Chapter 40 Claire
CLAIRE
I’m standing in line, waiting to order a club soda from the open bar, when a throat clears behind me.
I spin toward the sound, relaxing my face into a friendly smile as disappointment sinks through my diaphragm. I wasn’t positive Otto would be here, but I assumed—hoped—that he would be.
Instead, Boston’s star quarterback, Brady Simmons, stands before me. I’ve never met him before, and I don’t consider myself much of a football—American football—fan, but it’s practically impossible to live in New England and not know who he is.
“It’s Claire, right?”
Shockingly, he also appears to know who I am.
“Right,” I confirm, grasping his offered palm.
He holds my hand for a few seconds longer than necessary, lightly grazing my knuckles with his thumb.
“I was hoping you’d wind up playing in my stadium,” Brady comments.
When Boston first announced the Siege as the latest expansion team, it was rumored we’d play our games at Liberty Stadium.
Thanks to private donations and investors willing to bet big on women’s sports, we wound up with a brand-new facility.
This season at least, we’ve made it worthwhile.
We won our final home game before the summer break, 3–1, in front of a sold-out crowd earlier.
I shrug a shoulder. “It was too small.”
Brady laughs. It’s a nice sound, low and deep. The expression on his face has changed, morphing from arrogance to admiration. “I guess I’ll have to stop by yours sometime. Check it out.”
“You should,” I say, not to encourage his flirting, but because I know it’ll be excellent publicity if he follows through and shows up at a Siege game.
“Can I buy you a drink, Claire?”
“From an open bar?”
His smile grows. “Unless you’re ready to leave with me and go to a bar that accepts my card?”
He’d have trouble finding one, is my guess. I’m sure he drinks for free wherever he goes; the allure of being able to say, Brady Simmons was here, is better than any marketing campaign.
“I can’t leave,” I inform him. “I have to give a speech.”
“What for?” Brady asks, looking intrigued.
“EmpowerEd is establishing a scholarship for female athletes. My coach asked me to announce it.”
“Miss? What would you like?”
I turn to face the bartender. “Club soda with lime, please.”
The man nods, then turns to the fridge to pull out a can.
“You’re not drinking?” Brady questions, sounding surprised.
“I’m giving a speech,” I say. “So, no. Public speaking and I don’t pair well together under sober circumstances, so I’m trying not to make a fool of myself in front of the entire city by talking into a microphone while tipsy.”
Brady laughs again as the bartender delivers my drink, ordering a whiskey for himself. “If you’re nervous, just picture everyone in their underwear.”
I shake my head. “Has that line ever worked for you?”
He grins. “One, it’s not a line; it’s commonly shared advice. Two, you tell me. I’ve never used it before. I’m not exactly in the habit of asking my dates to give speeches when we go out.”
Brady’s whiskey gets delivered. We move aside so that the next person can order.
I’m expecting for him to move on to talk to someone else, but he sticks by my side, heading toward one of the raised tables that’s been set up around the periphery of the ballroom.
“Have you worked with EmpowerEd before?” Brady asks.
I take a sip of my soda and then set it on the crisp tablecloth, shaking my head. “I hadn’t heard of them before,” I admit. “You?”
He nods. “I’m on their board of directors.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s great.”
I pegged Brady as being boastful and superior and now feel guilty about that presumption of a swaggery quarterback stereotype. I don’t know anything about him really, aside from his profession.
“Guess I should have led with that.” He winks. “Historically speaking, mentioning my house on Nantucket or—”
“Caldwell.”
That’s all he says—my last name—and the rest of the room blurs around me. I spin, staring at Otto.
He’s with Nicole—Coach Green—but I barely register her presence.
He’s wearing a tux, the stark black fabric contrasting his tan skin and golden hair.
I saw him a few hours ago in the Siege locker room.
I’ve seen him hundreds of times in the past few months.
Yet I’m still not immune. Some part of me has always been aware that our time together is limited, that his presence is finite, and so I’m still greedy.
Still soaking the sight of him in, even though I have his features memorized, to the extent that I could draw them in the dark, blindfolded.
“Hi, Coach Berger.” I glance at Nicole. “Hey, Coach Green.”
