Chapter 44 Otto
OTTO
Landing in Germany is bittersweet. Everything I brought to Boston is with me this time, but I can’t shake the sensation of leaving something behind.
I disembark behind the other passengers, tugging the brim of the ball cap I’m wearing lower as I enter the airport, where the number of looks I’m getting multiplies.
The line for customs is long. I sign autographs for two teenage boys while I wait to show my passport, prompting excited exclamations of my name throughout the waiting area.
When I travel with Kluvberg, we fly in and out of the private terminal.
Until I signed the autographs, most people likely assumed it couldn’t possibly be me.
Finally, I make it outside. The late June air is balmy.
It was hot when I left Boston, so it shouldn’t be a surprise, but the contrast from my last trip here is stark.
A reminder of how long I was away—the longest stretch I’ve ever left home for.
It feels like more than four months have passed.
This isn’t how I anticipated my triumphant return—with what’s been deemed a healthy shoulder by a dozen American doctors—would feel like.
I climb into the waiting car, not missing how the driver’s eyes light up when he sees me. I wasn’t forgotten during the second half of last season, like I’d feared. Wasn’t replaced entirely.
Again, it leaves me feeling hollow, not vindicated.
I pull my phone out as the driver heads toward Kluvberg’s training facility. I have a meeting with Leon Wagner, Kluvberg’s head coach, then an appointment with the team doctor for him to assess my shoulder.
Unsurprisingly, there are a lot of messages.
From Beck and Aster and Banks and the rest of my teammates.
One from Saylor, inviting me over for dinner next week.
A few from numbers I don’t have saved, but the contents make it clear they are from female senders.
I block the numbers rather than just delete the texts, send one quick message, then drop my phone on the seat and reach into my pocket.
Despite careful folding, the creased paper is more crumpled than it was before my flight. I should have stored it somewhere else, flat and impenetrable, but I wanted to keep it on me.
I have the message memorized, but I scan the short note just to see her handwriting.
The best is yet to come, Otto. I know Kluvberg knows how lucky they are to have you, and I feel lucky to have had you too. No regrets.
I’ll be cheering you on.
Love,
Claire
There’s a gap between the O and V in love, like she second-guessed the word halfway through before finishing it.
She snuck out of my hotel room while I was still sleeping. A move that was not entirely unexpected, although it sucked, waking up alone.
Then, at least I knew she was in the same building. The same city. The same country.
Now, we’re on separate continents.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing directly outside Leon Wagner’s office.
I’m sure about this. I sat in the studio apartment that never really felt like a home for two days after returning from Miami, wrestling with why I was so conflicted about leaving Boston. Thinking and planning and worrying until my brain felt like one of those toy tops, spinning around.
I’ve decided. But it’s still strange as I stare at the Kluvberg crest on the wall, knowing what I’m about to tell the man who’s one of the primary reasons I have any career, let alone an incredibly successful one.
Kluvberg bet big on me as a scrappy teenager with no backup plan.
The fact that I’ve repaid that investment several times over doesn’t make this any easier.
“Come in,” Wagner’s deep voice rumbles after I knock.
When I appear, he flashes a rare smile. “Otto. It’s good to see you.”
“You too, sir.”
We shake hands, and I notice the approving glance he gives my shoulder as I grip his palm tightly.
We met briefly when I flew home for Opa’s surgery.
And I know Wagner has been receiving regular updates from my rehab team in Boston.
But we rehash the basics anyway, then go over my training plan for the summer—assuming nothing comes up during today’s assessment—until I can’t hold the announcement in any longer.
“This will be my last season, sir.”
I’ve never witnessed Wagner struck speechless before. He’s a stoic man who takes his job seriously, rarely effusive with praise and pointed with criticism. He’s been my coach for over a decade, and I’ve never witnessed him look so stunned.
He taps the folder that contains my medical records. “There’s no indication that—”
“This has nothing to do with my injury. And I’m not retiring. I’ve decided to play…elsewhere.”
Confusion edges into anger. “This organization has made you one of the top-paid players in Europe, Berger. I’m aware your contract ends next year, and I can assure you that last season won’t affect any salary negotiations—”
“I’m not worried you won’t resign me. Or about the money.”
