Chapter 23 Claire
CLAIRE
We walk in silence. I’m sweaty, exhausted, and jubilant.
I wondered, when I saw him play in person for the first time, what it would be like to be on a field with Otto Berger.
What it would be like to witness that intensity up close, without the barrier of a screen or the distraction of a screaming crowd.
I wish I could say the experience was a disappointment.
We reach the top of the path, passing a door that leads inside the practice facility.
I wasn’t sure if Otto might be headed inside, but he continues toward the parking lot with me.
Meaning he really did show up just to practice with me, and I can’t decide how to feel about that.
Coach Taylor asked him to work with me, which is embarrassing and also means this wasn’t his idea.
But he never acted like it was an imposition.
I caught him smiling a few times while we were playing, and my emotions are mixed about that too.
I like being part of his recovery, but I won’t be—soon.
He’ll leave, and I’ll stay, and all I’ll be left with are more memories.
The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable, but it’s charged. I’ve hardly said anything to Otto since he asked about my mom, and I know I need to.
“That was…” Fun. Exhilarating. Special. Coming up with the right adjective takes a few seconds. “Helpful,” is what I settle on. Also true, but not nearly as revealing.
“Good,” Otto says.
I risk a glance at him, eyes lingering where his damp shirt clings to his torso.
This would be easier if I wasn’t so attracted to him, if he hadn’t told me about his grandfather’s surgery and made me feel like even more of a jerk for my reaction to his New York trip.
He was engaged to Juliette. She must know about his strained relationship with his grandfather.
He probably had dinner with her to discuss it.
Juliette hopefully made him feel better, and I’m a terrible person for resenting that.
“Are you and Will close?”
I wasn’t planning to bring up last night, but I’m curious to know more about his current life.
“You know Aster?” He sounds perplexed, like it didn’t occur to him that I might have recognized who he was with at the restaurant.
“We’ve never met,” I reply. “I just know who he is. He grew up in Dorchester. There was a lot of coverage of his, uh, what happened in Seattle. I saw he got traded to Kluvberg.”
“He is a friend,” Otto tells me. “I should have introduced you.”
“I wasn’t—I didn’t mean it like that,” I say awkwardly. “I was just curious about your… He came to visit you?”
“And his brother. It was Tripp’s birthday.”
“Who was the woman?”
“Will’s fiancée. Sophia Beck.”
“Beck as in…”
“Beck’s sister, yeah.” Otto chuckles, running a hand through his hair and mussing the windblown strands even more. “That got a little…messy. But it all worked out. Will proposed before I left Kluvberg.”
I smile. “And Saylor and Beck had a kid?”
I know they did; I follow Saylor on social media. But I’d rather hear it from him.
Otto nods. “A daughter, Gigi. She is cute. Probably a future footballer.”
“Good genes.”
He laughs again. “Exactly.” Then glances at me, amusement fading. “You keep in touch with her? Saylor?”
I shake my head. “She was always nice, but we didn’t spend much time together. And we haven’t played together since… It’s, uh, been a while.” Nervously, I tuck a piece of hair behind one ear.
We’re treading dangerously close to the topic of Paris. And maybe that would be a healthy conversation to have, to clear away the cobwebs of the past rather than continue to ignore their clutter.
But it will hurt. I feel a phantom spasm of it, threatening to tear my chest apart, and flinch away from the pain. I can’t change what happened; neither can he. What difference will discussing it make?
We’ve reached the edge of the parking lot.
Otto swallows.
I brace myself, studying the bob of his Adam’s apple.
“I thought you would be in Melbourne,” he states.
This is another prime opportunity to tell him about Mom. I want to—with an intensity that startles me. I’m battling between safety and impulsivity, and there’s a very real possibility I’ll choose to be rash. To just tell him so there’s one less thing unsaid between us.
“Otto!”
We both turn toward the sound of his name, watching Nicole walk toward us. She’s wearing her typical friendly smile, but her forehead creases with uncertainty as she glances at me.
I take a reflexive step back, even though we’re not standing that close to each other.
“Hello, Nicole.” Otto’s tone is even and polite, no trace that our conversation affected him at all.
