Chapter 42 Claire
CLAIRE
Ibreak through the surface, sucking in a deep breath of air. Swipe a hand across my eyes, clearing the chlorinated water away.
He’s there, lounging in one of the cheap plastic chairs that surround the pool.
My heartbeat, already accelerated from the exercise, kicks into a higher gear.
He says nothing. I say nothing. We appraise each other, me standing in the shallow end and him seated, rolling an unlit cigarette between two fingers.
“You smoke?” I ask, surprised.
It’s the antithesis of everything I associate with Otto. He sorts his priorities around what will make him a better athlete, and smoking only detracts.
“Used to, when I was younger. Thought it looked cool.”
“Why’d you stop?”
He flicks the cigarette on the table, next to the opened pack. “Got distracted by a girl, and it did not seem like her thing.”
My fingers swish through the cool water. “Seems like most Europeans must be accustomed to smoking.”
It was one of the first things I noticed in Paris—how prevalent the habit was.
“She was not European.” Otto leans back, spreading his thighs and smirking. “In fact, she did not even know the French word for taxi was taxi.”
Realization slams into me. Warmth spreads through my trembling muscles.
“Not my finest moment.”
The smirk blooms into a full smile. “I would disagree.”
I walk over to the steps, climbing out of the pool and grabbing the towel I left on one of the loungers. I wrap it around my torso, shoving my feet into the pair of flip-flops I packed.
Humidity hangs heavy and damp in the air, nearly as thick as the awareness between us.
Our match earlier ended with an announcement from Coach Taylor that Coach Willis would be returning from maternity leave in August. I watched a line of my teammates say goodbye to Coach Berger, and then the majority of them went out to celebrate today’s win, which leaves us ranked third in the league standings, headed into the second part of the season.
I begged off from celebrating, sensing the approaching melancholia, knowing I’d spend the evening faking smiles while secretly miserable.
I’ll be spending the next five weeks training, spending time with Mom, and—once Josh proposes—helping Cassidy plan her wedding. I’ll probably pick up a few shifts at Paul Rebeer’s, too, although I don’t need to supplement my income now that Mom’s care is covered, which is a relief.
I’m feeling restless. Reckless. I’ve spent so long treading water; I forgot how freeing it felt to swim with purpose instead.
I always pack a bathing suit for away games since most hotels we stay at have a pool, but I rarely use it. Swimming is another thing I associate with my dad—from sun-drenched summers at Michigan lakes to lessons at the YMCA down the road.
Otto stands, the scrape of the chair’s plastic legs against the concrete floor fracturing the silence between us. “You headed up?”
“Yeah.” I tighten the towel under my armpits, reaching for my phone and the room key I left on the cushion. “You?”
“Yes.”
We walk in silence to the door that leads inside the hotel. Otto swipes his card against the reader, pulling the door open and holding it for me.
My “Thanks” is so low that I’m not certain he hears it.
The elevator is right inside, tucked in the far corner across from the main lobby. I jab the Up button with my thumb, water streaking down my calves and dripping on the carpet.
The restlessness is multiplying, expanding, spreading to every crevice of my body. Swimming didn’t subdue it the way I hoped. Maybe it would have if Otto hadn’t been there when I emerged, like my tortured thoughts had summoned him somehow.
Finally, the doors ding, then part.
He waits for me to enter first again. A memory tugs at my mind, snippets of Paris appearing, like his mention of our first meeting opened the vault I’d welded shut.
Driving past the Eiffel Tower, exploring the Louvre, dancing in the street.
The memories have the same shimmering dreamscape of Les Murmures de l’Aube, hazy yet lingering.
Unmarred by our ending. Maybe because it doesn’t feel like we did end.
“When do you fly home?” I ask, hitting four.
Otto taps six, then answers, “Tuesday.”
The elevator doors glide closed, shutting us in more silence.
It takes twenty-six seconds to reach the fourth floor. I know because I count each one, flipping between the three options Cassidy laid out. Debating which form of regret will hurt the least.
