Chapter 26 Otto
OTTO
PARIS
Six Years Earlier
“No.” I reach for Claire, pulling her back onto my chest. “Not yet.”
“We have a team meeting,” she tells me. “I have to shower.”
But she doesn’t move. She tilts her head, pressing a kiss against my jaw.
My hold on her tightens. It’s fucking uncomfortable, lying on the floor amid the mess that’s her room.
But there wasn’t enough room for her to sit on my face on her tiny bed, and that’s one of my favorite ways to watch Claire flip from quiet and serious to loud and needy.
And I was too impatient to suggest moving after she came, so we had sex between one of her cleats and the pile of laundry she pushed to one side.
“I should shower too,” I say suggestively.
She laughs, fingers tracing lazy circles on my chest. “You won’t fit.”
“That is what you said before. And yet…”
My hand moves between her thighs.
“Otto.”
If she’s trying to deter me, she’s doing it the wrong way. I’m already calculating, deliberating if I should pull her on my lap or if I should—
My phone buzzes. I ignore it, covering Claire’s mouth and exploring it with my tongue. I know exactly how she likes to be kissed, what will make her moan and beg and seek more friction, which is exactly what she’s doing now.
My mouth moves down her neck, headed for her breasts, when she repeats my name. This time, she sounds serious.
“You’re getting another call.”
I groan, rolling on my back and reaching for the vibrating device. I swear when I see it’s Beck calling.
I told him—fuck, I can’t remember what I told him. The call goes to voicemail, and I curse again when I see the time. “I have to go.”
I twist to give Claire a last lingering kiss, then sit up, sorting through the mess of clothes on the floor. “Have you seen my shirt?”
“No.” She’s standing, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around her.
I pull on my pants, locate my hoodie, then resume looking for my shirt.
“Who was calling?”
“Beck,” I reply, tossing my favorite bra—black lace—toward the laundry pile.
“Is he upset you’re with me?”
“What?” I glance at her, frowning. “He does not know I am with you.”
“You’re still lying to him?”
“Well…yes.”
I give up on my shirt, standing and yanking my hoodie on.
We’re one match away from a gold medal. If I tell Beck I’ve been sneaking off to have sex every chance I get, he’ll lecture me about prioritizing getting laid over winning.
And I don’t need a lecture. I know what I can handle.
Claire’s been good for my concentration.
I haven’t gone out partying once since the night we met.
I sleep, practice, and spend time with her.
When I finally do tell Beck, he’ll probably say I told you so. He maintains his relationship with Saylor has helped his performance, which I privately considered unlikely.
“So, you haven’t told anyone about us?” Claire asks.
“Uh…no.” It’s the honest answer, but I’m suddenly not sure it’s the right one.
My closest friends are here in Paris, on the team with me.
My teammates who aren’t here are busy enjoying their summers before preseason starts.
My parents are gone, and I can’t have a civil conversation with Opa about the weather, let alone a woman.
My publicist will say being single is part of my brand or some shit like that.
Who would I tell?
“Do you…normally?”
I still, unease trickling through me. Claire has never asked about other women.
We had the exclusive conversation before we stopped using condoms, so she knows I’m not sleeping with anyone else.
And I assumed she had some sense of my reputation, that photos of me exiting clubs with a woman—sometimes with women—get posted online and are speculated about by the press.
I don’t share those sorts of details, so there’s never been anything to tell my friends or teammates.
If she’s not aware of my reputation, I’m not sure how to phrase that in any way that won’t lower Claire’s opinion of me.
“I do not normally do any of this.”
Also true. But once again, I feel like I’ve said something wrong. Neither of us has moved, but it suddenly feels like there’s more space between us.
I rub the back of my neck. “I just meant…” My voice trails.
I’m not entirely sure what I’m trying to say.
“I know what you meant.”
My forehead furrows. If I don’t know, how does she?
“It is not… We are private. Not anyone’s business.”
If I went public with a relationship, there would be media attention. Team attention. It took six months after Beck started dating Saylor for the guys to stop making whipping sounds when he walked into the locker room.
“You mean, this is just sex to you.”
I scrub a palm across my face.
I’m fucking this up. I knew I would.
“Of course not, Claire.”
She says nothing.
“We are not having sex right now,” I point out.
She rolls her eyes.
Yeah, that was a bad response.
I’m unprepared for this conversation. I’ve never had this conversation with a woman—because every other time, it has just been sex. I let myself get caught up in the thrill of sneaking around and the excitement of making it to the final, and there hasn’t been space for anything else.
“Have you told anyone about us?”
“No,” she answers.
“Okay. Why is that any different?”
She huffs. “You know why.”
My face must convey what I’m thinking—I don’t—because she continues.
“Because you’re hot and rich and famous, and anyone I tell about us is going to ask how big your dick is and then tell me not to get attached because you’ll be photographed at a club with a girl on your lap next week.”
Okay, so she is aware of my reputation.
