Chapter 52 Otto
OTTO
“This is Tannfeld?”
My fingers clench around the steering wheel, and then I force my grip to relax. “This is Tannfeld,” I confirm.
Claire watches the white church pass by, then glances at me. “We can do this another time,” she says softly.
I shake my head. “No. Now is the right time.”
We’ve spent the past three days in our own private bubble, removed from the rest of the world. No football. No responsibilities. No distractions. We were standing in the stillness, was how Claire described it, cooking dinner in the kitchen last night.
But reality is becoming inescapable. I have a training session tomorrow morning.
Claire’s Siege teammates have been blowing up her phone, and she told me Eliza wants to meet with her as soon as she’s back in Boston.
Plus, Cassidy wants her help with wedding planning.
She’ll have to leave soon, and I’m not sure when we’ll see each other next.
We haven’t discussed the logistics of the upcoming year.
That doesn’t scare me. I have full confidence we’ll figure it out.
What I am apprehensive about? Introducing Claire to my grandfather. He’s a separate, unpredictable section of my life I’ve never included anyone in before.
The fact that Opa and I are on better terms than we’ve been in over a decade should make this easier.
But it’s the opposite. I don’t want to upset the recent balance between us.
I have no precedent for how my grandfather will act around a girlfriend.
I’m embarrassed how detached we are, embarrassed Claire will see how detached we are.
It took him months to tell me he was dying.
That summarizes the state of our disconnect pretty succinctly.
I can’t go back and change any of the past. All I can do is stop avoiding, and that starts with showing up. Time is never a guarantee—Claire’s as aware of that as I am. I want to ensure this meeting takes place, and I want it to go perfectly when it does.
A few minutes later, I park in the empty driveway, staring at the white cladding and the pitched, red-tiled roof. The closest I have to a childhood home and also the host of my most painful memories. Hazy visits to see Opa with my mom. Endless arguments with my grandfather.
“Is he home?” Claire asks, studying the house too.
I nod. “He stopped driving a few years ago.”
Claire reaches into the back seat, grabbing a wrapped rectangle.
She wanted to bring Opa a gift, so we stopped at a bookstore on the drive here.
I suggested she get one of her mom’s novels.
Mystery isn’t Opa’s usual genre, but I think he’ll appreciate the personal connection.
And if he doesn’t, then he’d better pull out some of the manners that are normally nonexistent during my visits rather than say so.
We walk toward the front door, hand in hand. Claire swings our clasped palms back and forth playfully, and my mouth curves up in a reluctant smile. She can tell I’m nervous, and I love her for attempting to alleviate my anxiety.
I knock using my left hand so I don’t have to drop hers.
Only a couple of seconds pass before the door opens, which surprises me. Opa usually takes a minute or two to lumber over to the door, even on the occasions he knew I was coming.
“Good morning,” he greets.
I blink at his appearance. I was braced for his illness to be more visible—prepared for gaunt cheeks and baggy clothes. But he’s clean-shaven, his hair neatly combed. Dressed like he’s headed to Sunday church, although today is a Wednesday. No cane in sight.
“You must be Claire,” Opa continues, not waiting for me to make any introductions.
“I am,” she confirms, tucking the book under one arm and reaching for his offered hand. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Berger.”
“Call me Karl, please.”
He likes her. I sense it immediately, from the second they shake hands, the certainty expanding when we enter the living room and Claire compliments Opa’s overflowing bookshelves.
After unwrapping her gift, he listens raptly to Claire’s summary of her mom’s book.
I think he’ll actually read it, despite the fact that he prefers nonfiction.
And he’s prepared tea—an herbal blend he says Mila brings him.
When I duck down the front hall to use the bathroom, I check the liquor cabinet.
It’s empty, causing a contrary spasm of comfort and fury in my chest. Why couldn’t all of this have happened sooner?
I should have driven him to doctor’s appointments myself rather than trusting that he was looking after his health.
