Chapter 35 Claire
CLAIRE
Coach Taylor greets me in her usual no-nonsense manner, then tells me we’re waiting on Eloise Knight, the Siege’s general manager.
My stomach, already stuffed with wriggling nerves, performs a cartwheel. I rub the coin in my pocket, trying to calm my racing pulse.
Otto wasn’t at practice today. Coach Taylor said he had a doctor’s appointment, which I took as a stroke of luck that allowed me to avoid him a little longer. I’m now spiraling over the possibility that was a lie.
What if they know? What if I get traded to another team and it’s impossible to visit Mom weekly? What if this is how my career ends—decades of literal blood, sweat, and tears diminished to a shitty kick in Paris and an illicit affair with an authority figure?
I’ve never blamed Otto for that failed attempt—not directly. I’ve blamed myself for being distracted. And I’m distracted again.
“What’s this about?” I ask tentatively.
Coach Taylor doesn’t look up from the sheaf of papers she’s rifling through as she answers, “Let’s wait for Eloise. I know she wanted to deliver the news personally.”
“Okay,” I say weakly, relieved by Coach Taylor’s distraction. I don’t think I’m doing a good job of keeping the apprehension—the guilt—off my face.
I rub my damp palms against my practice shorts, wishing the mesh were more absorbent.
I’m staring at the framed diplomas on the wall, busy assembling excuses in my head.
If someone took a photo of me leaving Otto’s apartment, there’s no proof anything scandalous happened.
Was it bad judgment to go to a coach’s home?
Yes, but I can tell them I went to see Saylor.
I don’t want to involve her, but I will to save my job. She can explain why I was there.
The door to Coach Taylor’s office opens.
I jump to my feet, propelled by nerves and grateful to have an excuse to move.
Eloise Knight steps inside, wearing a linen pantsuit and a serene expression.
I’ve only met the Siege’s general manager a handful of times before, and I’m as intimidated now as I was then.
She’s petite—even in heels—polished, and has the presence of someone important.
If I wasn’t seventy percent certain she was here to discipline me, I’d appreciate being part of an organization helmed by such badass women.
“Hello, Claire,” she says, holding a manicured hand out for me to shake.
“Hi, Ms. Knight,” I reply quickly, holding her hand a beat too long before I drop mine to discreetly wipe it on my shorts again.
“Eloise, please. Take a seat.” She gestures toward the chair I just leaped out of as she gracefully perches on the matching one angled toward Coach Taylor’s desk.
Eloise and Coach Taylor exchange pleasantries as I sit silently, saying, It’ll be okay, on repeat in my head.
My current contract expires at the end of this season. I was considering retiring anyway.
“Have you heard of the EmpowerEd Foundation, Claire?”
I blink at Eloise. “Uh, no.”
She nods. “They’re an education initiative, partnering with local public schools to create scholarship opportunities for underserved youth in the Boston area.”
“That’s…great,” I manage, feeling like I just jumped off a merry-go-round.
This meeting has nothing to do with my personal life, it seems, and I’m so relieved that it’s taking effort to not slump out of this chair and exhale a massive sigh.
“EmpowerEd is being honored at the Boston Sports Foundation’s annual gala, which serves as a fundraiser for some of the scholarships they offer.
This year, they’re announcing a new scholarship exclusively for female athletes.
The foundation asked me to select a Siege player to make the announcement at the gala, and I immediately thought of you. ”
“Me?”
Eloise nods, smiling. “You’re an integral part of this club, Claire. I hope you know that. Plus, with your connections to this city, I couldn’t think of a better person to represent this organization publicly.”
She definitely has no idea about me and Otto then. I don’t feel like much of a role model at the moment.
I glance at Coach Taylor. She’s smiling too—a rare sight.
“I-I’d love to,” I tell their expectant expressions.
“Perfect.” Eloise stands. “The gala is two weeks from this Saturday. I’ll have my office send you the details, as well as the relevant talking points for your speech.”
