Chapter 33 Claire
CLAIRE
I’m in Otto Berger’s apartment. The place where he sleeps and showers and probably does other naked activities with women, like the ones who were swarming him at the bar earlier.
It’s sparsely furnished, even after months of habitation.
All of the furniture clearly came with the apartment.
There’s a Kluvberg T-shirt tossed over the back of one of the armchairs and a binder with the Siege logo set on the coffee table.
There’s a print from the Museum of Fine Art tacked up on one wall, slightly crooked.
No photos.
No bras lost between cushions—I checked before sitting on the couch.
“What about Mackenzie Howard?” Saylor asks. She’s sprawled out on the plush rug, nursing a glass of wine as I catch her up on players she remembers from college. “Is she still with Dallas?”
I shake my head, reaching for my water and sneaking a glance at the kitchen in the process. “She retired at the end of last season. Something with her ACL, I think.”
Otto and Beck are leaning against the counter, talking in rapid German.
I’m still not sure how I ended up here. Explaining to my sister why I hugged the blonde woman Otto was with evolved into Cassidy slyly insisting I go over to their booth. Which evolved into Saylor insisting I come back with her to Otto’s apartment so we could talk “somewhere quieter.”
If someone had told the twenty-one-year-old who showed up in Paris that she’d one day be hanging out with Adler Beck, Saylor Scott, and Otto Berger, she would have laughed in their face. All these years later, I’m still having a hard time comprehending it.
When I refocus on the living room, Saylor’s expression is grim. “She was only a couple of years older than me. She should have rehabbed it.”
I sip more water. I don’t need to ask Saylor what her opinion on me retiring would be.
There are logical reasons why I should walk away at the end of this season.
Money, job security, the unforgiving training required to keep up at the professional level.
It’s a decision I get to make for myself now that Dad’s stepped up regarding Mom’s care.
Somehow, that makes it a more difficult decision, not an easier one.
“What about Samantha Cole?”
I think. “Still plays for Dallas.”
“Good. I always liked her.” Saylor sighs. “It’s so hard to keep up with people. It’d have been hard if I hadn’t moved to another country and had a kid, but since I did, it’s practically impossible. Most days, I barely have the energy to collapse into bed after practice and taking care of Gigi.”
“I’m sure,” I say. I adjust my position on the couch. “My sister moved back to town recently, with my nephew. Helping take care of him is exhausting enough. I can’t imagine doing it full-time.”
“How old is he?” Saylor asks.
“He just turned five.”
Saylor smiles. “That’s a fun age.” She sips more wine. Leans close, lowering her voice. “Is Otto dating anyone?”
I stare at her, taken aback by the question itself and the rapid conversation change. “I don’t—I don’t know. Why?”
“Just curious. I’ve been worried about him. Beck too. I thought maybe you’d noticed or heard something. I know how locker rooms are.” She runs a finger around the rim of her glass. “Football is everything to Otto. Without it… Well, I was hoping he’d at least start dating again.”
“He, uh, stopped?” I ask, knowing I shouldn’t and unable to stop the question from coming out anyway.
“He got engaged a couple of years ago,” Saylor tells me. “I never thought Juliette was right for him, but they seemed happy-ish. Then Otto showed up for dinner, alone, said they broke up, and never mentioned her again. As far as I know, there hasn’t been anyone serious since.”
“Oh,” is all I can manage.
“I mean, I get it’s hard to play and make a relationship work, but—”
“What are you guys whispering about?”
Saylor rolls away, glancing at her approaching husband with a smirk. “Oh, I was just telling Claire about that time I beat you in a shoot-out.” She winks at me. “It’s my trademark move.”
“Barely beat me,” Beck says, coming to stand behind her.
“Don’t be a sore loser,” Saylor says. “Otto’s here to act as my witness that it happened.”
I fight the urge to glance in Otto’s direction. I didn’t realize he had been there when Saylor and Beck met, but it makes sense. It’s obvious he’s close with both of them, and I’m glad. He might not have much family in the traditional sense, but he has people who care about him.
“I am not getting involved,” Otto calls from the kitchen.
Saylor laughs. “One of my proudest accomplishments,” she tells me.
I smile. “I’m sure. I doubt I could get a shot past him.”
Saylor’s eyes dance. “That too. But I was talking about beating Beck. Otto was just a baby goalie back then.”
“You guys have a kid to check on, yes?” Otto asks.