I run my tongue along the backs of my teeth, striving for that same indifference.
“Wasn’t expecting to see you here,” she says, reaching us. “Hi, Caldwell.”
“Hey, Coach Green,” I respond, tightening my grip on the water bottle. Remembering I’m sweaty and red-faced while she’s wearing a cute sweater and jeans.
I probably would care about the contrast between our appearances less if Nicole wasn’t eyeing Otto the same way I’ve seen a lot of women stare at him.
She’s not one of his players. I know nothing about her personal life, but based on the admiration on her face and lack of ring on her finger, she’s single.
“You’re dedicated, here on your day off.” It could apply to either of us, but she’s looking at me.
Otto replies before I can, “We ran a few drills. Eliza had suggested it.”
We did more than run a few drills. We’ve been here for nearly three hours.
Nicole nods, the smile still fixed on her face. “We’re all lucky to have your expertise.”
“I do not know about that. I am just a keeper.”
A snort escapes before I can stop it. He’s teasing me, for using his position as an argument last night. There’s no sign of arrogance now, just false modesty.
Nicole glances at me, her forehead wrinkling again.
I cough, then sip some water. “Allergies.”
I don’t dare look at Otto, but Nicole does. “I stopped by to grab something from my office, but I forgot my key card. Do you mind letting me in?”
“Of course not,” he responds, pulling his out of his pocket.
“Thank you so much,” Nicole gushes. “I really appreciate it.”
He’s swiping a card, not giving you a kidney, I think.
The venom behind it surprises me; I’ve never had any issue with Nicole before. All the elation has drained away, leaving emptiness behind. I remembered what it was like to have fun with Otto. And this is a reminder of the opposite. Intensity isn’t specific to happiness.
The highs were higher around Otto. The lows were lower too.
“I’ll see you guys tomorrow,” I say abruptly, turning toward my sedan without waiting for any response. Purposefully lumping them together when I should have thanked Otto individually. Problem is, I’m scared of what else I might say.
Once I’m safely inside my car, I release a long exhale. Against my better judgment, I glance in the rearview mirror, watching them walk and talk and smile as they approach the main entrance.
I blast “Silver Springs” on repeat during the drive home, and I’m still in a shitty mood when I park in the driveway. I’m too tired from playing with Otto to go for a run, my usual mood booster, so I head to the garage to tackle a task I’ve been putting off.
I’m crouched, stabbing the damp dirt of the front flower beds, when I hear the door hinges squeak.
“Do you need help?” Cassidy asks, taking a seat on the front steps.
She’s wearing a fleece jacket that she zips up almost to her chin. It doesn’t feel as warm as it did when I was exercising earlier, but it’s still the nicest day we’ve had this year.
I swipe the sweat off my forehead with the back of my arm. “I’ve got it.”
My sister glances at the small shovel I’m holding. “You hate gardening, Claire.”
“No, I don’t.”
I do hate gardening.
I hate kneeling on the ground. I hate how dirt collects under your fingernails. I hate the bugs. And I especially hate how repetitive it is—how new weeds grow and new mulch has to be spread and new seeds planted.
But Mom loved gardening. Loves, I quickly correct, although it’s no longer the constant it once was.
During our latest visit to Echo Glen, several of her indoor plants had browning leaves.
Every spring, she’d plant dahlias in the yard, digging up the tubers for the winter and transplanting them back into the flower beds each spring, so I’m doing the same.
Last year, Mom and I did this together.
A lot can change in a year. A year ago, I never thought I’d see Otto Berger again. Never thought I’d have to witness another woman flirt with him.
I can’t even blame Nicole. She has no idea what Otto means—meant—to me.
Cassidy cups her chin, watching me smooth dirt. “Tommy and I are riding bikes to the park. Want to come?”
I shake my head. “No thanks. I just want to finish this and take a shower.”
“Okay. Also…Josh wants to make dinner tonight.”
I nod. “I’m free to watch Tommy.”
“Actually, I was thinking I’d bring him with me to Josh’s. Unless…you think that’s a bad idea?”