Should have dumped this cabinet as many times as it took, shipped him to rehab until it stuck.
I was worried, if I did, that would be the end of any goodwill between us.
Opa is proud, and he values his independence.
All the assistance I offered, I never forced him to take any of it.
I left the decisions up to him, same as I wished he’d allowed me to do.
He didn’t let me choose football; he had no other choice but to accept I’d signed a contract.
Claire and Opa are bent over a book I’ve never seen before as I return to the living room. It’s twice the size of his normal novels.
I don’t quite understand the look on my grandfather’s face when he glances up and sees me in the doorway. It’s part strain, part peace.
“I’m going to grab a glass of water,” Claire says, standing. “Can I get you anything, Karl?”
“All set,” he replies. “Thank you.”
Claire passes by, giving my arm a quick squeeze before she continues toward the kitchen.
I take her spot on the couch, peering over the open page.
They’re newspaper clippings. Old newspaper clippings, the trimmed edges yellowed with age.
And they’re all about me. Signing with Kluvberg, my first match, World Cups, championships, London Olympics.
I flip through a few pages slowly, scanning each bolded headline.
Opa reads the paper every morning. But I’ve never seen him so much as skim the Sports section, let alone take the time to cut out every article that mentioned me. It must have taken him hours—dozens of hours—to do all this.
“I was planning to give this to you when you retired, but…” He clears his throat, both of us uncomfortably aware of why he can’t wait. “I thought Claire could take it over for me.”
I nod. Sniff, swiping one palm across my eyes while my other hand continues flipping.
“Football won’t last forever.” Something he’s told me many times before, and I always took it as an insult. Maybe it was always a well-intentioned warning. Cautionary advice.
My career could have concluded with that dive, and I was wholly unprepared for that to take place. Arrogantly assuming I’d be the one to decide when my athletic career ended.
“This will,” he adds, nodding to the book.
I nod again. I don’t know what to say—my emotions are too chaotic. Even if the perfect words appeared, there’s a massive lump in my throat blocking them from exiting. I can’t say anything.
“Your mother trusted me to take care of you, Otto, and I felt like I kept failing her. I didn’t know anything about football.
I had no idea how to help, how to advise you.
I wanted you to follow a path I knew I could guide you along.
By the time I accepted you were doing just fine—more than fine—on your own, it was too late.
You weren’t coming back on breaks anymore, and I knew you resented how I’d reacted.
The company folded, and I lost my purpose all over again.
By the time I got to a better place, you were farther away than ever. ”
“I’m sorry,” I say thickly.
“Don’t be.” He taps an article titled “Gloves of Glory: How Otto Berger is Redefining Reaction Time” from the Paris Olympics.
“I wish you’d had my support, but you should be proud you never needed it.
Your mother would be proud too. I wanted you to have all of these to look back on one day, to see everything you accomplished.
To show my great-grandkids, if you and Claire have any. ”
My laugh is watery. “We haven’t talked about kids. Marriage hasn’t even come up yet.”
Technically, we’ve been together less than a week, though that really doesn’t encapsulate our history. I’m expecting those conversations will come up soon.
“Well, when you’re ready.” Opa opens the cigar box that’s always sat on the table next to his favorite chair. He used to smoke regularly, before I moved in with him. The cloves scent still clings to some of the furniture.
When his hand reappears, there’s a small velvet box inside.
I know what it is, even before he casts a furtive look at the doorway.
Claire’s been gone for a lot longer than the time it takes to pour a glass of water, and I’m certain it’s on purpose.
That she’s gifting us this time alone, lending silent support.
“It was Ella’s,” he tells me, passing the box. “I know your grandmother would have wanted you to have it. To give it to Claire, if you’d like.”
I flip the lid open, studying the diamond ring.
My grandparents got married young. They grew up together, in this town, a neighbor once told me.
Opa rarely talks about his late wife. Even now, nearly fifty years after her death, I can see the sadness in his expression.
