.
He’s smiling, too, obviously relieved I’m in a better mood than the last time we talked. “Boston not as bad as you thought?”
“It wasn’t the city I wanted to avoid.”
I feel his surprise. It fills the practical car.
When we don’t discuss football, we talk about Beck’s life. Saylor and Gigi. Sometimes Sophia and whether Aster is worthy of her. We don’t discuss my life.
At least Beck attempts to mask his shock as he cautiously asks, “What do you mean?”
I don’t answer right away.
I’ve never discussed Claire with anyone.
I don’t know where to start. How much to say.
Six years later, the past still feels too raw to talk about.
The present—how often I catch myself staring at her without ever choosing to—scares me as much, maybe more, than my torn shoulder.
She’s a player; I’m currently her coach.
She lives in Boston; I live here. She’s moved on; I thought I had.
Maybe mentioning some of it aloud will relieve some of the pressure in my chest.
“Remember the Paris Olympics?” I ask him.
Beck grins. “Of course.”
That tournament means something different to every other German player who was on the roster.
“I met someone there. Didn’t see her for six years. She plays for the Siege now.”
“She’s American?”
“So is Saylor.”
Beck scoffs. “I’m aware of my wife’s nationality, Berger.”
I resume staring out the window.
“What happened?”
“It didn’t work out,” I say dully.
“I put that much together since you’ve never mentioned this woman before.”
Just like you hadn’t told me Juliette was moving in with you, and then she was there when I came by after practice. This happened six years ago, and you’re bringing it up now. Why?”
“I was just… I was nervous about seeing her again.” The longer we discuss Claire, the more likely I am to say something stupid. “I’m flying back through New York and getting dinner with Juliette.”
I expect Beck to focus on that revelation, especially since he just brought my ex-fiancée up. Instead, he asks incredulously, “You were nervous about seeing her again?”
Something stupid…like that.
I’m energetic, not anxious, before matches. I’m usually volunteered for extra press interviews because I don’t clam up like some of the guys do. Confidence is never something I’ve lacked. So, yeah, I guess this is the first time I’ve admitted to being nervous about anything.
“Did you hear me, about Juliette?”
“I heard you.” A pause. “You nervous about seeing her?”
I scowl. If Beck wasn’t driving, I’d shove him. “Fuck off.”
“Was she nervous about seeing you?” His voice has lost its teasing edge. He’s serious.
“Stunned, I think. I hadn’t told her I was coming.”
“Had you guys talked since Paris?”
“Not a word.”
“Were you—”
“Can we stop talking about it? Please?”
“Sure. It’s not like you ever hung a banner that said Saylor Scott’s Inspiration for the entire fucking club to see. I’ll respect your privacy.”
I roll my eyes. “Well, it all worked out for you, didn’t it?”
I’m taken aback by the note of bitterness in my voice, and I think Beck hears it too.
“It didn’t all just work out, Berger. It took a lot of work to get there, to figure things out. But I love her, so I fought for us.”
“I didn’t fight,” I admit. “That’s why it didn’t work out. And I’m reminded of that every time I think about her and every time I look at her now, and that fucking pisses me off.”
“Does she know that?”
I shake my head. “She’s moved on. She—there’s no point.”
A pause.
“You’re meeting with Wagner while you’re back?”
“Yeah.”
“If you mention you’d recover better here, he’d—”
“No.” I startle myself with the swiftness and surety of my reply.
If we’d had this conversation before I left for Boston, I might have given a different answer.
But I knew then that I didn’t have to go.
If I’m being entirely honest, part of me wanted to see Claire again, as much as I was dreading it.
And now that I have, I feel compelled to stay in Boston for as long as I committed to.
“I’ve got a routine there,” I add. “I like the doctors. And once I’m cleared for some activity, the Siege facilities will be perfect to work out in. They’re private and brand-new.”
“All right,” Beck says. “It’s your decision, Berger.”
I appreciate him choosing not to mention that those are flimsy excuses.
Or pointing out that dinner with Juliette didn’t make the list of reasons to return.
The following morning, I climb behind the wheel of my newest Audi and drive to Tannfeld.
Driving, like just about everything, is a lot easier without the sling.
Not that I let it stop me. The only times I hired a professional driver since my injury were returning from the hospital and going to the airport last month.
It’s not just the lack of a sling. The country roads are wide open, and I allow the speedometer to drift higher than the speed limit. The hit of adrenaline improves my mood…up until I park in my grandfather’s driveway.
I’m expecting the surprised scowl that spreads across Opa’s wrinkled face when he opens the door.
“What are you doing here, boy?”
He looks thinner than he did last summer. Paler, too, although that’s typical this time of year. Leaning heavily on a cane, unsteady on his own feet.