The mention of a speech stirs some anxiety. The last public speaking I did was presenting my senior thesis in college. But I’m still swimming in relief that this meeting wasn’t Otto-related in any way, so the apprehension is easy to shove away for the time being.
“Sounds good. Thank you, Eloise.”
“Thank you, Claire.” One final firm handshake, and Eloise is gone.
“Something else you wanted to discuss, Caldwell?” Coach Taylor asks, grabbing a black binder off the shelf behind her desk.
I startle from stillness, shaking my head. “No, Coach. Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I nod, then head into the hallway. My teammates are all gone, so I walk to the parking lot solo. Toss my equipment bag into the trunk and sink into the driver’s seat, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel.
I don’t want to do this. But I need to. I took the easy way out the other night, and I need to grow up. Still, I second-guess this decision the entire drive to Otto’s apartment. Right up until I knock on his door.
No answer.
I guess he’s not home. Maybe he’s still at his doctor’s appointment?
I turn to leave, but only manage three steps down the hallway before the door opens.
When I glance back, Otto is standing in the doorway. The knuckles of his left hand are stark white against the dark wood frame. “Hey,” he croaks, looking absolutely awful. Pale and exhausted.
I don’t remember moving, but I’m in front of his door again. “You’re—what’s wrong?”
Otto rubs at his forehead with his free hand. “Migraine,” he finally mutters.
I frown.
At Lincoln, I had a roommate, Ramona, who had episodic migraines. Once a month, sometimes more often, she’d lock herself in her dark room for hours. Days sometimes. She tried medication, diet changes, been to dozens of specialists. Nothing helped.
Is that something Otto’s been dealing with? It feels like something I should know, even though I can’t come up with a logical reason why I would. He never had one in Paris. Or if he did, he never told me.
“Do you get them often?”
“No,” he answers. “It has only happened a few times before. I went to a doctor in Kluvberg, who suggested some lifestyle changes. None since.”
“Did you go to a doctor here?” I ask, worried by how heavily he’s leaning on the frame, like it’s the main reason he’s vertical.
“I did not want to drive,” he tells me. “I was supposed to have an appointment for my shoulder. I had to cancel. And there is nothing the doctors can do. It will pass.”
“How long has it lasted for?” I ask, like I have any medical knowledge to offer.
“I woke up with it.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, remembering something Ramona griped about. “It’s not because we…”
Mercifully, Otto understands my meaning without me spelling out specifics. “It has never triggered one for me before.”
I nod, then step inside his apartment. The shades are drawn, only a thin strip of daylight sneaking in between the curtains. There’s no evidence he’s eaten in the kitchen, no indentation on the couch. I glance through the open doorway at his unmade bed.
He’s alone here. Thousands of miles from home. From friends, from familiarity, from his usual doctors. Injured and now sick.
Otto always seems so capable, so assured. I assume he must miss his former life. I never considered how lonely being here might be.
Sympathy is the easy explanation for why I’m still here. But the full reason is more complicated. With Otto, it always is. After what happened between us last night, I can no longer hide behind the nonchalance I’ve used as a shield since he showed up in Boston. Not while we’re alone.
“Have you eaten?” I ask, opening his fridge door.
He has food at least. More than is in mine since it was Cassidy’s week to grocery shop. I’m convinced she and Tommy lived on takeout in Florida. I’m going to have to stop at the store after I pick him up from preschool.
“I’m not hungry.” Otto’s moved, leaning against a framed map of Boston. Maybe it’s just the white wall, but he looks paler.
“What’s helped before?” I question, feeling…helpless.
“Nothing,” he says dully. “I wait for it to end.”
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek, thinking.
A flash of inspiration appears. Who knows if it’ll work? But it’s better than nothing. I open the freezer, searching for a bag of frozen peas.
He has some.
I grab the bag, shut the freezer door, and head toward his bedroom. “Come on.”
I don’t wait to see if he’s following. I’m also careful to keep my gaze as far from the messy sheets as possible as I pass the bed and continue into the bathroom. It smells like him in here, the scent of his shampoo and soap and aftershave distinctively masculine.
