Chapter 28 Otto
OTTO
Teal and purple collide in midair, fighting for possession.
The ball lands wide, left of the goal. The Portland player pivots, knocking her defender into the post. The huddle of players gathers, then parts as the referee’s whistle sounds, stopping play.
He beckons with one hand, calling the trainers on the field.
I’m already in motion, unaware of anything except shrinking the distance between me and that end of the field.
The Portland players have scattered outside the box, separating themselves from the teal Siege jerseys surrounding Claire.
“Back up,” I bark, reaching the goal.
They do because I’m their coach. Because I’m supposed to be an authority figure with answers, not a panicked spectator. There’s a reason family members aren’t seated on the sidelines during matches. I try to recall that, to rein in my spiraling emotions. To keep them off my face at the very least.
Claire is conscious, sitting up with her elbows resting on her knees. The band around my chest loosens a little, panic receding as I scan her over and see no visible signs of injury.
“Caldwell?” I crouch on the turf beside her.
“I’m fine,” she says, reaching up to gingerly touch her forehead. She winces.
“Let me look.” I gently grip her chin, tilting her face so I can see where her head collided with the goalpost.
Red is blooming along her temple, and there’s a small cut just above her eyebrow. Shallow and less than a half-inch long, but welling blood.
I drop my hand fast, aware of the eyes on us. “You are out.”
She exhales, “I’m fine.”
I hear the waver in her voice—the fear below the adrenaline. As it fades, the pain will appear.
“You will be fine. Right now, you are bleeding, and you need a concussion protocol.”
“Did you lose consciousness, Caldwell?” Eliza kneels next to me.
I shift back a few inches, letting the head coach and the trainer who accompanied her—Michael—take precedence.
“No,” she replies. “It just… It stunned me for a minute.”
Michael asks her a few questions, then helps her up. The crowd immediately begins to clap as Claire is escorted off the field.
“Daley or Lewiston?” Eliza asks quietly as we walk back to the bench.
It takes me a minute to realize she’s consulting me on who should replace Claire in the match. “Daley, I think.”
Eliza nods. “I agree.”
Daley subs in, and play resumes. We’re in the sixty-third minute, and extra time will be added.
I stand, arms crossed and jaw clenched, as purple and teal jerseys mix again.
We’re playing well, ahead by a goal, and I…don’t care. I’ve never experienced this level of indifference on a football field. Not on the bench as backup. Not during the most grueling of matches. Not standing on the sidelines as an assistant coach.
It terrifies me. Not because I think my love of football is eroding away. Because it makes obvious what I already suspected—I’m not attached to the Siege.
I respect Eliza. I enjoy working with Meg and Nicole and the two keepers. I like coaching, appreciate being part of this organization and the purpose it provides while my shoulder heals.
But it’s Claire. She’s the reason I’m excited to go to practices, that I’m invested in games, that I look forward to traveling to other American cities.
It’s incredibly obvious now that her presence has been stripped away. There’s a hollowness that I suspect would have always existed if I’d been sent to work with any other team. A level of disconnect, as I’d have known that my role was secondary and temporary.
And I have absolutely no idea what to do about it. Go back to Kluvberg and try to forget? It’s been six years, and I haven’t forgotten. I have regrets about how things ended between us. Does she? Would it be better or worse if I knew she did?
It’s not just my feelings for Claire that haven’t changed. Nothing else has either. I play in Germany. She plays here. Unless one of us retires or changes leagues, we’re looking at a relationship limited to the couple of months our offseasons overlap. Can I do that? Can I ask her to do that?
The match ends, Siege winning, and my mind is still spinning in answerless circles.
We have our usual locker-room debrief, and then Michael pulls Eliza aside to update her on Claire.
Meg, Nicole, and I hover on the periphery, listening.
The medical team doesn’t think she has a concussion.
She passed evaluation, not displaying any common symptoms, and was cleared to leave with her sister and rest.
Tomorrow is a day off, so I won’t see her until the next practice. I’m hit with a mixture of relief and annoyance, realizing that.
I’m not sure what I’d say. My emotions feel raw and discombobulated, and it’s for the best that I have time to rein them under control. But I know I’ll lie awake tonight, replaying the moment she went down, and I wish I’d seen her before she left so I could verify she was okay.
After Michael finishes his update, I head back to the stadium office to grab my belongings.
Eliza calls my name, catching up with me as we head down the hallway. I brace myself for a chastisement—I should have talked to her before heading on the field, regardless of the referee’s signal—but that’s not what she wants to discuss.
“How is your shoulder?” she asks quietly. “Any updates on your recovery timeline?”
“I had an appointment on Tuesday. I am still working on different strengthening exercises. Another month, and they will evaluate the progress again. They think I will be able to start an adapted version of my usual training program in six to eight weeks.”
“That’s fantastic news, Otto.”
I nod. “It is.”
They’re projecting a full recovery. It’s the best surgical outcome, no sign of nerve damage or scarring or chondrolysis.
Every American doctor I’ve seen has praised the work of the surgeon who operated on me.
There’s a very good chance I’ll be back in goal for the start of next season, that the best-case scenario is going to be reality.
That I’ll be able to continue with my career like the injury never happened.
I’m thrilled about it, obviously. But it’s dulled. I’m nervous to trust any recovery until I’m standing in goal, testing the shoulder. I’ve never been out for this long before. Injuries carry psychological trauma, not just physical harm.
“I spoke to Laurie—Coach Willis—yesterday,” Eliza says. “She’s still planning to return in August, but she can come back sooner, if you need to depart earlier?”
The league schedule is structured around a summer break stretching from late June through all of July.
When the details of my arrangement with the Siege were first worked out, it was expected I’d stay until the start of the break, and then Coach Willis would return from maternity leave and stay for the remainder of the season.
Staying until June sounded like an eternity when I first arrived. Now, it sounds short.
“I will stay,” I say. “No need to change the plan.”
Kluvberg’s season ended a few days ago. And there’s nothing else for me to rush home for.
Eliza smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that.
I hope it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: you’ve been an enormous asset to the Siege this season.
I know it’s been a challenging time for you personally, and the entire organization appreciates your contributions.
I trusted her judgment, but Saylor undersold you, frankly. ”
I laugh. “That sounds right.”
“I also wanted to mention, the Boston Sports Foundation is having their annual gala in a few weeks. Eloise Knight, the Siege’s general manager, personally asked that I invite you.
It’s a charity event first and foremost, but it will also be a fun evening.
I’ll be there, along with Meg and Nicole, and so will representatives from all of Boston’s professional sports leagues.
Team owners and political figures tend to attend as well.
I’m sure you’ve attended similar events before.
Someone from the front office will email you all the details. ”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
“Enjoy your day off.” Eliza grabs her bag, then departs.
Leaving me alone with all the thoughts I’m trying not to think about.