Chapter 19 Otto
OTTO
“What do you think of Caldwell?”
My grip tightens on the plastic arm of the chair. I wish I had my foam ball to squeeze. “What do you mean?” I ask Eliza.
When she asked me to stop by her office after practice, I figured it was about the photos from last night. If Claire saw them, the entire team must have, and I was right.
Practice was filled with whispers and smirks from the Siege players, and I was a fool not to assume the paparazzi I’m fairly certain Juliette’s publicist tipped off would waste no time in plastering the snaps of us all over the place.
A model and a professional athlete being spotted together is hardly a rare occurrence, but the public appetite for it remains.
Eliza hasn’t brought the photos up. She asked about my grandfather’s health and updated me on her practice plan for the week.
And now, we’re discussing Claire.
I’d rather explain why I was photographed with my ex-fiancée last night.
I’m still shaken from my slipup earlier.
I didn’t mean to call her Boston; it just came out.
And it might have been fine if Claire hadn’t frozen as soon as I said it.
Her stricken face haunted me for the rest of practice, along with all the wrong assumptions she’d made about my absence.
She had a child with someone else. Why does she care who I eat dinner with?
Eliza leans back in her swivel chair, tapping a pen against her desk. “You watched the game against Chicago?”
I nod. “I did.”
She sighs heavily. “That should have been a win for us. It wasn’t just Caldwell; the entire team underperformed. I thought we had the momentum, coming off such a great preseason.”
“One game won’t ruin the whole season.”
“You’re right. But it’s a bad start. And Caldwell was sloppy during practice earlier.”
I’m seized with a sudden burst of panic. I distracted her today. And I can deal with a lot, but I can’t deal with negatively impacting Claire’s career.
“She is one of the top defenders in the league,” I say. “Her blocks and interceptions are—”
Eliza interrupts, “I’m aware of her stats, Otto.”
“Right. Of course.” I bounce my knee, then shift in the chair, worried I said too much. That my defensiveness revealed too much.
“Every player has off days,” Eliza continues. “The problem with Caldwell’s, they affect the entire team. She has a captain spot in every way except seniority. She’s who the rest of the team looks up to.”
Pride flares as Eliza mentions what I already recognized from observing the team.
“Her concentration against Chicago was nowhere to be found,” Eliza continues.
“I had Caldwell talk to a sports psychologist last season, and it didn’t seem to help.
I was wondering if you’d be willing to do a few individual sessions with her.
I think it would be good for her to work with someone unfamiliar. You can offer some new insight.”
This.
This, right here, is why I should have been honest from the start.
I’m the last person Claire would want individual sessions with, and I’m the furthest thing from unfamiliar.
Even ignoring our personal past, I can guarantee I’m better versed in Claire’s career than Eliza is.
I know the final scores from her last year at Lincoln.
What round she was selected in the draft.
The standings from her time playing for Denver.
And I can’t come clean to Eliza now because I assured Claire I wouldn’t say anything.
I clear my throat before answering, “Of course. I am happy to help out however I can.”
“Great.” Eliza smiles, dropping the pen on her desk. “Nicole has really appreciated your help. McKinnon and Cascarino have been noticeably improving, and you deserve a piece of that credit. We’re happy to have you back.”
“Happy to be back.” I clear my throat. “And about the photos. It was dinner with an old friend—”
Eliza reaches for one of the binders on her desk, waving my explanation away. “You were taking personal time, Otto. How you spent it is your business.”
I nod, relieved by her response. Wagner would have had a lot more to say about it. When I met with him, he grilled me on my schedule and how I need to remain focused on recovery.
“It will not happen again,” I say.
“Every publication that posted those photos mentioned your current role with this team. Management is thrilled. It’s the most publicity the Siege has received since the club’s inception. Ticket sales have skyrocketed since this morning.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, that is…good.”
For the team, maybe. For me, not really. Half the point of coming here was anonymity.
Eliza flips a binder open, effectively dismissing me. “Let me know how it goes with Caldwell.”
I stand. “Will do.”
Once outside Eliza’s office, I continue down the hallway. It dead-ends at one of the doors that leads down to the practice field. I step back out into the sunshine, sucking in deep breaths and releasing long exhales as I follow the short path that leads to the turf.
Eliza’s parting comment suggests I’m supposed to approach Claire about working with her individually, and I have no clue how to do that.