“Nice hospitality, Berger,” Beck drawls, then glances at Saylor. “But Tripp did text. Gigi woke up and keeps asking for you.”
Saylor somersaults upright. “Shit. Okay.”
She gives me a huge hug while Beck and Otto converse in German. I only manage to translate a few words.
“It was so good to see you, Claire. I hope I’ll see you in LA.”
I hug her back. “Thanks, Saylor.”
Even if I choose not to retire, it’s very unlikely I’ll make the roster for the next Olympics. I’ll be nearly thirty by then, my only caps earned almost a decade ago.
But very unlikely isn’t impossible. And I can’t confidently say that I’d rather never know for sure than fail to get a national team invitation.
Saylor hugs Otto while I say goodbye to Beck. He’s been friendly this entire impromptu evening, but I feel awkward around him. Not only because he’s Adler Beck. He called or texted Otto countless times when we were together in Paris. I associate him with that tumultuous time in my life.
Saylor and Beck depart in a flurry of activity a couple of minutes later.
Without them, the apartment feels smaller, not larger, tension expanding to fill all the empty space. Otto and I have barely spoken all night, allowing Saylor’s easy chatter to fill any silence.
“Nice place,” I comment, swallowing a large sip of my water. I’ll finish this, mention how late it is, and hightail it out of here.
“Not really mine,” he replies.
“Right.” Right. Exactly what I needed—a reminder he’s leaving soon. “Well, I should—”
“Are you dating Blake?”
In my frazzled state, it takes me a minute to remember who Blake is and answer. “No. I don’t, um, I don’t date coworkers.”
“Are you dating anyone?”
I swallow hard. “No.”
He nods once. Decisively. “I am finished pretending, Claire.”
“What do you mean, you’re—”
“I will not tell anyone about us. But I am not talking about Paris and everything that happened then. I am talking about pretending now. About how I still think about you.”
I fight—fight hard—to prevent those words from sinking too deep, pulling in a long, unsteady breath.
“Are you pretending, Claire?”
“I’m…”
I’m in no way prepared to have this conversation, is what I am.
Somehow, celebrating my nephew’s birth spiraled into this discussion I never expected to happen.
We—sort of—settled the past. We talked about it at least. But acknowledging former feelings is very different from now, a collision of past and present I wasn’t anticipating.
I fell for Otto fast, hard, and uninhibited. It was thrilling. Exciting. Wonderful. Devastating when it ended. And it’s normal for an experience like that to leave a lasting impression, right?
We’ve only been alone for a few minutes, and I’m struggling to remember anything else that happened today.
These minutes easily eclipse the rest of my day, just like his presence in Paris diminished everything, even my nerves and fear, making me feel like I could conquer the world.
Could become the athlete I had grown up admiring. Could win when it mattered most.
I fought tears the entire flight home from Paris, clutching the velvet case that contained my silver medal. Feeling like I didn’t deserve it, that I hadn’t earned it. Like I’d let everyone down, including Otto and his Good luck, Boston text.
Those feelings of sadness and failure are so tangled up with happy memories involving Otto that I’m not sure how to even approach unknotting them. I’ve never had to. I just tried to shove them away and move past it all.
“I don’t know,” I finally say. Hoarsely. Honestly.
I don’t know if I still care or if I’ve started to care all over again.
And that uncertainty is suddenly unacceptable. Intolerable, like an itch I can’t reach to scratch.
Otto frowns as my reply registers. Either because it’s not what he wanted to hear or because he’s remembering saying that phrase to me.
That’s not why I said it. But I do recall the heavy echo of how those words felt, the sinking realization of how deep in us I was while he was in the shallows.
We’ve gravitated closer over the course of this conversation. Near enough that all it takes are two steps and rising on my tiptoes.
It takes about a millisecond of contact for me to confirm what I suspected, but I continue kissing him anyway.
His mouth is warm and firm and familiar, the soft press sending sparks of awareness skittering everywhere, too many and too widespread to keep track of.
So I don’t bother. I relax into the sensation, well aware I’d rather regret doing this than let him leave with what-ifs echoing in his absence.
Determined not to make the same mistake twice.
I allow my hands to wander into his hair, the strands just long enough for me to grip. Tug his lower lip between my teeth.
It takes Otto—Otto Berger, world-renowned for fast reflexes—about ten seconds to kiss me back.
