Chapter 18 Claire
CLAIRE
The photos show up the same morning Otto is supposed to return. And they’re brought up in the locker room five minutes after I arrive.
“How is New York on the way back from Germany?” Savannah laughs before passing her phone to Reyna.
“It’s not,” Reyna states, grinning. “Good for Coach Berger. She looks like a model.”
“She is a model,” Savannah says, grabbing the phone next. “Juliette Dubois. She’s the face of, like, everything. Hey, Cascarino!”
Daniela wanders over with a half-eaten apple in one hand. “What’s up?”
“Coach ever mention his hot, famous girlfriend to you?” Savannah flashes the screen at Daniela.
She and Kristin are considered the resident Otto experts since the two goalies are the only ones who have worked with Otto individually.
Daniela shakes her head. “Nope. He pretty much sticks to talking about footwork or catching versus parrying. No gossip.”
“What gossip?” Mallory asks, approaching her locker, two down from mine. She drops her bag on the bench and eyes us all speculatively.
“Coach’s hot-date detour.”
I keep my eyes on the laces of my cleats as I knot them, relieved no one’s asking for my input. I’m never up-to-date on pop culture, so my teammates are used to my lack of participation in conversations like these.
I saw the photos first thing this morning, posted on an Otto Berger fan account that popped up on my feed because I stupidly used to follow the page, up until it announced his engagement.
He was wearing a suit, she was in a glamorous dress, and they were exiting a fancy-looking restaurant in Manhattan.
The caption speculated their engagement must be back on.
I spent most of the weekend worrying what could be urgent enough for Otto to fly back to Kluvberg and miss our first game, and what was he doing? Wining and dining his former fiancée.
Prick, I think vehemently, conveniently forgetting he has every right to go anywhere and do whatever he wants.
But it feels spectacularly unfair—that he’s allowed to do that and then come back. The day I saw his engagement announcement, I didn’t have to face him in practice a few hours later. Or listen to my teammates theorize about their relationship. Or know he skipped out on his job to see her.
Maybe he’s not even back. Maybe he overslept in some swanky hotel with silk sheets. Maybe he’s returning to Kluvberg for good and giving up the assistant coach position he’s clearly not committed to.
The worst part of this shitty morning? The possibility of Otto leaving—of never seeing him again—isn’t accompanied by relief.
My stomach lurches with the same scary sensation as missing a step on stairs, that terrifying moment of slipping from gravity’s grasp.
The aftermath is a pit of nausea in the bottom of my stomach.
“You see these, Claire?” Savannah asks me, aiming the dreaded phone my way with a cheeky smile.
My least favorite shot is on the screen. Otto is shielding Juliette from the cameras, one arm raised in an ineffective attempt to block the shot and the other curved protectively around her waist, guiding her toward a waiting car.
They look good together. Regal and rich, like European royalty.
I make a noncommittal sound that could be interpreted in the affirmative or negative—but hopefully not as I spent twenty minutes staring at them this morning—and quickly stand. “See you guys out there.”
My eagerness to leave the locker room backfires when the practice field comes into view.
Otto did return from New York. He must have left at dawn to make it back to Boston this early—unless he chartered a private jet or something—but he looks well rested.
Guess the date didn’t go as well as it looked in the photos. That, or he doesn’t last as long in bed as he used to.
I deliberate doubling back, pretending to have forgotten something in the locker room or dumping and refilling my water bottle, but I square my shoulders instead.
Otto is talking to Coach Taylor, but his eyes flicker toward me as I approach the sideline. I quickly avert my gaze, dropping my water bottle by one of the benches.
“Good weekend, Caldwell?” Nicole’s approaching, carrying a stack of cones.
“It was fine,” I reply. “You?”
“Not bad. I saw this great band at Paradise Rock on Saturday night.”
I nod and smile. Nicole’s the head of goalkeeping, so I don’t interact with her as much as Coach Taylor or Coach Jackson. She’s younger than them, close to my age, and has always felt like less of an authority figure.
Nicole walks on the field to set up the cones.
I start to warm up on my own, jogging in place with high knees for a couple of minutes, then running through a series of leg swings and forward lunges.
The entire time, I keep my gaze locked on the white line between my cleats, counting the number of reps in my head.
I’ve just settled on the turf for some sit-ups when a pair of sneakers too large to belong to anyone else approaches.
Otto announces his presence by saying, “Rough start to the season.”
I consider standing, decide that’s an unnecessary gesture of respect for someone who skips games to get laid, and lift a hand to shade my eyes from the sun.
It poured all day yesterday. Of course today would be sunny, the sky overhead clear and blue, like Boston is celebrating his return.
I glance at Coach Taylor, bent over a clipboard with Coach Jackson. Neither is paying any attention to us. It’s perfectly normal for a player to talk to a coach prior to practice.
But everything about talking to Otto feels charged and forbidden, beginning with my response to his comment about our loss to Chicago.
I adjust my shin guard, then pull up my sock. “You found time to look up the score? Nice coaching.”
The words alone are bad enough. But the bitter bite to them is much more damning. I sound mad—I am mad—and I didn’t want him to know that. Whether or not he’s standing on the sidelines for a Siege game shouldn’t make any difference to me. Losing shouldn’t have felt worse without him there.
Seconds stretch like hours as I wait for his response. I’m out of line—so far past the bounds that I can’t see the perimeter. If it were possible to shove the words back in my mouth, I would.
Otto’s still said nothing.
I gather the courage to glance up. He wipes the smile away quickly once I do, but not fast enough.
My eyes narrow. He thinks this is funny?
Otto crouches down a second later, and I fight the urge to scooch back. He’s a couple of feet away and too close. Way too close.
“You allowed too much space on the wide plays,” he tells me. “Close them down earlier to prevent crosses from coming in.”
Fine, he watched the game. Not the same as showing up.
“Will do,” I say cooly.
Don’t mention New York. Don’t mention New York. Don’t mention—
“How was New York?”
This time, I manage to keep my tone reserved and polite, but the question itself is bad enough. At minimum, I’m admitting I saw the photos. And people don’t normally ask questions they don’t care about the answers to.
He holds my gaze. I really want to look away, to yank at the turf or adjust my shin guard again or do anything that’s not this searing eye contact, but I can’t.
I wait for the clipped, None of your business. I’m practically asking to be benched for insubordination. Me, who’d never even called a coach by a first name until Otto arrived.
“Not my favorite city, Boston.”
I go completely still. I feel like I was just slapped, the surprise hindered by numb shock.
I don’t like nicknames. Hate being called Caldy by teammates or Clairey by Cassidy. But I never once protested Otto calling me Boston. I never asked him to stop, but he did anyway.
“Caldwell!”
I startle, my eyes darting from Otto to Coach Green. She’s standing by the line of cones, staring this way with a puzzled smile on her face.
“Yeah?” I call back, standing quickly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Otto stand too.
“Could you help me with another line of these?” Nicole asks. “I want to make sure they’re straight.”
“Of course.” I jog onto the field.
I don’t look back to see if Otto is staring after me.
But I’m pretty sure he is.