Chapter 51 Claire
CLAIRE
The closer we get to the front door, the more nervous Otto seems to become. His house is gorgeous, unsurprisingly, and not at all what I expected. The yard is huge, the distant view of the mountains breathtaking. It’s quiet and peaceful and idyllic. Big for one person.
We reach the door, and Otto spins his key chain around one finger. His other hand is carrying my suitcase, and his equipment bag is slung over one shoulder. I offered to carry my luggage, but he didn’t reply. Just laughed.
“I have a hotel room,” I remind him.
That’s where I thought we’d head after leaving the stadium. But Otto insisted we grab my belongings and continue here instead. I was curious to see his house, so I agreed. But now I’m wondering if that was a mistake. We still have a lot to discuss, and I did ambush him by showing up here.
He makes a face. “You are not staying at a hotel, Claire. I just… I did not know you were coming.”
I manage a small smile, still nervous. “Yeah, that was the point. It was a surprise.”
“It was a great surprise. Just—” He rubs the back of his neck. “I do not want to freak you out.”
I squeak out an “Oh” as he unlocks the door—because of course that freaks me out.
Coming here was impulsive, and I don’t have a lot of experience with impulsivity…or the flux that follows. I’m still registering that I’m in Germany. Still processing everything Otto said during his press conference and during that surreal moment in the stands after the game.
The front door swings open, and Otto flips on the interior lights.
At first, I’m in awe. The inside of the house is as beautiful as the exterior. Wide wooden floorboards and creamy white walls. Matching furnishings. I wonder if he hired a professional decorator to—
Oh.
I make a small, startled sound as soon as I see it.
Otto glances at me, a muscle in his jaw jumping as he shuts the door and drops the bags. “I would have moved it if I had known you were coming.”
I’m frozen, staring at the wall that’s becoming increasingly blurry. “How—when did you get that?”
“I went back to the Louvre after the final. I wanted—they sell the prints in the gift shop. Bought one and had it framed.”
I taste salt and realize the tears have streamed down to my lips.
Otto swears and reaches toward the print.
I grab his wrist. “Don’t.”
I was sure—so, so sure—that Otto had moved on easily from us. Two days later, he became a gold medalist. Two years later, he won another World Cup. Professionally, he was thriving. He was dating, then engaged to someone else.
Since he showed up in Boston, there have been plenty of moments I second-guessed that assumption. But I’m staring at evidence he didn’t. A print of Les Murmures de l’Aube hangs on the wall directly across from the front door. It’s prominently displayed. Impossible to miss.
Otto shakes off my hold on his wrist, using his thumbs to wipe away my tears. “Come on.” He takes my hand, leading me into a huge kitchen that overlooks the sprawling yard.
“This isn’t where I pictured you living,” I tell him, glancing around the pristine space.
The counters are a dark marble, the appliances all shiny and seemingly brand-new.
“You have spent time picturing my house?” He rests a hip against the counter, smirking. It doesn’t reach his eyes though. He’s still worried about my reaction to the print.
“Yes.” I perch on one of the stools that line the counter, spinning slowly. “It’s…big.”
From the exterior, it looked large. But it extends back even farther than I realized.
“You say that to me a lot.”
I roll my eyes, but his cocky comment dissipates more of the tension. “Why’d you buy this one?”
He rests his elbows on the counter, leaning closer to me.
“I have a flat in Kluvberg too. I liked being closer to the city and the stadium when I first signed with the club. But as I got older, had more attention on me, I wanted some privacy. Land around, where I could go outside and relax. Did not need the big house, but it came with the property, and I had the money, so…”
I pause spinning, resting my elbows on the counter too. “I saw your press conference.”
He nods, appearing uncertain. “I figured you had not suddenly decided you could not go another day without seeing an FC Kluvberg match.”
“I had no idea the charity game was today,” I admit. “I got on the first flight I could.” I blow out a long breath. “You can’t do it, Otto.”
He holds my gaze. “Of course I can. My contract ends—”
“You shouldn’t do it.”
A muscle in his jaw tics. “It is done.”
“Then undo it and—”
“No.”
I sniff, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. “Don’t do this for me. I know what Kluvberg means to you. Everything in the past few months has been about getting back here. You should be celebrating being cleared, not—”
“Claire”—he reaches out, tucking my hands between his—“there is a reason I did not talk to you about this before I left Boston. I did not mean for you to find out during a press conference—it just sort of came out—but I did want you to find out after it was already decided. For you to know it was real and happening and something you could rely on. Yes, Kluvberg means a lot to me. Too much. I built my entire life around that club. And I do not regret it because it got me to where I am, but there will be a day when I cannot play for them. I will be replaced, or get injured again, or retire. It will end, someway, someday, and I want to decide when and how. And I do not want to live four thousand miles away from you. It is done. We can talk about what it means, but do not try to talk me out of it.”
“You’re going to resent me,” I whisper.
