Chapter 50 Otto
OTTO
I’m halfway back to the goal when I hear my name called. It’s a miracle I hear it, considering the noise level in Sieg Stadium. Every seat is occupied, and every occupant is cheering as we return for the second half of the match.
I turn to watch Beck jog toward me.
“What’s up?” I ask when he reaches me.
“One hundred twenty-four,” he tells me.
“What?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Saylor texted me. Said to tell you one hundred twenty-four. That’s all I know.”
“What is that? Some sort of code?”
Beck shrugs again, then jogs back to his position.
I continue my trek toward the goal, puzzling over the three numbers until I reach the box and snap into match mode.
We’re winning by one goal, a bullet by Beck, and I haven’t allowed any attempts in.
A shutout is the exact statement I’m hoping to make to mark my return, and it will only happen if I remain focused.
Ludlin is our main rival for a reason, and Nübel will be hard to get another ball by.
Play resumes for the second half. Ludlin is aggressive from the start, angry about Beck’s goal and anxious to even the tally.
I block shot after shot, including a header off the corner kick that nearly slips past me.
It’s not until I’m sipping some water, waiting for Ludlin’s trainers to finish talking with one of their players who was tripped during a battle for the ball, that my gaze drifts off the field and into the stands.
I wasn’t sure what to expect of my return after my announcement.
Had I not shared that I was only playing in Kluvberg for one more season, I would have known what to expect.
I was surprised—humbled—by the standing ovation fans greeted me with, even knowing my time on this field was limited.
I want to repay that unwavering support with a win.
But I’m not paying attention to the crowd right now. I’m staring at the 101 visible at the top of the section to my immediate right, visible now that most of the spectators are seated.
I whirl to the left when the Ludlin player stands and the crowd applauds politely. And there it is—section 124.
I start systematically scanning faces, aware I have seconds until play resumes and my attention needs to be elsewhere.
I hear the whistle and have to glance away before I make it through more than a couple of rows.
I’m tested right away—by the same striker who was lying on the turf.
I hold the save, since another Ludlin player is too close for a rebound opportunity.
Pass the ball to a teammate. The urge to look left is a persistent itch I can’t scratch.
The ball barely makes it to midfield before Ludlin is attacking again, a hasty steal ending with another accurate shot I save.
This time, I can’t hold the rebound, and it bounces off my left glove into the danger zone.
It’s a rush.
The screaming crowd—our charity matches are typically well attended, but this is the first time one has sold out.
The short stretch of turf that separates me and the Ludlin player—Günter—who’s dribbling around, looking for an opening.
The mounting pressure—knowing I’m the one who will determine if they gain a goal.
Günter is focused on my right side. He knows about my shoulder and that today is the first test in a full match. He’s waiting—hoping—I’ll falter.
Günter glances at a fellow midfield. It’s Konstantin Auer, an Austrian midfielder who just joined the league and is being hailed as the next Adler Beck.
“I’m still fucking playing,” Beck snapped when that comparison was mentioned in our locker room earlier.
Günter’s focused; Auer is arrogant. He traps the pass from his teammate easily, then approaches me with the inflated confidence of a player who’s accustomed to being the best on the field.
I know that confidence. I had that confidence when I signed with FC Kluvberg. A near decade ago, which feels far more recent. Now, I have that confidence and the experience to back it up.
Auer fakes left, then shoots right.
I make the save, then watch my teammates carry it up the field.
One attempt, which Nübel keeps out, and then it’s coming back to me.
I think it enters offsides, but the linesman doesn’t raise his flag, so I refocus on the approaching ball, waiting for the kick.
It comes sooner than I expected, Günter not waiting to pass this time.
I physically can’t get to the far end of the goal in time.
My right shoulder collides with the goalpost, my momentum too fast, and I hold my breath, waiting for pain to hit.
When nothing except a slight throb appears, I exhale, straightening.