I swallow hard. “I cannot change the past. That was all before I met you.”
“I’m not asking you to change anything, Otto. I’m just…” She glances down, dropping eye contact before looking up again. “You’re going home. I’m going home. It is what it is. Maybe I’ll… Maybe I’ll see you at the next Olympics.”
“The next Olympics?” I gape at her, dumbfounded. “In four years? Sounds like this was just sex to you.”
Claire glares. “What did you think was going to happen with us?”
Truthfully, I haven’t given it any thought. I’ve been focused on each day. Each match. Each win. Claire came out of nowhere. And I’ve avoided thinking past the closing ceremonies because she’s right—there’s no simple solution.
She has a year of university left. I’m under contract with Kluvberg. Even if I wasn’t, I can’t imagine playing anywhere else.
“You could play in Germany after you graduate?”
That’s what Saylor did. It’s worked for her and Beck.
“Perfect.” Claire’s voice is thick with sarcasm. “Why don’t I leave behind everything I know—my dream of playing professionally for my own country—to move to Germany in a year? Why didn’t I think of that?”
I scowl, shoving my hands into my pockets. “What is your solution that has us in the same place? I play in the States?”
I chuckle at the impossibility, the sound trailing awkwardly while she stays silent.
That was the wrong thing to say. Again.
“There aren’t any solutions,” she says. “That’s why neither of us has brought it up before now.”
Her eyes are shiny, and the realization of why hits harder than any kick that’s ever collided with my chest.
I step closer. “Claire.”
She shakes her head. “Obviously, this isn’t going to last longer than the Olympics. We both know it.”
Do we? Do I?
I’ve treated us like an active match, focused on the guaranteed time rather than considering added minutes or overtime. The outcome.
Football is all I have. FC Kluvberg has been my family, my focus, my purpose for as long as I can remember. Nothing’s escaped sacrifice in my pursuit of the singular goal of cementing my place as one of the top goalkeepers of all time.
I’m twenty-three. I’m playing the best football of my life. The best years of my career still lie ahead.
Claire musters a smile. Too tight and too tiny to be her real one. “This was fun, okay? We’re good.”
I scoff, miffed and—fuck—hurt by the easy dismissal.
She’s ending this. Cutting herself out of my life, and I can already feel the hole of her absence. The size of it stuns me.
“I do not want this to be over,” I tell her, finally managing to say something right in this conversation.
I don’t have any answers, but I do know that much.
“You’re looking for a relationship?” Claire arches an incredulous eyebrow.
“I…”
I don’t know, is the honest answer. Which is light-years from the emphatic no I would have given before I met her, but not the yes she wants to hear.
I laughed at Beck’s trips to visit Saylor when she was still at university. I’m accustomed to doing what I want, when I want, unless it’s a directive from a coach. Would I remember to call her after an exhausting match? Could I commit to flying nine hours to see her on any sort of regular basis?
I don’t know, and she reads it on my face.
“I want you,” I say, which is the truth.
I want Claire.
I also want her to win. I want her to have the career she’s dreamed about, the one she’s worked so hard for.
And I don’t want to lie. Don’t want to promise she can have both when I can’t guarantee anything.
“Good luck on Saturday.”
I nod, then swallow hard. “I will be at tomorrow’s match.”
There’s still time. Time to think, to plan, to fix.
Claire shakes her head. “Don’t come.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“You should be focused on your final. And I… If I know you’re there—just…please. Don’t come.” She heads for the bathroom.
“Claire.”
She slows. Not a full stop, but a stutter.
I try and fail to put the past few weeks into words. It’s bizarre—to realize I met her a month ago. Now, if I had to pick a person to get everything they wanted, I’d pick her.
So, I tell her that. “I hope you get everything you want.”
“You too, Otto.” She fumbles with the door handle for a second, adding a “Bye” and shutting the bathroom door without glancing back.
I blow out a long breath, staring at the closed door. I don’t want to leave, but I can’t stay. There’s nothing else to say—at least not right now—and I’m running dangerously close to being late for a team meeting.
I glance around her room one final time—maybe for the final time—and then head into the hallway. I’m careful to close the door quietly behind me, listening to it lock before starting toward the nearest exit.
I’m almost to the stairwell when I hear, “Otto?”
I turn. Saylor is walking this way with another woman dressed in Team USA apparel. She tilts her head, studying me quizzically.
“Hey.” I swallow hard, shoving all the emotion deep down and managing a smile.
“What are you—” Saylor glances behind me. “What are you doing in here?”
“I was looking for you.”
“Me?” Her curious expression turns concerned. “Is Beck—”
“He is fine,” I assure her. “Just wanted to wish you luck tomorrow.”
“Oh. Thanks.” She walks closer, rising up on her tiptoes and giving me a quick hug. When she steps back, she looks worried again. “You sure you’re good?”
“I am great.” I flash her a grin, relieved when it comes easier. “See you later.”
I spin and keep walking. As soon as I’m alone, my smile disappears.