Chapter 48 Otto
OTTO
The sun beams down on Sieg Stadium, bright and relentless.
My palms are damp inside the gloves, my jersey wet with sweat.
I clench and unclench my fists, waiting for the first kick as I study the line of my teammates.
They’re not all on the field, but they’re all here.
On the sidelines, sprawled in the shade of the bench. Watching. Waiting. Wondering.
The stakes are highest for me. But they exist for the entire team. If I’m not up to the task, my speeches to Wagner and Beck won’t matter. Kluvberg won’t want me anyway.
“Go, Pires!” Wagner calls out.
Olivier nods. Plants a cleat and kicks.
I read left correctly. I dive low, extending my arm, punching the ball clear from the open net. My left shoulder slams to the ground, but there’s no sharp stab after. There’s no twinge in my healed right either as I push upright and stand, rotating my arms.
I glance at Beck first. He’s grinning.
Wagner right after. He nods, the relief clear on his face.
“Attaboy, Berger,” Aster calls out.
I don’t allow any emotions to soak in. One save is nothing impressive for me. I still have more shots to block. Including attempts by Beck and Will, who are considered to be two of the best players in the world.
Friedrich Schneider is up next, his usual cocky smirk in place.
Some of his bluster is earned. He’s not always accurate, but he’s fast. He also opts for a stutter step before taking his shot to the right.
I hesitate for a split second longer than I did with Olivier, and it almost costs me.
My fingertips barely graze the edge of the ball, but it’s enough to send it spinning harmlessly to the side.
“Aster!” Wagner shouts.
Will walks toward the ball, no sign of teasing on his face now. He won’t take it easy on me. He’s still trying to prove himself to the club, and the entire point of this exercise is testing what shape my shoulder is in.
Sure enough, Aster fakes high, then kicks low. I guess left, and he aims right, but my foot reaches the ball in time.
Applause starts on the sidelines, quickly silenced by a sharp glare from Wagner.
I want to smile, but I don’t. Assurance is spreading through me, steady and slow and sure. I’m fine. I’m better than fine.
It’s still too soon to celebrate though.
Beck is stepping up last, and I know he’ll be the toughest opponent.
Not only because of who he is, but because we know each other so well.
We’ve played together for the past eleven years.
He used to pull me out on this field, under the guise of practicing his penalty kicks so he could coach me on improving.
It’s the only reason I witnessed the moment he met his future wife.
And it feels like all that history is stuffed in this stadium now as we stare at each other, facing off.
He wants this triumphant return for me, knows that temporarily losing football was as devastating for me as it would have been for him.
But he wants a goal more. His ability to focus on his own performance first is what makes him such a dominant athlete.
I’m drenched with sweat and flooded with adrenaline.
There is nothing—nothing—like facing down a penalty kick. There’s no distraction of other players. Just me, the net, and an incoming shot. No clues in the form of angles or approach to guess which direction the ball will go in. No defenders running interference.
I dance back and forth, waiting for Beck to move. Inside my gloves, my palms are slick, but that won’t matter when I reach for the ball.
Beck strikes.
Right, which I predict correctly based on nothing except my gut.
He usually goes left first, and he’s trying to test me.
He also knows which shoulder I injured, that I’ll possibly be more protective of this side.
I pick the correct direction, but it’s a beautiful shot—high and fast and accurate—blasting through the air so fast that I swear I can hear it whistle.
I launch toward it, unsure I’ll reach it in time, until it collides with my fist and boomerangs in the opposite direction.
There would be a prime rebound opportunity if this were a game, but it’s not.
I twist just in time to hit the ground, the impact with the turf uncomfortable, but no more painful than normal. I didn’t injure—or reinjure—anything.
Then I roll flat on my back, beaming up at the blue sky.
Fuck, that felt good.
Hoots and hollers fill the stadium.
This time, Wagner doesn’t silence my teammates’ cheers.
A dozen people are waiting in the hallway.
A mixture of my team and Kluvberg employees.
My hair is still damp from the shower I took after practice, the cold air blasting from the vents ruffling the wet strands.
I’m run through approved talking points as we make the short trip to the media room.