The doors open, and I glance at Otto. He’s already looking at me, hands in pockets. A proud stance that’s also patient. I’m not. Tuesday is…soon.
I reach out, pressing the button to close the doors without breaking eye contact. I memorized its position during our ascent.
“You sure you want to do that, Boston?”
I don’t have to think about my response. “Yes.”
I’m sure I want to do this. I’m just not sure if I should. If I’m prepared for the inevitable heartbreak that’s going to accompany losing him again to include this extra torment. It’s the final line that hasn’t been crossed.
Knowing pain is coming never makes it hurt any less. Losing him will hurt—hurt a lot—no matter what. I can feel the ripple of it already, another crack forming in my heart. Might as well take what pleasure I can, while I can.
My entire being is pulsing with anticipation, the awareness pounding an unrelenting rhythm. Now that I’ve decided, any delay feels excruciating.
I don’t know how long it takes to reach the sixth floor. I’m too distracted to count seconds.
My steps are cautious as I follow him out of the elevator and down the hallway.
I’m sure there are other Siege players or staff staying on this floor.
And while Otto might not technically be affiliated with the team, as of about four hours ago, I don’t really want to explain to anyone why I’m sneaking into his room, wearing only a towel. They’re still my colleagues.
Thankfully, we don’t encounter anyone. Otto flips on the lights while I set my phone and room key on the round table in one corner of the room. It smells like him in here, even though we’ve only stayed at this hotel for one night.
I face him, letting all the air out of my lungs in a lengthy gust. “I’m glad you came to Boston.”
He grins, walking toward me. “We are in Miami.”
My fist twists the soft cotton of his shirt as soon as it’s in reach. I can feel the heat emanating from him, the solid support of the latent strength in his muscles.
“That’s not what I meant.”
His eyes soften. “I know what you meant. And I am really”—his fingers skim up my arm—“really”—his hand unknots the towel with one deft tug—“glad I did too.”
“I told you that you’d be back next season.”
“You did,” he agrees, toying with the strap of my bathing suit.
We won’t have a chance to talk, starting tomorrow. I don’t want to draw this goodbye out unnecessarily, and I doubt he does either. That was one small mercy in Paris. We didn’t go through cycles or phases of being together and apart. It was a clean break that should have healed.
“I’m glad,” I tell him. “I-I wish some things were different, but I’m really glad you’ll be back next season. I don’t want you to think I don’t—I want you to know that.”
“I know that, Claire.”
I nod. “You don’t need football, Otto. It’s just…lucky to have you.” I sniff, then laugh. “Sorry. I’m killing the mood.”
His fingers trace a line across my collarbone and curve up my throat. He tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. “What did I say about apologizing to me?”
“Not to.” I basically breathe the words—because his thumb is ghosting across my lower lip and I can barely focus on anything else.
His expression turns serious. Severe, the planes and angles sharpening. “Take what you want, Claire.”
“I will. I mean, I’m going to. I’m planning—I’m going to play next season. I’m not done.”
I already decided. But I sort of want to make the decision all over again, just so I can say it another time and watch the pride break across his face. Otto undoubtedly realized that counseling me to continue playing would tie me tighter to Boston. Would make even visiting him next to impossible.
He told me to play anyway, and I love him even more for it.
“We shouldn’t do this,” I state, my hands already under the hem of his shirt, exploring all that hot, taut skin.
This feels different and the same. Familiar yet new.
“Probably not.”
I graze my fingers lower, tracing the waistband of his shorts. He’s changed, too, since the game earlier.
“Glad we agree,” I say. Then rise up on my tiptoes and kiss him.
It’s supremely satisfying. Toppling the first domino. A cleat colliding with a ball in a perfect kick.
His shirt falls first, joining the terry-cloth towel, followed by my bathing suit a few seconds later. The zipper of his shorts snags, and I release an impatient growl as I tug at it.
“Patience, Caldwell,” Otto tells me in his Coach Berger voice.
I scowl, tugging on the metal teeth again. “You told me to take what I want.”