His bathroom’s neater than I expected. The counter is completely clean. I’ve never lived with a guy, but my experiences with their spaces have mostly been traumatic. He even has the toilet paper on the roll.
I reach into the tub, pulling the stopper and then turning the hot tap.
“What are you doing?”
He did follow me.
“I had a roommate in college who got migraines,” I say, watching the tub fill. Steam swirls, coating my face and coiling my curls tighter. “She said this helped.”
Once there’s about a foot of water in the tub, I shut off the water.
“Take a seat on the edge and stick your feet in the water.”
Otto looks skeptical. But he listens, making the tub look tiny as he settles on the side and submerges his feet.
I hand him the peas. “Hold that against the back of your neck.”
Our fingers brush as he grips the plastic bag, cold against hot. I shiver for no apparent reason.
I take a hasty step back, clearing my throat. “Well, I—”
“You came to talk?” Otto’s head turns, intense gaze trapping me in place.
His color looks better than it did when I arrived, or maybe it’s just wishful thinking that I actually helped.
I swallow hard. “You’re not feeling well. Now’s not the best time to—”
Otto interrupts. “I could use the distraction.”
He’s my distraction. And he has a bad habit of showing up during the moments when focus is most important. The Olympics. My final season maybe. He’s muddling that decision too. Because I’m playing better than I did last year, and I can’t tell how much is attributable to him.
“I, uh, yeah. I thought we should…talk.”
“We should.” He slouches against the tiled wall, settling in like he expects this to be a lengthy conversation.
I exhale. “You know it can’t happen again. You’re one of my coaches, and—”
“What if I was not?”
“You are.”
“Only for a few more weeks.”
I figured that would be the case, but my reaction to the confirmation he won’t return after the summer break is unsettling. I shouldn’t be so disappointed.
“Right. And then you’re leaving.”
He shifts on the side of the tub. “I am not officially cleared yet.”
“That wasn’t a question, Otto. You’ll leave whether you get cleared or not. Why would you stay?”
It’s meant to be rhetorical.
But Otto looks me straight in the eye and responds, “You.”
The tiled floor tilts. My heart flops around in my chest like a dying fish.
Everything about this moment is absurd. Us in his small bathroom. Him in the tub with a bag of peas. Me hovering.
“Don’t say that,” I whisper.
He’s still staring, unflinching in his focus. “You asked.”
“You—you’re just confused. You got injured and had to come here, and—”
He scoffs, eyes sparking with irritation. “I didn’t have to do anything, Claire. I could have stayed in Kluvberg if I wanted to.”
“Fine. But you had to stop playing. You’re—”
He exhales. “I figured you would do this.”
“Do what?”
“It was a mistake.” His imitation of my voice is annoyingly accurate. “That is what you came here to say, yes?”
“We had this exact conversation six years ago, and nothing has changed since then. No matter what I decide to do about playing next year, I’ll still be in Boston. My life is here—my mom is here. And we both know you’ll get cleared. Your shoulder seemed plenty sturdy when we…you know.”
His “Ha” is half-hearted.
My smile doesn’t last much longer. “You’ll play next season, Otto. Your life will revert to normal. The fact that we’re still…attracted to each other doesn’t change any of that.”
Otto studies me. Not agreeing. Not disagreeing.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I suck in a deep breath, like I just emerged from underwater, as I pull it out.
It’s an email. Information about the gala I agreed to attend. The time above the notification serves as a more important reminder—I’m running late to pick up Tommy.
“You have to go?” He sounds resigned.
I swallow, shoving the phone back into my pocket. “Yeah, I… Yeah. I have to pick up Tommy. Can I do—do you need anything else?”
“No. Thank you.” He gestures to the tub. “This is helping.”
“Okay. Good. Bye.”
I flee the steamy bathroom, wishing—just once—a conversation with Otto could end with some closure instead of more confusion.