Both arrogant statements. Both true.
Wagner glowers, waiting for me to continue.
This is actually going better than I anticipated. I figured he’d have started yelling by now.
“I’ve decided to move to the States. Play for an American team.”
For a few seconds, he stares at me. Then Wagner barks, “Why the fuck would you do that?”
I shift in my seat. I’m not accustomed to discussing my feelings with anyone, especially with my coach. But I owe him the full truth.
“There’s something—someone—there. I love… I love her. And I chose this club over her once before. I won’t—can’t—do it again.”
Wagner steeples his fingers under his chin, studying me.
I fight the urge to fidget as the silence between us stretches longer and longer. I hold his gaze, waiting for him to respond.
After what feels like hours, he sighs. “This the same woman who had you so moody in Paris?”
I wasn’t expecting him to recall that conversation, let alone bring it up now.
Hesitantly, I nod. “Yes, sir.”
He leans back in his chair, appraising me. I hold his gaze, waiting.
Finally, he sighs. “You’re completely certain about this, Berger?”
“I am.”
Another heavy exhale. “Not the news I was hoping for.”
“I know.”
“But I will respect your decision. I’m aware your life outside this organization hasn’t been the easiest, and you’ve always prioritized this club. I understand you might need to shift those priorities now.”
I nod. Wagner is one of the few people who knows most of the truth about my childhood. Who’s aware my support system outside of football has been nonexistent for most of my life. But he’s never mentioned it to me directly, and his acknowledgment means a lot.
“It wasn’t an easy choice, sir. I appreciate—”
Wagner holds a hand up, silencing me. “You’re under contract for another season, Berger. We can save the sentimentality for next spring. Especially since this really should have been done by your agent, informing the club management.”
I nod. “I’m aware. But I wanted you to hear it from me, before any announcements are made or the news leaks some other way.”
“How many people know?”
“Just, uh, you.”
Wagner’s graying eyebrows rise. “You haven’t told…”
“Claire,” I supply.
“You haven’t told Claire what you’re planning?”
I shake my head. “When I got injured, I realized…I realized how much of my identity had become playing for Kluvberg. I love this city and this club. Playing for FC Kluvberg was always my dream. But I need to see who I am, as a footballer and as a man, outside of this club. I’ll be a better player and a better person for pushing myself to transition to somewhere I feel less comfortable.
And, uh, I’m pretty sure she’ll be happy about it. ”
I’m pretty sure Claire will be happy about it.
But I’m aware it will be a big surprise.
I didn’t so much as hint this was something I was considering before I left Boston.
I didn’t want to disappoint Claire if I decided it was something I couldn’t follow through on.
I also assumed she’d try to talk me out of it. Tell me to prioritize my career.
Wagner stuns me by laughing. “You’ve got balls, Berger—I’ll give you that much.”
I grin. “Thank you, sir.”
He points a finger at me. “But if anyone asks, I knew nothing about this plan of yours. I’ll do what I can to mitigate the fallout, but a media firestorm will hit once the news is out.
This entire city—the entire country—has been waiting impatiently for you to return.
Return for years. They expect you to retire with the Kluvberg crest on your jersey. ”
“I know, sir.”
Wagner gestures toward his office door. “Yves is waiting for you. Go get checked out so you can get officially cleared and we can figure out a plan for summer training.”
I nod and stand, heading for the door.
“Berger?”
“Yes?” I pause, glancing back.
“You’re hoping to wind up in Boston?”
“Yes, sir.”
Wagner nods. “I know a trainer on Beacon. They’d be fools not to make an offer anyway, but I’ll put in a good word.”
“Thank you,” I say thickly.
He nods again. “Get going, Berger.”
I take the stairs down one flight and wind up in the medical and training wing. The staff is all here for me, so there’s no wait. I’m ushered into one of the exam rooms as soon as I arrive.
Yves Durand, the club’s head doctor, asks me a few preliminary questions, noting my responses on my chart before launching into more specific inquiries about my shoulder. “Any clicking, catching, or sensations of subluxation or looseness?”
“None. Just fatigue after longer sessions.”
“That’s normal. How’s the strength compared to your nondominant side?”
“Pretty even now.”