She smiles. “I think you can get away with calling me Nicole here. Eliza mentioned you’d been selected to announce the scholarship. That’s a huge honor. Congratulations, Claire.”
“Thanks.” I smile back, battling the urge to look at Otto.
I reach for my glass, swallowing a large sip.
“You’re…Brady Simmons,” Nicole says, glancing past me at the man I was talking to.
Brady grins. “Guilty as charged. Nice to meet you…”
“Nicole,” she supplies. “Nicole Green. I’m a coach for the Siege.”
“Nice.” Brady looks at Otto next. I tense as he holds out a hand, not sure why. “Hey. I’m Brady.”
“Otto Berger,” Otto says, reaching past me to take Brady’s extended hand. His fingers graze my arm—unintentionally, I think—and the brief brush sends shivers dancing along the surface of my skin.
“I thought so,” Brady comments. “The soccer player, right?”
“And you’re the football player.”
I seem to be the only one who catches Otto’s slight emphasis on foot. I know, from the many times he corrected me in Paris, how ridiculous Otto finds the American nomenclature. But he’s polite—or indifferent—enough not to make a big deal about it now.
“Sure am.” Brady grins. “You work with the Siege too?”
“Only for one more game,” Nicole says, glancing at Otto and turning her lips down playfully. “Then we lose him back to the big time.”
I focus on my glass, running a finger down the rim.
Unhappy about the reminder of Otto’s upcoming departure and also resentful of Nicole voicing my own insecurities.
It’s exactly what I told Otto—our careers aren’t on comparable planes.
And while that might be the reality, I don’t enjoy hearing others acknowledging it.
Especially a member of the Siege organization.
We may be a new women’s team, but we’re still professional athletes.
“The Siege is the big time,” Otto says quietly.
“Oh. Of course we are,” Nicole says quickly. “I just meant…comparatively…” She clears her throat, voice trailing awkwardly.
“Is your final game home?” Brady asks.
“Away.” I speak up, worried how much my silence might be saying.
“Too bad.” He gives me a lingering look. “I’m free next weekend. When is your next home game?”
“Not until August. You’ll probably be on Nantucket.”
Brady laughs. “Not if you’re not. Looking forward to seeing your massive stadium, Claire.” He nods at Otto and Nicole, grabs his whiskey, and walks off.
Total silence remains after his departure. I’m dimly aware of the overlapping conversations and classical music in the background, but I’m not really registering any of the sound.
Nicole speaks first. “Brady Simmons is coming to a Siege game?”
I reach for my glass again. “I doubt he’ll actually show up.”
“He will show up.”
I glance at Otto, our gazes colliding with an intensity that knocks all the air out of my lungs.
“I agree,” Nicole says, nudging my arm with her elbow. “He seemed really into you.”
I clear my throat, opting to swallow more soda rather than reply. I view Nicole the way I should see Otto—as an authority figure. I’m not in the habit of gossiping with her, no matter how friendly she is. Also, I have some one-sided beef, territorial over her interest in Otto.
“We should head to our table,” Otto says. “Eliza sent us over to grab you, Caldwell.”
I nod.
Otto heads toward a table toward the center front. I see Coach Taylor and Coach Jackson already seated, both with men who I assume are their husbands. I knew Coach Taylor was married; I didn’t know Coach Jackson was.
“I tried to keep him from interrupting,” Nicole whispers to me as we walk. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I reply.
We reach the table, prompting a flurry of introductions.
Coach Taylor’s husband is named Matt. He works in real estate, he tells me.
Coach Jackson’s husband, Louis, is a journalist. He’s also written some short stories for the New Yorker, Coach Jackson brags, obviously proud of her partner.
I wind up seated on Louis’s other side, so I mention that my mom is a writer.
He’s heard of her books, he tells me, then asks a series of questions about her work.
Answers come easily, until he asks when her next novel is releasing.
“Did you see the review of Bridge Through London in the New Yorker, Louis?” Otto asks, interrupting.
Louis brightens. “I did! I thought…”
I tune the rest of Louis’s reply out, glancing down at the dinner that the waiters delivered. I’ve barely eaten, nerves about my speech occupying most of the space in my stomach, but I take a small bite now as an excuse to opt out of the conversation for a moment.