“I don’t think it’s a bad idea,” I say, touched she’s bothering to ask my opinion. “Tommy will love Josh.”
I struggled to pay attention after talking to Otto last night, but it was impossible not to notice how happy Cassidy and Josh were the entire evening. If they don’t last this time, I’ll lose what little faith in love I’ve managed to retain through my parents’ divorce and my own unhappy endings.
Cassidy smiles. That was obviously the answer she was hoping to hear.
Yet my sister still lingers on the steps, which is surprising, until she says, “Walker asked Josh for your number.”
I haven’t thought about Walker since saying goodbye to him last night, which bodes poorly for a romantic relationship. As does the fact that he lives in Hoboken and works in a Manhattan high-rise. If I wanted a long-distance relationship, I’d date…someone else.
But Otto isn’t an option. He’s my coach and my ex, and he might be reconciling with his former fiancée. He proposed to someone else. Whatever reason their relationship ended, they intended to get married. Solid, irrefutable evidence he’s moved on.
And I haven’t. I’ve tried to, but I haven’t fallen in love since him. I’ve told myself it will happen, half-heartedly believing it—because I haven’t needed to believe it. I’ve avoided thinking about Otto, just like I’ve avoided seeing my dad—because it’s easier.
“Claire?” Cassidy prompts.
I forgot she was here. Maybe Mom was right; gardening is therapeutic.
I glance up. “Give it to him.”
Cassidy tilts her head, studying me rather than celebrating her matchmaking skills, like I thought she would. “You sure? You didn’t seem that…into him.”
“I liked him,” I insist, which is true.
She nods slowly. “Okay. I’ll give Josh the go-ahead.”
“Cool,” I say, grabbing another tuber.
Still, Cassidy lingers. “How was practice?”
My sister has never, not once, asked me that.
“Fine,” I answer.
“Really? You seem sort of…upset.”
“Just tired.”
“I’d ask if it was for any fun reason, but you came home with me last night, not your date.”
I manage a small smile.
“I looked him up.”
“Walker?” I ask, confused.
“Otto Berger.”
I glance up, heart pounding. “What—why would you do that?”
“I was curious.”
“Josh doesn’t mind that you research other men?”
Cassidy rolls her eyes, then leans forward. “Why does Mom have a book with a killer named Otto Serger?”
I play dumb. “What?”
“Don’t bullshit me, Claire. You’ve read all her books. You never noticed one of her villains had almost the exact same name as your coach?”
I rub my thumb along the shovel’s wooden handle, debating what to say. Debating how much to say.
I told Mom including the name was a bad idea, but she insisted it was harmless. She was intent on trying to cheer me up.
“It wasn’t just the book,” Cassidy continues. “There was this…vibe between you guys. You acted differently after he arrived.”
“We met in Paris,” I say.
Aside from basic details, I’ve never discussed boys—men, at this stage of our lives—with my sister. There wasn’t much to say on my end when we were younger. Cassidy was the popular, fun, outgoing Caldwell sister while I was the serious, socially awkward tomboy in grass-stained clothes.
“Sounds romantic.”
“It was.”
“What happened, Clairey?”
I turn the shovel over, blinking rapidly because I’m suddenly, embarrassingly on the brink of tears.
“Are we still going to the park, Mommy?” Tommy appears, and I steal a quick sniff while the commotion of the door opening and closing covers the sound.
“We sure are,” Cassidy replies. “Go put your shoes on, and I’ll be right in. I just need to talk to Aunt Claire for another minute.”
“Okay,” Tommy says happily, heading back inside.
Cassidy says nothing, waiting for me to reply.
“It was the Olympics,” I tell her. “He went home. I went home. If I hadn’t gotten so wrapped up in…everything, I would have seen it coming a mile away. And it was a long time ago. It’s ridiculous I’m even… It’s just weird, seeing him again. Hard—harder than I thought it would be.”
“So, you still have feelings for him?”
“It doesn’t matter, Cassidy.”
“Well”—she stands—“I’d be curious to know the answer. And based on how Otto looked at you last night, it would matter to him.”
My sister heads inside to help get Tommy ready for the park, leaving me sitting in mud, more confused than ever.