Yves does a clinical assessment next, checking my range of motion, scapular control, strength, and stability.
“Range is full, no impingement, strength is symmetrical, and I’m not seeing any instability or apprehension.” He grabs my chart again, signing the bottom with a flourish. “Based on today’s evaluation, I’m officially clearing you for unrestricted return to match play.”
Thank fuck. The tension saps from my muscles.
“Make sure you continue with your shoulder maintenance protocol. Rotator cuff and scapular stabilization work shouldn’t drop off just because you’re back in full competition.
We’ll monitor the load carefully when you’re back in goal.
If you experience any change in shoulder stability or function, report it to a trainer immediately. ”
I nod, sliding off the table and pulling my T-shirt back on. “I will. Thanks.”
“Berger?”
I glance back, halfway to the door. “Yeah?”
Yves smiles. “It’s good to have you back in goal.”
I grin back, attempting to ignore the squirming sensation in my chest. Wagner was right. Everyone’s expecting me back—to stay.
“No one’s happier than I am.”
Coming off an injury isn’t the smartest time to be shopping around for a new club. I’ll have a short window to prove I’m able to perform at the same level, that my track record pre-surgery wasn’t impacted by time away.
Before leaving, I stop by the locker room. I hover in the doorway for a few minutes, staring down at the FC Kluvberg emblem painted on the floor before walking over to my locker.
A banner has been hung above it, reading Willkommen zurück!
“I would have written Claire Caldwell’s Coach,” a deep voice says.
I grin, turning to watch Beck enter the locker room. “You’re still annoyed about the Saylor Scott’s Inspiration sign?”
“Nah, I just missed giving you shit.”
We share a brief hug, and then he claps me on the back, nodding to my shoulder. “How’d it go?”
“They’ll keep an eye on it, obviously, but I’m cleared. Starting training tomorrow, and I’ll be in goal for the charity match against Ludlin.”
Beck exhales, “Great.”
“Yeah. I was pretty sure, based on what the American doctors said, but injuries are unpredictable.”
“You headed out then?”
I nod. “What are you doing here?”
“Came to check on you.” His answer makes it sound like an unnecessary question. “Want to go grab a pint to celebrate? Saylor took Gigi with her to look at wedding dresses with my mom and Sophia, so I’ve got the afternoon free.”
“Yeah, that sounds great. But first, uh, first, I need to tell you something.”
This news might land better over beers, but I don’t want to risk anyone else overhearing if we’re out in public.
“Now?”
I nod. “Now.”
“All right.” He props a hip against Banks’s locker, crossing his arms. “Go ahead.”
I rub the back of my neck, gathering my thoughts.
This is harder than telling Wagner was.
Beck isn’t just my captain. He’s been my mentor. An older brother. Not to mention one hell of a teammate. You can’t win a football game by stopping every shot that comes your way. Any legacy I leave in this sport will be largely thanks to the number of Beck’s kicks other keepers couldn’t save.
I thought we had longer than one year left to play together. I’m sure he did too.
“Next season is my last,” I state.
Beck connects the dots faster than Wagner did. “You’re going to play in the US?”
“Yes.”
He releases a long sigh, shaking his head once. “I owe Saylor fifty euros.”
I roll my eyes, miffed but mostly relieved. “You told her?”
“She told me. Why do you think she invited Claire back to your apartment? Saylor wanted to hang out with her more, but she was convinced something was going on between you guys. You weren’t exactly subtle, staring at her in the bar all night.”
I scowl. “Fuck off.”
Beck just chuckles. “I’m happy for you. Banks was solid this spring. He’s not you—no one is—but the club will be fine. I’d rather you be there and happy than here and miserable. If Saylor hadn’t decided to play here, I would have done the same damn thing.”
My throat feels thick, but I choke out a, “Thanks, Beck.”
As we walk out of the locker room, he asks, “What’d she say?”
“Claire?”
He nods.
“She, uh, doesn’t—I haven’t told her.”
This time, his reaction is identical to Wagner’s. Once he’s finished laughing, Beck tells me, “Usually, that’s the sort of thing you discuss.”
“She’d try to talk me out of it. I don’t want her to know yet. It’s my decision. No matter what she says, when she finds out, it’s been made.”