His grip on my hands tightens. “I am not expecting anything, Claire. I want to figure things out, but if you do not want me to try to end up in Boston—”
“Of course I want you to end up in Boston. What I want isn’t the problem. It’s what you want that—”
“This is what I want. I want to prove myself on a new team. I want to stop coming home to an empty house. One of us has to move. I am in a position to; you are not. It is simple.”
“It’s not simple at all, Otto.”
“I was not ready for us in Paris, Claire. I wanted to be, but I was not. I am now.”
“What about your grandfather?”
Otto exhales. “I still have some time left with him. We can discuss… Talk about things we should have talked about years ago. My staying here after he is gone will not change anything.” A small smile appears. “He knows I am moving. He wants to meet you.”
“He does?” I ask, startled and pleased.
“He does.”
We study each other. Him patient and me struggling.
I want so badly to believe him, to accept this.
But it’s surreal. I’ve never allowed myself to believe it might happen.
Me and Otto, real and permanent, never felt like anything approaching a possibility.
I can’t think of a way to match the immensity of this gesture.
To convey what him giving this up for me means.
“I will take the print down,” he tells me.
I blink at him, confused. “What? Why?”
He smiles sadly. “I know you regret parts of Paris. It is a reminder—”
I interrupt him this time. “I don’t regret parts of Paris.
I wish that final had ended differently.
I wish we had ended differently. But you were right—that one missed shot doesn’t define my whole career.
Not the years of work to get to the Olympics or all the practices and games and trainings since.
And us… I wasn’t ready either. I hadn’t finished college.
Hadn’t started my professional career. I would have wondered if every offer or opportunity I got was a way to get to you.
If I’d signed with a German team, I wouldn’t have been in Boston to take care of my mom or gotten to play for the Siege.
Is it all happy memories? No. But I don’t regret any of it.
And I love that you bought the print. It—I—” Emotions threaten to overwhelm me again.
“It makes me feel less weird about wearing your T-shirt for the past six years.”
Otto smiles and straightens, using our clasped hands to pull me off the stool toward the living room.
“Where are we going?” I ask, uncertain.
He didn’t give me a chance to reply to what he said when we were in the stands, and he hasn’t brought it up since.
That was the only thing I came here certain I’d tell him, and I was close to summoning the nerve.
They’re only three words—I just managed four—but I’ve been waiting a long time to say them to him. The perfect moment feels paramount.
“I am showing you my favorite part of the house,” he answers.
“Let me change first,” I say.
I showered and napped at the hotel before the game, but my hair is undoubtedly a mess from the humidity and chaos during the game.
I can’t do anything about the photos that were likely taken when Otto ran off the field, but I can at least brush my teeth and tame my curls now.
Confirm I wasn’t too bleary-eyed to select matching lingerie.
Otto laughs. “Not that. Yet.”
Yet stirs warmth deep in my pelvis. I don’t know how to be around Otto and not want him, and it’s slowly hitting me that I might not have to.
That we might end up in the same place and stay in the same place.
Based on what Coach Taylor said, there’s an excellent chance Beacon FC will make him an offer.
Otto leads me through a side door I didn’t notice, out onto a deck with stairs that lead down to his backyard.
It’s much cooler out now than it was earlier.
Once we reach the grass, I discover his yard extends even farther than I realized.
It’s tranquil, like he said. After seeing the commotion around him earlier, I understand even more why he’d need that escape.
He turns left, and that’s when I see the soccer field tucked behind the garage I’m assuming houses his car collection. It has lines, two goals, flags.
I gape at it. “You have a soccer field in your backyard?”
Logically, I know he’s rich. But I didn’t realize he was private-field rich.
“Football, Caldwell.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re going to have to call it soccer when you play in the States, you know.”
He scoffs, but there’s a smile on his face. “When?”
I glance at the ball by the field, blushing. “Can I try to score on you?”
It’s one thing I never got to attempt when we trained together in Boston. His shoulder wasn’t fully cleared yet. And I got to see him in goal earlier, but that felt very different. This is just us.
“You can try.”
I grin, sprinting toward the ball.
“My last name looks good on you,” he calls after me before jogging toward the goal.
I smile before turning around, appraising the goal like I would during penalty kicks.
There’s a lot of net to aim at. But I’ve never faced Otto before.
He’s the best in the world. Players far more famous than me have tried and failed to get a shot past him.
He shrinks the space around him, somehow, in full command of his surroundings as he watches me. Waiting.
I dribble up the field slowly since I have no defenders to worry about, deliberating about my approach. Pause outside the penalty arc.
“I cannot save it if you do not shoot it,” Otto comments dryly. His voice is casual, but his body is tense, position identical to during the match earlier.
He’s teasing me, but he’s also treating me like a worthy opponent. He pushes me and supports me, and it suddenly becomes impossible to contain what I came all this way to say.
I call out, “I love you!” then plant my left foot and swing my right. It’s a decent shot—moving hard and fast—but I’ve seen Otto make many more challenging stops.
I watch him rather than the ball.
I’ve never been less invested in whether or not a shot lands in the net.
Either way, it’ll feel like winning.