Glance at the Kluvberg bench, where Wagner is already talking to a referee. He’s challenging the goal.
I roll my shoulder, stretch, and rub the spot on my arm that collided with the post, which will likely bruise, as I wait for the verdict after the review. Resume searching the stands, glancing over each face.
Sieg Stadium seats seventy thousand. There must be a few hundred people in that section.
She’s halfway up, seated in the center of an aisle, wearing a Kluvberg jersey.
I stare, blinking rapidly, not sure if I’m hallucinating or not. There’s no way that Claire could be here, right? I don’t know what coverage yesterday’s press conference got in the States, but the Siege coming up probably means Boston will cover it some.
Claire isn’t looking this way. She’s focused on the officials, along with the rest of the stadium, waiting for the final call. Only eleven minutes remain in regulation time. And if this goal stands, we’re no longer winning.
Offsides is the verdict. No goal.
I bounce on the balls of my feet, my focus sharpening to a razor’s edge. I wanted to win before I realized she was here. Now that I know she is, losing isn’t an option.
Four minutes later, Will scores off a pass from a throw-in.
Regulation ends, 2–0. Only two minutes of extra time get added. For a match against Ludlin, the game has been fairly clean, with few fouls or stoppages.
As soon as the final whistle blows, I’m swarmed by teammates.
They, too, surprised me with their reaction to the news.
There were good-natured grumblings about my upcoming departure, but everyone, including a nervous-looking Banks, said they were excited for me.
Once our preliminary celebration ends, we line up to shake hands.
As soon as I’ve dropped Nübel’s palm, I jog toward the sidelines rather than the tunnel.
A few confused shouts follow me, which spawn into many more as I vault over the barrier that displays advertisements, followed by the barricade separating the closest seats from the photographers and press.
Everyone I pass wears a startled, confused expression.
Just like during my press conference, no one is sure what the protocol is.
Athletes don’t cross the boundary. Security is focused on keeping fans off the field, not keeping players on it.
I hustle up the aisle, taking advantage of the surprise that doesn’t last long.
A few rows up, spectators start reaching for me, grabbing my jersey and shouting congratulations. Autograph requests are shoved in my face. Security is rushing over from multiple directions, trying to achieve some semblance of order—or more likely, telling me to get out of the stands.
I could. I could return to the field, walk down the tunnel, and find my phone. Text her where to meet me.
But I’m too impatient. Too ebullient. She flew four thousand miles to see me. The least I can do is jog up a few flights of stairs.
So, I keep moving forward. And the crowd has either realized this isn’t a meet-and-greet opportunity or figured out where—who—I’m headed toward because people start to part. Helping, not hindering my progress.
Claire’s realized it too. When I reach the start of her section, she’s moving down the row, blushing at the dozens—hundreds—of eyes on her.
I hear her murmur a polite, “Entschuldigung,” as she passes the last person in her row.
We reach the same step at the same time, like this was coordinated rather than impulsive.
I pull her against my chest without hesitating, needing her in my arms to believe this is all real. Claire presses her face against my neck, her long exhale brushing against the hollow of my throat.
“Fancy running into you here,” I say against her ear, and her laugh vibrates against my shoulder.
There’s a lot we need to talk about, but none of it needs to be said here. Except for one thing.
“I love you.”
Claire pulls away enough to see my face, hers adorably stunned. “You-you do?”
“I do.” I tuck a loose curl behind her ear. “I have for a long time. I think since you told me you had a goalie kink.”
She laughs. Blushes. And I also brush a stray tear away before it can travel down her cheek.
I kiss her before she can say a word, slow and languid. For the first time, it doesn’t occur to me that it could be the last time. It feels like a beginning.
I can’t stay in the stands, even though I want to. I’m causing chaos, and a frazzled security guard is hovering nearby, talking into a hidden microphone. I kiss Claire once more, instruct the guard on where to bring her, and then jog back down to the field.