Chapter 25 Claire
CLAIRE
Savannah leads us to a tiki bar down the block from our hotel. Fake bamboo and wooden carvings decorate the walls as we head for an open table.
“I’m in the mood for a mai tai,” Reyna announces.
“Mango mojito? Yes, please,” Tasha declares.
I open one of the sticky menus. The last time I was in a bar was my final shift at Paul Rebeer’s. The last time I went out for drinks with my teammates was…Daniela’s birthday last year, I think?
LA was ranked first in the league, and we kicked their asses earlier, winning by four goals. Daniela had a shutout. I got my first assist of the season.
So, when Savannah slyly suggested going out tonight, I shocked everyone by being the first to agree.
A waitress comes by to take our orders a few minutes later. I scan the four-page menu, settling on a margarita.
“To Caldy!” Tasha cheers, lifting her glass.
“It was a team effort,” I insist, thanking the waitress when she sets my drink down next.
“A team you fucking carried,” Reyna says. “Stop being modest and keep doing whatever you did to prepare for today.”
For the first time since the final whistle was blown, my smile wavers.
Sure, I’ll confide in our assistant coach, who also happens to be my ex, about my personal problems more often. Great idea.
Part of me still can’t believe I told Otto about Mom.
It’s a level of trust I hadn’t realized we still shared.
He might have broken my heart, but he was honest while he did it.
I didn’t just tell him because he asked.
I told him because I wanted to. And I certainly didn’t tell him because he was one of my coaches.
I lift my margarita, shoving thoughts of Otto far away. “To Boston Siege supremacy!”
“Hell yeah,” and “Let’s fucking go,” echo around as glasses clink.
I suck down a healthy sip of my cocktail, a delicious combination of sweet, sour, and smoky. I relax on my stool, taking occasional sips, as I listen to my teammates laugh and bicker. Warmed by the alcohol and the feeling of community.
Savannah is complaining about shin splints. Mallory is browsing for gifts for her sister’s upcoming birthday. Grace Masters is watching the Bruins’ playoff game on her phone.
Reyna leans closer to me and asks, “What were you and Coach Berger talking about?”
I cough on nothing. “What?”
“Before we boarded, you guys were talking. It looked intense.”
“Oh. That. We were…” It should have occurred to me that my teammates might be curious enough to ask. Anything Otto does seems to incite some level of interest. But it didn’t, and I’m unprepared to answer. “I barely remember. Today’s game mostly?”
“What are you guys whispering about?” Grace asks.
“Nothing,” I reply.
At the same time, Reyna says, “Coach Berger.”
And, of course, everyone’s attention is on us now.
“What about Coach Berger?” Savannah questions.
“I was curious what they were talking about earlier,” Reyna comments, taking a sip of her peach-colored drink.
“And?” Savannah prompts, her eyes on me.
I shrug a shoulder. “Small talk.” I sip some margarita, hoping it’ll improve my acting skills. “He mentioned going to a Sox game. Asked if I was ready for today’s match.”
“Do you think he and Coach Green went to the game together?” Grace wonders.
She’s not asking me, so I don’t reply, even though I know the answer. The sooner we move on to another topic, the better.
But everyone else seems happy to speculate.
“I don’t think they’ve gone out,” Mallory says. “Not getting that vibe when they’re together.”
“You’re not?” Savannah responds. “I think Coach Green is into him.”
Reyna chimes in with, “According to Daniela, she definitely is. Coach Green asks his opinion on everything concerning her and Kristin.”
I polish off the rest of my margarita. “We’re failing the Bechdel test.”
“The what?” Savannah asks.
“It’s when women only have conversations about men,” Reyna explains.
Savannah laughs. “We’re not talking about men, Caldy. We’re talking about our soccer-god assistant coach. You’re single. If Coach Berger made a move, you’d turn him down?”
Our waitress chooses this moment to return, asking if anyone needs a second round, earning my eternal gratitude.
Obviously, I would have answered yes. And everyone would have believed me because I’m a responsible rule follower. But yes would have been a lie.
In addition to being a liar, I’m also a hypocrite. Because the group moves on to discussing other subjects after the waitress leaves, but I’m still thinking about a boy.
“I love you, Caldy,” Savannah announces loudly, throwing her arms around my neck. Nearly toppling me.
I steady myself by grabbing the railing, then pat her back with my other hand. “Love you too, Sav. Drink some water before bed, okay?”
“Mmhmm. Yep. Water. Great idea.” Savannah releases me and hustles after Mallory, Reyna, and Tasha, who are waiting in the hallway. She leaps on Tasha’s back right as the elevator doors slide shut.
I laugh, then yawn. The doors open again on my floor, and I head down the carpeted hallway. I’m not sure what time it is, but it’s late. The hallway is quiet and empty.
My steps slow as I near the door I saw Otto enter earlier.
Bad idea, my brain blares in warning. Keep walking.
I do keep walking, but only until I reach his door. There, I end up stopping. Knocking. It’s like I’m in a fugue state. I know I shouldn’t be doing this—I can’t believe that I’m doing this—yet my knuckles are tapping wood.
A flash of panic strikes like a lightning bolt, splitting the surreal, but I don’t have time to bolt before the door swings open.
Oh.
Oh no.
For a split second, I truly consider running, like this was a childish prank. But I’m frozen, staring.
“You couldn’t put some clothes on before answering the door?”