I nod along, not really listening. I’ve never stuck to a script in interviews before, which is probably why I’m the player reporters always want to talk to.
Today, the first time I’ve talked to the press since my injury, right before my first match back, is especially juicy.
This year’s charity match was already hotly anticipated since we’re competing against Ludlin. Add in that my medical clearance was leaked already and that I’m participating in a press conference, and it means there’s more attention on this match than most regular season games.
It’s just me, here, even though the entire team assembled for practice earlier.
I can hear the noise inside from down the hallway. It grows exponentially louder as a staff member opens the doors.
I make my way down the side aisle to the front of the room, smiling for the cameras flashing in time with each step.
There’s a rush of commotion when I take a seat, and everyone else with one hurries to do the same.
It’s standing room only, and even that space has been taken up, people lining the walls of the room.
I twist open the cap of the water bottle set next to the microphone and take a sip from it.
“Too bad more of you couldn’t make it.”
Laughter fills the large room.
“Thank you for being here,” I continue into the microphone. “As some of you might have already heard, I’ve been officially cleared for match play.”
No surprise shows on the faces of the first row of reporters.
“I’ll be back in goal for our upcoming match against Ludlin and for the start of this upcoming season. Any further questions?”
What looks like every hand in the room flies up.
I take another sip of water while a guy wearing a Kluvberg polo calls on a journalist.
He stands eagerly a second later. “I know I speak for the entire city—the entire country really—when I say, welcome home, Otto.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
“Do you anticipate that your active status will be reassessed on a regular basis, or are you certain your shoulder is fully healed?”
“I doubt there’s a doctor in Germany who hasn’t looked at my shoulder,” I answer, which prompts more laughter.
“Not a single one has suggested I won’t be able to perform at the same level.
The consistent verdict is, everything healed perfectly.
I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the surgical staff at Sankt Marien Krankenhaus for taking such excellent care of me, along with the physical therapists at Mass General and, of course, Kluvberg’s medical team.
Injury is a risk for any athlete. But I have no reason to believe my performance moving forward will be affected.
In fact, if you ask any of the teammates whose shots I just blocked, they’d probably tell you my shoulder’s better than it was before. ”
The journalist who asked the question smiles, jotting something on his notepad.
I answer a series of more questions—inquiring about the rehab process, how I’ve had to adjust my training, what it was like, returning to Sieg Stadium—before a woman with a neat bun stands. She’s one of the few female reporters in here, probably only a few years older than me.
“There were reports you spent time during your recovery assistant-coaching an American women’s team. The Boston Siege. Is coaching something you’re considering after retirement? Was that a test run?”
I swallow some water before answering, “I did some coaching, yes. And I would consider it again in the future. But I’m not planning to retire anytime soon, so I can’t give you a more definitive answer than that.”
“Did coaching help with your recovery?”
“Only one question per—”
“It’s fine,” I tell the staffer. “It did, yes. It was motivating to be around the game when I couldn’t play myself.”
“It’s unusual for a contracted athlete to coach for another team. What role did—”
“We really need to move on,” the moderator states, gesturing to another reporter.
“I have a related question actually,” the next reporter says. “Would you say coaching was the most inspiring part of your recovery?”
“It was motivating, as I said. But”—fuck it, I decide—“no, it was not the most inspiring part. What helped me most, through the uncertainty, was…love.”
The reporter frowns, clearly taken aback by the answer. “Love…of football?”
“I love football. I always will. It’s been the biggest part of my life for as long as I can remember.
But in Boston, I fell in love—fell back in love—with someone.
She was certain I would make a full recovery, when I was worried my career was over, even though she has no medical training whatsoever.
” I smile. “When my injury first happened, I was not sure what my life would look like without football. Thanks to her, I know exactly what it would—will—look like.”
There’s a beat of pure silence, comical in the crowded room.
I clear my throat. I wasn’t planning on saying any of that. But having it out is a relief.
“Since I am sharing personal updates, I guess I’ll also announce that the upcoming season will be my final with FC Kluvberg. I’m…”
The rest of what I was intending to say gets lost in the din of the dozens of questions shouted my way.