Chapter 31 Claire
CLAIRE
PARIS
Six Years Earlier
Irest my head back against the cinder-block wall, closing my gritty eyes and attempting a few deep, grounding breaths.
I barely slept last night, and that’s not an exaggeration.
Every time I got close to dozing off, I’d be jolted awake by a reminder of today’s gold-medal match. Or I’d replay my breakup with Otto.
Breakup isn’t really the right word. We were a fun fling, one I knew wouldn’t last past the end of the Games. Well, logically, I knew that. I didn’t realize how badly I’d wanted to be wrong until I realized how right I was.
It hurts, far worse than ending things with Nolan did. Worse than when I caught my senior prom date kissing a teammate at the after-party.
Heartbreak is aptly named because it does feel as though something is fracturing inside of me. A piece is splitting off, the part that foolishly fantasized about him coming onto the field to congratulate me after we won.
If the ache in my chest wasn’t so visceral, I’d laugh with relief. My whole life, my practicality has been pointed out to me. Pragmatism was a character flaw, according to my carefree sister and adventurous friends, and commendable, according to my creative mom.
Unfortunately, I discovered romanticism at the worst possible time—when I should be fully invested and focused on nothing outside the four boundary lines of a soccer field.
Football, my brain automatically corrects, the European terminology pulling my thoughts right back to Otto.
He texted me this morning—a simple, Good luck, Boston—and I stared at it for twenty minutes until my alarm went off, torn between relief and resentment.
In many ways, it would have been easier to have a clean break.
But Otto has been the center of my Olympic experience ever since the night we met.
A source of advice and encouragement that built me to a certain level of confidence.
Just because the foundation fell away doesn’t mean I can’t forge ahead.
“Caldwell?”
My eyes fly open, registering the matching jersey in front of me. Saylor Scott is appraising me with a speculative tilt of her head, her expression amused and also a touch concerned.
“Hey, Saylor.” I straighten so I’m no longer supported by the cinder blocks.
Unlike me, our team captain looks energized and confident.
Every other time we’ve interacted, I’ve been intimidated by Saylor’s reputation and intensity.
I’m too drained to summon the typical awe from being in the presence of a player who is already being heralded as one of the greatest of all time.
“Everything okay?” Saylor questions, reaching up to adjust her blue headband.
I nod. “I’m good. Just…needed a minute. Big day, you know.”
Her expression softens with sympathy. “It’s just another soccer game, Caldwell.”
That’s the crucial difference between athletes like Saylor and me. It is a soccer game. It’s also a global event that will be watched by millions, dissected by commentators, and ultimately, crown a world champion.
But if Saylor, who’s facing ten times the pressure as me—someone who isn’t even starting and might not play at all—thinks so, then I can at least fake that mentality.
I smile and nod. “I know.”
“See you in there,” Saylor says, then continues down the hall to the locker room.
I can hear the ruckus from here, the combination of nerves and excitement evident in my teammates’ loud voices as they suit up for the coming match. Sweat prickles on the back of my neck and on my palms as my heart knocks against my ribs.
I suck in a deep breath.
“It’s just another soccer game.”
One last deep inhale. I exhale as I turn the corner, headed for the locker room.
The first half of the game is a blur, right up until Sierra Sanders goes down and doesn’t stand. Blood whooshes in my ears as I watch her limp off the field, avoiding placing any weight on her ankle, supported by two members of the Team USA staff.
The official holds the board up with her number, then mine displayed, and I’m suddenly called to the pitch during a tied gold-medal match.
I run onto the field to thunderous applause. The cheering isn’t for me. It’s a rallying cry, an attempt to help buoy the entire team into a comeback.
The wall of sound is enormous. Above me. Around me. Suffocating me.
I’ve been ready during every game I’ve ever played in.
And this—the game—feels like the exception.
My muscles feel leaden. My steps are uncoordinated as I reach my position. My nod to Ali Lewis, the closest defender, is an awkward bob.
It’s like a nightmare where everything feels wrong and detached. Except I’m wide awake. Onstage, under a spotlight, surrounded by towering stands, packed with tens of thousands of spectators.
I risk one last glance at the spectator box with reserved seats for athletes. It’s full since this is a final, and I scan every face.
He’s not here.
I told him not to come, so the crush of disappointment is ridiculous. Some part of me hoped he’d show up anyway.
Play resumes.
I focus on the game. Recall all the tournaments and travel teams and tryouts that got me here, a gold-medal match.
Saylor takes a shot that I think will make it past the Australian goalie. There’s an audible exhale of disappointment when their keeper manages to knock it to the side, keeping the score tied.
Seconds tick higher, closer and closer to the ninety-minute mark. Every time the ball winds up on the opposite end of the field, I pray it’ll end up in the net. Every time it travels this direction, I pray the score will remain the same.
And then, finally, there’s a breakaway with five minutes left. We all sprint after Mackenzie, watching a yellow jersey rush to guard her.
I’m a runner. Distance, but I have speed too. If I hadn’t wholly committed to soccer by the time high school rolled around, I would have participated in track and cross-country.
I also have fresh legs, having subbed in.
So, it’s not a massive surprise I beat most of my teammates into the offensive zone.
It is a massive surprise when Mackenzie kicks the ball past the defender blocking her…straight at me.
Nothing’s a blur. Nothing slows down. The biggest moment of my career—of my life—and time ticks along like everything’s normal and nothing unusual is taking place.
I’ve got the shot. A clear view of the net. I track the trajectory with my eyes, the din of eighty thousand fans fading into white noise as I aim all my focus at the open stretch of net.
Australia’s goalie is ready. She’s been practically perfect tonight.
Is he watching on television? Does he care that much at least?
I grit my teeth, plant my left foot, and swing my right.
The ball hurtles toward the net. It’s an accurate kick, but it’s not flying as high or as fast as I know my foot is capable of.
My big moment—the shot that matters more than any other I’ve ever taken—and I know, even before her yellow glove connects with the ball, that it won’t get past the goalie.
A collective loud groan echoes through the spectators sporting red, white, and blue. The disappointment is palpable in the air, an acrid taste coating my tongue.
I want to collapse on the turf right there. Dismay sinks down to my very marrow. My muscles, trained to perform for hours, quiver with the simple effort of staying upright.
But the game isn’t over. Not officially at least.
I race back to our zone with a boulder of depression and disbelief strapped to my chest. That wasn’t a miraculous save or an awkward angle. I should have made that shot. And if I had, we’d be winning.
Australia’s pressing harder, energized by my failed attempt.
Thirty seconds later, the officials add three minutes to the clock.
Three minutes.
One hundred eighty seconds.
“Chin up, Caldwell,” Saylor says, jogging past.
I nod an acknowledgment I’m not sure she sees, desperately fighting the sinking sensation in my chest.
It’s not over yet, but it feels over. Or maybe I’m just projecting the helplessness I’m experiencing. The whole world is tinted gray by my melancholia.
A little over two minutes later, Australia scores.
Another forty-five seconds pass, followed by the blow of the final whistle. That high-pitched tweet sounds so final.
The end of this match.
The end of the Olympics.
The end of Paris.
The end of me and Otto.
The end.