Chapter 49 Claire
CLAIRE
Coach Taylor looks up when I knock on her door.
“Do you have a minute?” I question tentatively.
“I do.” She reclines in her chair, elbows on the arms, as I take a seat. “I thought you might stop by.”
“You did?”
I spent the entire drive to the Siege’s practice facility deliberating how to word this. Debating how to broach the topic.
“I read the news, Caldwell, especially articles that mention former members of this organization. Otto Berger is a well-known name. He also spent most of his time in Boston traveling and working with this team. Not a giant leap to think he might have been referring to a member of it during his press conference. You were in Paris, with Saylor, and Berger played in those Games as well, so you could have met there.” She raises one eyebrow.
“I’ve been reading some of your mother’s novels. How are my deductive skills?”
I manage a weak smile before launching into an apology. “I’m so sorry, Coach. I should have told you we had a preexisting relationship at the start of the season. I hadn’t seen him since Paris, I didn’t know he was coming, and when he showed up, I—I didn’t think it would matter.”
“And now?”
“I’d like to talk to him in person. I can’t believe that he would…” I let my voice trail. “But there’s a good chance, if I go, I’d—we’d be seen together. He’s famous there, obviously. I don’t want to cause any problems for this club. Any more problems, that is.”
Coach Taylor points at the phone on her desk.
“That has been ringing nonstop this morning. I finally had to disconnect the damn thing. Marc Meadows”—the head coach of Beacon FC—“is giddy. He wanted my opinion on how best to approach Berger’s agent.
I understand wanting to keep your personal life private, and you’re entitled to now that he is no longer part of this organization, but I would have appreciated a heads-up on—”
“I didn’t know,” I blurt, interrupting my head coach for the first time ever. “I had no idea he was going to do that press conference. That he’d decided to leave Kluvberg. That club is his home. His dream. I never thought he would even consider playing anywhere else.”
She studies me for a few seconds. Her sudden smile catches me off guard. “Well, that’s rather romantic.”
I scoff. “Or idiotic.”
Coach Taylor’s expression becomes even more amused. “You don’t feel the same way about him?”
“I-I do,” I say awkwardly. I’ve discussed personal matters with Coach Taylor before, when I’ve had to pick up Tommy or was running late because of Mom’s doctor appointments, but never my love life.
She nods like she already knew the answer. “It didn’t sound like an impulsive decision, Caldwell. Do what you need to do, and we’ll have a conversation when you get back.”
Cassidy drives me to the airport with a wide smile on her face. July sunshine reflects off the diamond ring nestled on her left hand, nearly blinding me as she navigates the Boston traffic.
My sister came home from work to me hauling a packed suitcase down the stairs, and didn’t hesitate to offer to drop me off at the airport. Josh has been coming over most nights after work to cook dinner and to see Cassidy and Tommy and was happy to watch his future stepson.
“Dreams” is playing on the radio, Cassidy singing along loudly, and it feels like a sign.
I’m angry with Otto. Furious he told the world that he was leaving FC Kluvberg and that he loved me before bothering to inform me.
I also know exactly why he did. Because he knew what I would have said if he had told me first. It’s what I’m flying to Germany to tell him anyway.
“What about Nantucket?” Cassidy asks me as she takes the airport exit.
“You hate boats,” I remind her.
“Your quarterback beau probably has a helicopter he’d let you use.”
I roll my eyes. I made the mistake of mentioning my conversation with Brady Simmons to Cassidy, and now she’s trying to rope him into wedding plans.
“He’s not my beau. If you want to get married on Nantucket, you’ll have to wait five years for a venue and take a ferry over.”
Cassidy sighs, then brightens. “Does Otto have a helicopter?”
“Terminal E,” I say, pointing at the sign.
Cassidy flicks on her blinker, navigating over a lane. She pulls up alongside the curb, outside the terminal, a few minutes later.
“You know what Mom would say if she were here.”
I glance at my sister. “What?”
“It only has to make sense to you.”
That’s what my mom told me whenever I worried if a career as a professional athlete was a foolish choice. And I know Cassidy is right; it’s what she’d say to me now. She’d say not to worry about all the outside noise and focus on what I wanted.
I give Cassidy a quick hug. “Thank you,” I whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”
Her arms tighten briefly before she lets go. “Me too.”
For the first time ever, I walk into the airport under the three-hour window recommended for international travel.