A football field is where I’ve spent most Sundays, but that doesn’t prevent me from hoping there’s some reunion ahead for them. That death isn’t a final parting.
I shut the box and stand, words still hard to summon.
Opa stands, too, without needing any assistance.
I can’t decide if it makes it better or worse—that he appears perfectly healthy.
It makes what’s coming harder to accept.
But I’m glad that he’s still well enough to move around with assistance.
That his grip is firm as we shake hands and as we share a quick embrace.
It’s not as awkward as I expected, considering we haven’t hugged since I was a kid.
“I’m proud of you, boy,” he tells me.
I swear under my breath, spotting the crowd gathered ahead.
I’m guessing Saylor, Beck, Sophia, and Will have already arrived.
We’re running late since traffic heading into the city was especially slow.
Claire and I spent twice as long in Tannfeld as I had expected to.
We walked to the white church, stopping under the oak tree, where my mom and grandmother were buried.
Went to a gasthaus in town for lunch and stayed at his house until Mila stopped by in the afternoon with groceries for Opa.
It was a good day. A great day. And I refuse to let a horde of press and fans detract from it, even though I’m more irritated by the paparazzi than I’ve ever been before.
I went from basking in the attention as a teenager to adjusting to it as an adult, and I also became accustomed to a certain absence of it in Boston.
In Kluvberg, interest in me is at an all-time high.
It would have been anyway, probably, coming back from my injury.
The press conference and the scene I made in the stands only fanned the flames.
And it’s not just me under scrutiny anymore.
I glance at Claire, who’s already spotted the clamoring in front of our destination. She’s smiling, which is a relief. After everything we’ve been through, I didn’t think some nosy reporters would scare her off. But I know it’s an adjustment.
I pull up to the valet stand, climbing out and tossing the keys to a wide-eyed guy who looks to be in his early twenties.
Having Sophia choose the restaurant tonight was probably a mistake. She has a tendency to select trendy, popular places that attract attention. And patrons who follow football and care about three FC Kluvberg players appearing.
I round the front of the car, pulling open Claire’s door and offering her a hand. The flashes come even faster once she’s out of the car.
“Holy shit,” she murmurs as I shut the door and pull her tight to my side.
A pathway has been cleared to the entrance of the restaurant, but it’s lined with people snapping photos on their phones. White spots dance across my vision as we walk into the building.
I glance at Claire. “You okay?”
She nods, taking my hand as we follow a hostess over to a corner table.
Saylor jumps up first, flinging her arms around Claire, forcing me to drop her hand, and essentially ignoring me. I roll my eyes as I greet Beck and Will, then hug Sophia.
When Saylor finally releases my girlfriend, I hug her too. I also whisper, “Thank you.”
I assumed—and Beck confirmed—that Saylor was the one who had gotten Claire into the stadium for the charity match.
“You’re welcome,” she tells me, smirking. Then her smile fades, expression shifting to serious. “I’m really glad I got to be a part of your love story, like you got to be a part of mine and Beck’s.”
I manage a nod, words slippery again. My emotions are still raw from my conversation with Opa earlier, especially now that I’m in the midst of people who have served as my family on the days it felt like I had none.
Everyone takes their seats, and a waiter comes over to take our orders. I’ve had a lot of dinners with these four people, but this one feels entirely different.
We don’t discuss football as we eat, drink, and talk, even though it’s what the five of us have in common. We talk about Gigi, who’s starting to show an interest in football, to her parents’ delight. About Will and Sophia’s upcoming wedding.
And my friends pelt Claire with questions. She and Will bond over Boston.
Midway through the meal, it occurs to me that I’m no longer unsure of what my life post-retirement will look like.
Whether I play in Boston—my agent assured me Beacon FC is very interested in signing me—for one year or ten, whether it’s a conscious choice or because of an injury I can’t rehab, it won’t be the sinkhole that swallowed me after my shoulder tore.
It will be hard. Will be an ending.
But it’ll be a beginning, too, the same way right now feels like one.