Otto leans a shoulder against the doorway, his eyes doing a slow sweep of my body. It’s like the time he glanced at my boobs, but a thousand times worse. We’re alone, a bed is nearby, and I downed two celebratory margaritas.
“I did.”
Did—oh. Right. He slept—sleeps—naked.
I try to swallow, but my throat is too dry for the action to accomplish much of anything.
I look at him, and he looks back at me, and I wonder what he’d do if I kept walking—right into his room. Would he tell me to leave? Say it was inappropriate? Touch me?
I have more on the line. His time here is temporary. This is my team. My career. My reputation.
He had six years to reach out, and he never did. I’m mad about that. Madder that I want to walk into his hotel room anyway.
“Claire?” His voice is soft.
I shake my head. “Sorry, I—”
“Do not apologize. Not to me.”
“I just—” I swipe my dry lips with my tongue, and Otto tracks the motion.
I recognize the expression on his face, and my muscles quiver with the effort of staying rooted in place. I want to be closer. This isn’t near enough. I want him on me. In me. He ruined sex for me, setting a standard no one else has managed to reach.
I could sneak out early.
No one would know, except us.
I didn’t know it was the last time, our final—
The memory hits with a tangible impact. I step back, away from it, the pain as visceral as it was then. I’m incapable of casual sex with Otto. I learned that lesson already. Won the heartbreak trophy and left Paris without a gold medal.
Nothing’s changed since then. He’s headed back to Germany—again. That’s always been the case—will always be the case—so I resent how often I’ve had to remind myself of it.
“I, uh, I just wanted to say thank you. For listening, at the airport. I didn’t have a chance to…
” There’s nowhere safe to look. Not his eyes or his mouth or his abs or the defined V that points at the shorts that are all he bothered to pull on before opening the door.
I keep getting distracted, words harder to hold on to than cupped water as I focus on the carpeted floor.
“You are drunk.” He sounds amused.
When I glance up, he looks it too. One corner of his mouth has curved up, that damn dimple creasing his cheek.
“I had a couple of drinks,” I concede. “We were…celebrating.”
“Good.”
“You’re my coach. You’re supposed to tell me to stay focused, not chug margaritas.”
His smile grows. “You do not need anyone to tell you to stay focused, Claire.”
I sigh. “You sound like my sister.”
“Ouch.”
I forgot he knows my relationship with my sister is complicated.
“Cassidy and I could be best friends now,” I say defensively.
“Are you?”
“We’re…better,” I say. “We double date now.”
“I noticed.” His tone is dark, mouth smoothed to a straight line.
“Oh, right. You were there. I…forgot.”
I’m not great about achieving casual on a good day. Late and tipsy on tequila? Not even close.
“You forgot.” It’s a statement, not a question. “That is a surprise, considering you left your date to chase after me.”
I scowl at him, crossing my arms. “Only because—what are you doing?”
Otto steps into the hallway, shutting his door behind him. He pries the paper envelope containing my room key from my palm, glances at the number written on it, and heads left.
I hurry after him, hissing, “I don’t need an escort.”
“Well, you have one.”
He slows his pace, allowing me to catch up with him. My door is only three down from his. We reach it quickly, Otto swiping the card and turning the handle. He enters first. Annoyance and anticipation kick my heart rate into higher gear as I follow.
“I really don’t need—”
“Drink this.” He shoves a water bottle into my hand, then heads into the bathroom.
I’m tired and tipsy enough to care less than I otherwise would, but I distinctly remember leaving a mess of makeup and toiletries on the countertop.
I close my eyes and chug water, wishing I’d wake up and realize this was all a dream.
That I walked straight back to my room after stepping off the elevator.
Otto returns with an elastic and my toothbrush, a neat line of toothpaste already on the bristles.
I set down the water bottle and take the elastic, the fluttering in my chest as I tie my hair back impossible to ignore. I’m not used to being taken care of. I’m always the one taking care.
“Won’t your girlfriend care that you’re in my room?”
I should be more concerned with other people—particularly one of my teammates or Coach Taylor—but I’m not.
“I do not have a girlfriend.”
“Fuck buddy then.” I deliberately use the crassest phrase I can think of as I take the toothbrush from him.
“Do not have one of those either.”
“I saw the photos,” I remind him.
“Of me fucking her?”
I flinch before sticking the toothbrush in my mouth and walking into the bathroom.
He follows, leaning a shoulder against the doorway again. Still shirtless. Still staring at me.
I brush, spit, and turn on the tap. “This is unprofessional, Coach Berger.”
“So was showing up at my door, Caldwell.”
“I’m a hypocrite. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I want to know why you care about Juliette.”
It stings, hearing him say her name. Salt in a wound that’s staying stubbornly open.
I glance at the scars on his right shoulder. They’re small. Neat. Healed. Proof he’ll be gone soon.
“I don’t care,” I say, heading back into the room and over to my suitcase. I dig through it, looking for a shirt to wear to bed.
Behind me, I hear a sigh. “I have never lied to you, Claire. But I have never been able to tell when—if—you are lying to me. If you meant it when you told me to not come to that game or to—”
“You should go.” I spin to face him, panic spreading through me at the mention of Paris. “Please go.”
His eyes drop from my face, to the fabric I’m holding. I watch the emotions play across his face—surprise, realization, resignation. “Well, you lied about something.”
Otto heads for the door, leaving me holding the black Deutschland shirt.