The security line is ridiculously long, and my flight is already boarding by the time I make it to the gate.
I white-knuckle the armrest during takeoff.
And then it hits me, as the flight attendants are passing out headphones, that I have no clue where in Kluvberg Otto lives.
The absurdity of that—I’m flying halfway around the world to see a guy whose address is a mystery—makes me giggle.
Once I start laughing, it’s hard to stop.
I’m still in shock, I think, from watching his press conference.
From having the extraordinary become reality.
I’d accepted that Otto and I were an impossibility.
The woman seated next to me raises her silk eye mask to aim a disapproving look in my direction.
“Sorry,” I whisper, swallowing my nervous giggles, settling in my seat, and staring at the digital map that tracks our progress. We’re already over the Atlantic, the tiny plane on-screen moving deceptively slow since we’re hurtling through the sky.
I doze on and off, nerves giving way to sheer exhaustion, only waking when breakfast is served before the plane starts its descent. I nibble on a biscuit between sips of coffee, searching for glimpses of land beneath the cloud cover.
By the time we land, I have a partial plan.
I could just call Otto, obviously, but that feels like cheating.
He hasn’t reached out since the press conference.
He’s giving me space to react, or he’s assuming I haven’t seen the news yet.
I want to surprise him, to follow this impulsivity through. Match his gesture.
He put love on the line, and I want to do the same.
Once I’m in a car headed toward the city, I search Saylor’s name in my Contacts. I have her old number saved from years ago, and she shared her new one when she was in Boston.
I tap my fingers against my thigh as I listen to it ring, unsure what I’ll do if she doesn’t pick up. Impulsivity doesn’t allow for a plan B. I’ve barely come up with a plan A at this point.
Finally, Saylor answers. The first thing she says is, “Did you see it?”
“Uh, it’s Claire,” I say, not sure if she’s expecting a call from someone else.
Saylor laughs. “I know, Caldwell. Did you see the press conference?”
Oh. My jet-lagged brain manages to put the pieces together. “Yeah, I did.”
“Thank God. I was going to send you the link, but Beck said I should mind my own business and stay out of it.”
It’s strange, realizing Beck knows. I’m so accustomed to Otto and me being private and separate and secret.
“I can’t—I can’t believe he said that,” I tell Saylor.
“I can.” She sounds smug. “I bet Beck fifty euros he would.” Her response is the last one I expected.
I straighten in the back of the taxi. “What? Why?”
“I was pretty sure something happened between you guys in Paris. I was certain when he was acting weird about working with the Siege and I saw your name on the roster. And then I saw how he looked at you in Boston, and I knew he’d end up staying there.”
“I didn’t ask him to—”
“You didn’t have to, Claire. And you shouldn’t have needed to. Beck didn’t ask me to move to Germany. Your priorities change when you fall in love. Mine did. So did Otto’s.”
“I can’t let him do it,” I whisper.
I doubt the driver cares about my love life, but it feels strange to be having such a personal conversation in front of a stranger. And if he’s a Kluvberg fan, he might actually care about my love life.
“I don’t think Otto is asking for permission,” Saylor tells me, sounding amused. “And my guess is, his agent is having a really busy week.”
I tap my fingers against the door. “Can you send me his address?”
“Sure. He’s not home though. Kluvberg has a charity match against Ludlin this afternoon. Beck left an hour ago.”
I sigh. If I’d stopped to think, I would have realized that on my own. Otto mentioned the charity match when he called. But I haven’t stopped to think. And now that I’m here, I wanted to talk to Otto immediately, not camp out on his doorstep until he got home.
“Is it—”
“It’s sold out,” Saylor tells me. “But you called the right person. I’ve got connections. Let me make some calls, and I’ll get you a ticket. Do you have somewhere to stay until the game? I’m with Beck’s parents, dropping off Gigi, but I can—”
“I have a hotel,” I say swiftly. Technically a lie, but she’s doing enough. I don’t want to impose any more than I already am.
Kluvberg is smaller than Boston, but it’s still a major city. I shouldn’t have any trouble finding a hotel at the last minute.
“Okay. I’ll be in touch soon!”
I hang up with Saylor, then start searching hotels on my phone. I was wrong; I will have trouble. It occurs to me, as I reach the second page of results with no vacancy, that it’s likely because of Otto’s match.
I finally find an available hotel, relay the address to the driver, and then relax against the seat, staring out the window at the passing scenery.