It’s going to be harder to say goodbye to Otto this time, I realize. I didn’t think that would be possible. I was so resolved when he arrived to keep the armor around my heart impenetrable, and he drilled through the safe anyway.
It’s not just the physical awareness or the draw to be close to him.
It’s him being defensive about my career.
Him knowing that my mom’s next book would be a difficult topic for me to discuss.
All of those add up to him knowing me in a way few people—maybe no people—do.
And I can’t write the past few months off as young love or Olympic excitement or naivete, the way I attempted to forget Paris.
After the dinner plates are cleared away, the speeches begin.
I play with the napkin on my lap as a variety of important people I’ve never heard of speak about the importance of education and athletics, about Boston’s sports legacy and always striving to achieve more.
Brady’s speech is brief and charming, highlighting the work done by EmpowerEd.
Photos of him tossing a football with little kids scroll on the screen behind him, but I am barely paying attention.
Finally, Eloise Knight steps onstage. She introduces herself, sharing the short history of the Siege organization and mapping out all that she hopes to see ahead.
She ends with, “And here tonight to make an exciting announcement about EmpowerEd and Boston Sports’ partnership to support and advance girls and women in sports is Siege player and Boston native… Claire Caldwell!”
Polite applause scatters throughout the room as I stand, taking small steps away from the table so that I don’t step on the hem of my dress.
Cassidy was thrilled when I asked her to help me pick out an outfit for this event.
I love the dress I wound up wearing, green and Grecian-inspired, but I’m not used to wearing a gown or heels.
Falling on my face isn’t the first impression I’m aiming for.
I weave around the table in front of ours, then take the steps that lead to the platform that’s been set up with a lectern.
Eloise gives me a hug when I reach her, whispering, “You’ll be great,” before heading off the stage.
I know she meant to be reassuring, but it only mounts my anxiety. I hate letting people down. Hate feeling like I didn’t do my part.
I adjust the microphone, tilting it up to accommodate for being taller than Eloise is. She’s reached our table, but I don’t watch her sit down. My gaze slides left, focusing on one face in this ballroom full of strangers.
He’s already looking at me.
“Good evening, everyone. I fell in love with soccer when I was five years old. I scored twice in my first game—once in the wrong goal—and it was the highlight of my week. I couldn’t wait until the following Saturday, so I could do it all over again.
My parents had to buy a second jersey because I wore the original so often that holes started forming in the fabric.
As I got older, everything else in my life changed.
Relationships with family, friends, and school evolved, but soccer always remained a constant.
It shaped me and challenged me. Gave me purpose and gave me confidence and became such a central piece of me that it really wasn’t until I sat down to try to write what I wanted to say tonight that I realized the full extent of its influence. ”
I suck in a deep breath, releasing some of the nerves with my exhale. Some confidence seeps in. So far, so good. The audience is attentive, listening raptly.
“It’s an honor to be here tonight, to announce EmpowerEd’s new scholarship, Game Changers, aimed at expanding access and encouraging a new generation of women in sports.
I’ve been lucky enough to have access to incredible opportunities over the years—coaches who believed in me, teammates who lifted me up, family who cheered me on.
Their encouragement was essential, and so were the role models I looked up to.
“This scholarship will not only inspire female athletes with the drive and the potential to take their athleticism to the next level; it will ensure they have the financial means to get there. It won’t only support individuals; it will forge an important path.
It will provide opportunities where they may not have existed before, empower girls and women to believe in themselves, to chase their dreams, and to know that their potential is limitless.
I am so proud to see these organizations, to see this city, take steps toward supporting that mission.
“Thank you to all of you for your generosity, for your belief in women’s sports, and for your commitment to making a difference. Together, we can inspire future champions.”
I smile as the crowd applauds, relief streaming through me as I carefully retrace my steps off the stage.
My whole table is standing and clapping when I return. My cheeks feel as though they’re radiating heat, and the sweat from my palms has dampened the note cards I wrote my speech on.
I meet his gaze again as I reach my chair.
Otto nods.
This time, I nod back.