Once he does, I lose control fast. He seizes it, scooping me up and walking us toward the couch.
He’s the only athlete I’ve ever hooked up with, and I forgot how arousing it was to be manhandled by someone who did it so effortlessly. I can feel the contours of his muscles as they flex against me, the strength obvious as I run my hands up his arms to his shoulders—
His shoulder.
I yank my mouth away. “Your shoulder!” I say urgently, attempting to wiggle my way back to the ground.
Otto has the audacity to laugh. “Claire?”
“Yeah?” God, I sound breathless.
“I do not give a fuck about my shoulder right now.”
He does. His injury, his recovery, his football career—they’re all essential to who Otto is.
I know that—know him. And his willingness to prioritize me affects me more than I allow to show.
We reach the couch. He sets me gently on the cushions.
I fist the front of his T-shirt to roughly tug him on top of me, too eager for slow and sweet.
He presses me against the soft cushions, holding some of his weight over me but letting me feel most of it.
All I can hear, aside from our breathing, is the steady hum of the air conditioner.
The world around me is still and quiet, and I feel as though I’m standing in the center of a tornado.
I’m sure I look like I am, based on the havoc Otto’s hands are wreaking on my clothes and hair.
He’s kissing me urgently, desperately, like this is the first time and he’s only just discovering how good it can be.
I wrap my right leg around his waist, the nonexistent space between our bodies not close enough.
I want sex. Crave it with an intensity that’s essential and scary and that I’ve only ever experienced with him. It’s like I’ve already jumped and the outcome feels inevitable. No decision to be made.
I lift my hips as high as the weight of him will allow, trying to simulate the friction I need.
Otto chuckles against my mouth, like my impatience is amusing, the vibration only making the throbbing need more unbearable.
“How wet are you?” he asks, mouth ghosting along the column of my throat.
My head tilts back, offering him more access. My breasts feel heavy and hot, nipples rasping against the confines of my bra.
“You tell me,” I challenge.
He laughs again before his mouth covers mine. My lips are swollen and sensitive, even the lightest glide of his tongue actively unraveling me.
“Please,” I pant. “Please, Otto. Please.”
My breathing is ragged, my voice nearly unrecognizable beneath the layers of lust.
I don’t know why it’s so different with him, and I’m done searching for a reason or pretending it’s not.
I just want to exist. Experience. Live. If I turn fifty-five and start thinking my family is stealing my glasses because I can’t remember where I left them, like my mom and my grandmother, I don’t want to discover I missed my life while it was happening.
His fingers find the button of my jeans, deftly flicking it and then yanking the zipper down. Some distant part of my brain is impressed by his dexterity. And aware that his experience isn’t all athleticism. Rather than jealous, I feel possessive.
He’s here, with me, right now. He wants me.
And he was right—this isn’t about our past. It’s about how aware of him I still am. How we feel like an active game, not a recorded match you watch, already knowing the outcome.
We both groan when his hand slides between my thighs.
The contact hits me like a jolt of electricity as I finally feel some pressure so close to where I really need it.
Otto mutters something in German, low and dark and far too fast for me to comprehend a single syllable. He rarely reverts to his first language, and it feels meaningful that he is now. Like he’s as overwhelmed as I am.
The heel of his hand grinds against my clit, providing pressure, but not enough friction. His middle finger finds my entrance and presses inside. I clench around the intrusion, and he grunts more German. This time, I recognize the swear.
He pulls away. I don’t have time to protest before he’s tugging my jeans off my hips and down my thighs.
I spare a second to try and remember if I’m wearing matching underwear, then decide it doesn’t matter. My underwear is gone a few seconds later anyway.
He holds my gaze for a few seconds before my eyes trail lower.
I swallow hard, then let my knees fall open. Shiver when a cool rush of air gusts against the wetness there.
Otto looks. Long enough that I feel impatient, not self-conscious.
His fingers trail up the inside of my thigh, and he watches the bumps rise behind. I bite my lower lip, fingers curling around handfuls of the couch’s fabric.
He shifts farther away, knocking several pillows to the floor.
I know what’s coming next. When I touch myself, my hand has a tendency to turn into his mouth.
It feels like I’m lost in a fever dream. Like I’m living in a fantasy world mere imagination would be unable to muster. My awareness of the world has narrowed to nothing except him.
He ruined more than sex for me.
I accept, as his mouth lowers between my parted thighs, that I’m very much still in love with Otto Berger.