Chapter 22 Otto
OTTO
She’s early.
“You are early,” I state, approaching the metal bench Claire is slouched on.
It’s quarter to ten, and I was expecting to have more time to prepare.
Working with goalies or making general observations was one thing.
But I’m not a real coach, and I’m not sure what magical purpose Eliza thinks this session will serve.
Fifteen minutes wasn’t a ton of time to figure it out, but it was something.
“Ten isn’t that early,” Claire replies cooly, reaching for the thermos next to her thigh. She’s wearing shorts today, which is not as bad for my concentration as the revealing top she had on last night, but is not great for it either.
“You used to think so.” I pull keys out of my pocket, unlocking the equipment shed and grabbing a single ball out of the mesh bag.
When I turn back around, Claire is staring at me.
There’s a crease in her forehead that smooths when we make eye contact.
She asked me not to tell anyone about our past; she didn’t say not to mention it when we were alone.
I’ve been hyperaware of how I act around her.
If I’m looking too long, standing too close, commenting too much.
She becomes a spot of brilliance amid a whole lot of gray, and pretending otherwise is exhausting.
I drop the ball to the ground, flicking the black-and-white sphere up with my foot and bouncing it on my knee a few times.
Claire doesn’t appear impressed by the trick. Her expression doesn’t change as she says, “Tommy doesn’t think so. Most days, he’s up around seven.”
“He lives with you?” I ask casually. At least, I hope it’s casual.
“He and Cassidy are staying with me for now, yeah.”
I want to ask more questions, but it’s none of my business.
“I thought he was yours. Your kid.” I kick the ball toward the field, avoiding her gaze after the impulsive confession slips out.
“A lot of people do. We look more alike than he and Cassidy do. We both got my dad’s nose.”
I glance at hers with an exaggerated wince. “Poor kid.”
She fights it, but the corners of her mouth quirk. “Is this part of your coaching strategy? Insulting my appearance?”
My eyes skim up the length of her exposed legs. “There is nothing to insult, Caldwell.”
True. Stupid to say aloud.
I start after the ball before I can gauge her reaction, stopping just outside the center circle.
Restlessness hums along my skin. I’m full of unspent energy, with annoyance about her date last night, with impatience about my injury, with frustration about everything I didn’t say then, which would be wildly unprofessional to say now.
Claire follows me onto the field. I pass the ball to her, and she traps it automatically, her expression unreadable as we face off.
“First to ten,” I tell her.
“You can’t play,” she states.
“Avoid my right shoulder, and I will be fine.”
There’s concern on Claire’s face. Worry for me, I realize, which burns in a potent mixture of pain and pleasure.
“I am cleared to ease into noncontact training, like running,” I add.
“Pretty sure that means jogging on a treadmill, not scrimmaging.”
“I am fine, Caldwell. Do you really think I would do anything to risk my football career?”
She knows what football means to me. I don’t think through why—how else those words could be interpreted—until her expression smooths to emotionless. I wish I could shove those words back in my mouth. But they’re out, hovering in the air between us.
“No,” she replies, her smile tight. “I know you wouldn’t.”
I clear my throat, fighting to keep my composure. A football field is normally the one place I can think, where the rest of the world fades away. All I can see is her.
“I will imitate how Sears played last match. Keep your eyes on the ball, not on me, when I gain possession.”
Claire nods, her smile tight-lipped. “If you gain possession,” she says, then dribbles forward.
It’s been months since I played.
It’s been at least a decade since I played in such an informal setting—a ball and an empty field and a solitary opponent.
Muscle memory kicks in immediately. I shadow Claire, mirroring her movements based on a combination of subtle cues and what I’ve observed about her playing style.
It’s a dance. A balance of predicting her plan and altering my own, searching for an opening to steal.
A sense of peace—of relief—washes over me. For the first time since searing pain shot through my shoulder, I’m not bitter or afraid. I wouldn’t be here, wouldn’t be feet from a woman who’s haunted me more than I realized, if my injury hadn’t happened.
I missed football. This version of it—no cameras or screaming fans or expectations.
I missed her. The stranger who caught my attention the second I saw her and the determined athlete challenging me now.
I’m close enough to my end to attempt a shot. I aim, sooner than I should, wanting to test myself.
To my left, Claire lunges to block it. She barely misses the ball. She makes contact with me, ass grazing my crotch. It’s brief, a brush I wouldn’t think twice about with anyone else. But it’s her, so I freeze. Unexpectedly, so does Claire.
We’re completely still, watching the net flex and flatten as my kick hits the goal.