Treating her the same as any other player isn’t getting any easier, and if it’s affecting her career…
I should probably ask if she wants me to leave and respect the yes that’s sure to follow.
Return to Kluvberg. Get my groceries delivered and run through my rehab exercises in the private gym.
I reach the edge of the field, tucking my hands in my pockets as I survey the turf.
“Hi!”
I spin in place, staring at the young boy standing a dozen feet away. His smile is tentative but friendly, eyes wide as he stares at me and at the field.
They’re brown. Not green, like Claire’s. But other similarities—the hair and the nose—are unmistakable.
“Hi.” I smile back. “Are you here to visit your mom?”
“She’s at work.” The boy’s attention wanders back to the field. I recognize the wistful expression on his face.
“You like fo—” I sigh. “Soccer?”
“Yeah.” His voice is quiet, but the excitement is impossible to miss.
“Do you want to play?”
“Really?”
“Yes.” I walk over to the equipment shed, using my key to unlock the door and grabbing a ball and a stack of cones out. “What is your name?”
“Tommy Caldwell.”
I can’t decide if I’m glad or mad that he has her last name. Does that mean his dad isn’t in the picture?
“My name is Otto,” I say, shoving all thoughts of his connection to Claire far away.
Tommy nods, more focused on the ball than on making conversation.
I smile, setting up the cones. I’ve assisted with some clinics in Kluvberg, but those children were older.
Most of them had already reached the point of taking football seriously.
It’s been a long time—probably since I was the same age as Tommy—that playing football had no purpose.
But that’s exactly how it feels, kicking the ball toward Claire’s kid and telling him to try to knock over the cones.
Tommy hits three out of five, the smile on his face beaming brighter than the bright sun overhead when I congratulate him on his accuracy.
“This time, try—”
“TOMMY!”
We both glance toward the loud shout, watching Claire sprint this way. She’s in jeans but still wearing her practice jersey, her hair free from its usual ponytail and streaming behind her.
She doesn’t stop running until she’s a few feet away, casting a quick, uncertain glance at me before bending down to Tommy’s level. “What are you doing down here? You were supposed to stay with Lydia until I came out to get you. We’ve been looking everywhere.”
“Sorry, Claire,” Tommy says sheepishly, looking down and rolling the ball under his foot.
A frown creases my forehead. Why doesn’t he call her Mom?
Claire exhales, breathing heavily. With panic more than exertion, I think. “You can’t wander around alone. Someone needs to always be with you, understood?”
Tommy looks at me. “I was with Otto.”
I smile at him. His immediate acceptance of me is cute.
“Otto is a coach,” Claire says. “He isn’t here to look after you, like Lydia is or like I am. One of us always needs to be with you.”
Tommy nods, looking crestfallen.
“I did not mind,” I say, like an idiot.
Claire shoots me an exasperated look. I think she’s more annoyed with me than Tommy now. “Come on,” she tells him brusquely.
Tommy doesn’t move. “I want to keep playing with Otto.”
“He’s busy.”
This time, I’m smart enough to keep my mouth shut.
But when Tommy asks, “Doing what?” I have to work to keep the grin off my face.
Claire glances at me, frustration evident in her expression.
I shrug my good shoulder. “I do not mind playing more.”
If we’d first met a few weeks ago, I’d understand her reluctance to leave her kid with me. But we didn’t.
She holds my gaze for a few seconds, and it’s a hold-my-breath moment I haven’t experienced in six years. Waiting… Hoping she’ll choose to trust me.
“Okay,” Claire finally says, and I exhale. She glances at Tommy. “I need to let Lydia know I found you. I’m going to finish changing, and then I’ll be back down here to get you. You listen to Otto, and you stay with him, okay?”
Tommy nods somberly. “Okay.”
Claire looks to me, mouthing a quick, Thanks, before she turns and jogs back toward the building.
“You really think I’m good at soccer?” Tommy asks me, walking over to the abandoned ball.
“I do,” I confirm. “Your mom is one of the best players I know.”
His nose scrunches up in confusion. “Huh?”
“Claire? Your mom?”
“She’s my aunt,” Tommy says, as if it’s common knowledge.
Maybe it is; I didn’t know.
And it should really make no difference. It doesn’t mean she’s single. Doesn’t mean she’s thought of me once in the past six years.
But it does mean a wide smile stretches my face as I set up the cones again.