Last visit ended with a slammed door, so I squeeze through the doorway before he has a chance to repeat that trick. “Hallo, Opa.”
He repeats the same question while I give the first floor a cursory sweep. It’s cluttered, but not a complete mess. His recliner’s in its usual spot. Stacks of books surround it, too many to fit on the stuffed shelves.
I’ve had fans scream and sob when they catch sight of me. My own flesh and blood can’t manage to wipe the annoyance I flew four thousand miles to be here off his face.
“I’m here to drive you to the hospital,” I answer curtly. “Are you ready?”
“Mila is driving me.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, cursing the headache building at the base of my skull.
I think I’m just hungover from the beers I had after Beck dropped me off last night, plus jet lag, but it might be a migraine.
The specialist I went to a few years ago gave me a list of potential triggers that I’ve half-heartedly avoided. I might have to make a better attempt.
“Do you have any painkillers?” I ask, continuing into the kitchen.
Scuffing and tapping tells me my grandfather is following me.
“I have a head—” I pull up short, staring at the open bottle of Korn on the counter.
I thought Opa’s clumsiness was due to his bum hip. Another equally plausible explanation is, he’s drunk, just like he normally is.
I don’t remember if he drank before my mom died, but he sure did after.
And it’s a destructive hobby he’s stuck with ever since.
I don’t know where—or how—he gets his supply since it’s the one aspect of his life I’ve never facilitated, but the cabinet’s always full.
I dumped every bottle in the house one summer in my teens.
The next time I returned from the academy, it was full again.
“Are you fucking serious?” I ask, glancing at his stony expression. “You’re supposed to have surgery today.”
“I’ll drink whenever I damn want.” Opa limps over to the faucet, adding some water to a half-full glass of suspicious contents.
“Is that how this happened? Were you drinking when you fell down the stairs?” I huff a frustrated sigh, then head into the half bath located off the kitchen.
Once I’ve located and swallowed a couple of pills, I return to the kitchen.
It’s empty.
I groan, aiming a murderous glare at the liquor cabinet as I pass it by.
Opa is in the living room, reclined in his favorite armchair with today’s paper. He reads it cover to cover every single day. Although, based on his blank look whenever I talk about teammates, he skips the football articles.
“Time to go,” I tell him.
I’m not sure they’ll even be able to operate on him in this state, but we’ll find out.
“Mila is driving me.”
I sigh. “No, she’s not. Mila called me, told me about the surgery, and knows I’m here to drive you to it.”
The revelation seems to upset him more than my presence.
Most of the time, I’m relieved that Mila’s role allows me to carry on with limited interaction with my grandfather.
Other times, like now, I realize it’s widened the gulf between us.
We communicate with each other almost exclusively through her.
We didn’t always have that shortcut, and it meant we spoke directly.
Not often, but more than we do at present.
“Do you need me to help you get to the car?” I ask, knowing it’ll get him moving.
The only thing Opa loves more than alcohol and arguing is proving people wrong.
Sure enough, he lumbers to his feet a few seconds later. More agilely than I was expecting. He reaches for the glass on the table, but I’m faster, swiping it away.
Opa glares. “A man should get to spend his last day how he wants to.”
He’s scared.
The realization hits me with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, coming from someone whose default settings are grumpy and grumpier. Who would deny being scared until the day he is dead.
“It’s not your last day. I had surgery at the same hospital and survived.” I open the front door, nodding for him to walk out first. “You’ll be fine.”
I use the hidden key to lock the front door while Opa watches like he’s expecting me to mess up the simple task. I should have parked closer to the door, but I was attempting to maintain the element of surprise.
Offering to move the car will only irritate him more, so I walk behind him instead, ready to assist if necessary.
He grumbles the entire walk, about the overcast weather and the neighbors’ yapping dog and the ridiculous car I drive.
My sympathy well is dry by the time he’s inside.
Steps dragging, I walk around the rear, delaying the drive that’s to come.
I say nothing as I click on my seat belt and start the engine. We coexist mostly peacefully in silence.
“They must be making a real fuss over your recovery.”
I glance at Opa, taken aback. He has some sense of my success—he knows I can afford to hire him help, and he’s seen his neighbors ask for my autograph—but he’s never directly acknowledged any of what I’ve accomplished.
Probably because doing so would imply my decision to pursue football wasn’t the massive mistake he made it out to be.
He’s never apologized.
I’ve never offered any forgiveness.
We’re frozen around each other, stuck at the same impasse.
Yet I think that was his own stubborn way of asking if I was okay.
“They are. There’s a whole team of specialists working with me. The doctors expect I’ll make a full recovery, be back in goal this summer.”
He grunts. “Football won’t last forever, boy.”
Neither of us says anything else for the remainder of the drive.