“One–nothing,” Claire says, stepping away and jogging after it.
While her back is turned, I drag a palm down my face. I’m almost thirty, for fuck’s sake, not a teenager. I should not be getting hard from that.
We restart from the center, Claire taking possession. We’re inside my defensive zone, but she can’t find a clear shot past me. I’m as close as I can be without fouling. Or accidentally touching her again. I’m also taller and broader than the women she’s accustomed to playing against.
She shuffles left, trying to find an opening.
I anticipate correctly, blocking her angle.
Her eyes narrow as she spins, attempting a breakaway. I lunge, knocking the ball into the sweet spot on my foot before pivoting and heading in the opposite direction.
Claire catches up just past the center line. I can hear her heavy breathing, sense her frustration about the steal, as she shifts to guard me.
I can blame her being faster on my extra bulk, but she’s also in better shape than I am right now.
For weeks, the extent of my training has been limited to various strengthening exercises for my shoulder, back, and arm muscles.
Playing one-on-one wasn’t part of my routine prior to my shoulder injury either.
Claire’s a defender. She’s poised in her natural position, whereas I’m a long way from the goal.
I feint left, but she watches the ball like I told her to. She doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she edges forward, forcing me back, and I smile.
“Perfect, Caldwell.”
I catch the surprise as it flashes across her face. She was expecting criticism, not praise.
She scores next.
I pull ahead again less than a minute later.
We volley like that, matching each other steal for steal, breakaway for breakaway, rebound for rebound.
Goal for goal.
I don’t think she’s going easy on me, and I’m sure as hell not going easy on her.
We agree on a water break right after she scores her fifth goal into the empty net, evening the score yet again. I’m breathing hard, soaked with sweat and swimming with adrenaline. I lift my shirt to wipe my face, salty perspiration stinging my eyes. I need a haircut.
When I drop my shirt, Claire quickly averts her eyes. Meaning she was looking, and it makes me feel a little less guilty about repeatedly checking out her tits last night.
I unzip my equipment bag, pulling out my phone and setting it on the bench as I search the contents for my water bottle. I pull out a towel, too, using it to wipe my face before I swallow a large sip of water.
“I wouldn’t mind practicing some passing,” Claire says, capping her water bottle. “Sometimes, linking up, I’m sloppy on the counterattack. That’s what happened with most of the turnovers.”
I nod. “Change up your passes more. Accuracy matters as much as timing does. And keeping your weight over the ball will—”
My phone begins vibrating on the bench. The metal makes the vibrations louder.
Claire glances toward the sound, then quickly away.
I reach for my phone, the screen flashing the caller’s name, then toss it in my bag.
“Keeping your weight over the ball will help avoid lifting it,” I say, ignoring the interruption.
She nods, setting her bottle down. “Great. You ready?”
I don’t reply right away. The sudden tension pulls tighter, like we each tugged at the end of a thread.
“Mila is my grandfather’s caretaker. He had hip surgery recently. That was the family emergency I flew back to Kluvberg for. He and I do not talk much. She calls to tell me how he is doing.”
I zip my bag, shoving it under the bench.
“How is your grandfather doing?”
“He is the same, with better mobility.” I hear the harsh edge to my voice, so I’m sure she does too.
“It’s his loss,” she tells me, understanding what same means.
I stand. “You have never met him.”
“Yeah, but I’ve met you.”
I know, based on her smile—half sympathetic, half bittersweet—that she’s recalling the same conversation I am. Since she’s the one who brought up our past, this time, it feels fair to comment on something I wanted to say earlier.
“You and Cassidy must be getting along, if she is staying with you.”
“Yeah, we are.” She reaches up, yanking the elastic out of her hair and redoing her ponytail.
Not really looking at me, but not avoiding either.
“My dad’s been coming around more, to see her and to spend time with Tommy.
That’s been the hardest part of Cassidy moving back.
I feel like an interloper in my own family.
I’m the grudge-holder who hasn’t gotten over the past, and it…
sucks.” She shakes her head. “I’ll get over it. ”
“You mean, forgive him?”
“If I knew how to forgive him, I would have done it a long time ago.”
“You know how to forgive him, Claire. You are just not sure you want to.”
“I guess,” she says softly.
“How is your mom dealing with it?”
Claire blinks rapidly. “What?”
“Your dad being around more. Is your mom…okay with it?”
“Oh. Fine.” She’s closed off all of a sudden, and I’m not sure why. What I said wrong. “Ready?”
She’s already walking away, not waiting for a reply.
I blow out a breath, then follow.