He laughs. “Fuck yeah, I did.”
His zipper finally cooperates, and he’s gloriously naked a few seconds later. I’ve only glimpsed him in parts, until now. Shirtless in LA. Pantless in his living room.
Otto partially naked is distracting. Otto fully naked is one of those sights you stare at, blinking, not believing it’s real.
Even more unbelievably, he’s looking at me with the same awed disbelief.
“Do you think about this when you think of me?” I ask. Half teasing, half really wanting to know.
“All the time,” he replies seriously. “You?”
“All the time,” I whisper.
Air-conditioning hums in the background.
I kiss his shoulder before tracing my tongue along the ridge of his collarbone.
My mouth lands on the base of his neck. I suck, long enough to leave a mark.
It’s a childish instinct, a base urge to preserve this moment with something tangible.
I kiss the scars on his shoulder next, my breasts brushing against his firm chest.
Otto groans; I moan.
We’re moving closer to the bed. I’m relaxed, not paying close attention to anything except staying close to him, letting him lead. Not thinking or worrying about what’s about to happen. It’s a sensation of safety. A unique sort of anticipation. Knowing what will happen, but also not.
I straddle him, setting my left knee outside of his right thigh, then my right knee outside of his left leg.
His hands flex, curl, fighting the urge to touch me.
“Gut gemacht,” I murmur. I’m playing with fire, I know, and as soon as I drop the match, the flames will consume everything else.
Otto’s eyes heat at the praise. It’s a minor miracle I’m able to recall any German right now because most of my brain is busy processing that this is truly about to happen.
“Du bist schon,” he tells me.
I scoff. “My hair’s frizzy, and I smell like chlorine.”
A shower would have made sense. But tonight, I’m aiming for impulsivity, not practicality.
“You are always beautiful, Claire.”
Unexpectedly, those five words make my nose sting. I stamp a smile below it, desperate to remain in the moment. To stay in the present and ignore the future.
Otto grunts as I grip his erection, the cords of his neck growing taut. His thighs tense beneath me like malleable marble, strong yet flexible.
I swipe my thumb across the flared tip, smearing the moisture beaded there before sliding my fist down the many inches it takes to reach the base. It’s overwhelming, seeing him like this. I want to rememorize everything, but I’m fighting my own impatience.
Otto is looking down, watching my hand stroke his substantial length. My inner muscles clench as I recall what it felt like to have him inside. The stretch, the build, the relief.
“Claire.” His hand lands on my thigh, the touch searing my overheated skin.
“You’re breaking the rules,” I inform him.
Otto’s smile is brief. “I did not bring a condom.”
“Oh.” I’m embarrassed I forgot that important detail.
“I did not think—there was not—” He blows out a breath, tilting his head back to study the ceiling briefly.
I study his palm on my leg. Trace the map of veins that begin between his knuckles, traveling up his forearm.
“Gloves of Glory: How Otto Berger is Redefining Reaction Time” was the title of the first article I saw about his Olympics performance after leaving Paris.
I was proud for a second, like his success was something I could claim partial credit for, before bitterness descended.
I never thought then that his talented hands would touch me again.
“We can do…other stuff?” I suggest, sounding like a teenager.
His hand slides higher up my thigh, nearly to the crease of my hip bone. My next inhale gets caught in my throat.
“I was not suggesting we stop. They ran every test before my surgery, and I have not been with anyone since. But we—”
“You haven’t?” I blurt. “What about—” I can’t bring myself to say her name. Not during such an intimate moment.
Maybe Otto feels the same way. Because all he says is, “I have not wanted to. With anyone else.”
I suck my lower lip into my mouth, replaying his words in my head. They settle around me like a cozy blanket, cocooning me in the special sensation of the one person you want picking you back.
“I’ve never not used a condom with anyone else,” I tell him. “But I want to. With you.”
The tendons of his throat appear as I guide him inside me, sinking down. It’s a slow, delicious, devastating spread.
I want to savor it. I want to rush it.
Either way, it will end.