LOVE ON THE LINE
OTTO
PARIS
Six Years Earlier
“Otto! Otto!”
“There he is!”
“Berger, over here!”
Beck glances at the clamoring crowd as we walk toward the exit. Shakes his head once. Twice when he sees my wide grin.
“Chin up,Kaiser,” I say, nudging his ribs with my elbow. “I’m sure a few of them know who you are too.”
A reluctant smile appears. I’m on a very short list of people who could tease Adler Beck about being irrelevant with a straight face and without getting decked, so I take full advantage whenever I can. I’d be joking around more if I wasn’t partially preoccupied, busy soaking in the surreal realization that most of these people seem to be here to see me. The loudest ones at least because my name is the one I’m hearing shouted the most.
I traveled with Germany’s football team to London for the last Olympics, but I didn’t play. Gregor Nübel, the starting keeper for Ludlin—Kluvberg’s main rival—was in goal for theentire tournament, a solid performance that culminated in a bronze medal for Germany.
Nübel is here, striding a few paces behind me and Beck. Four years later, our roles have reversed. I’m starting; he’s backup.
In my home country, I’ve earned a reputation as the defensive wall behind Beck’s aggressive attacks. He scores; I ensure our opponent doesn’t. FC Kluvberg is currently known as the German club to beat. Our record against Ludlin has been perfect for the past two seasons, which I’m sure factored into my placement on the final roster.
Being the top German goalie isn’t enough. I want more. This is my chance to be consideredthebest, no exceptions.
A young boy, around nine or ten, is pressed up against the temporary fencing that was set up, cordoning off the athlete arrivals from the general public. He doesn’t move as we pass by, despite all the jostling happening around him. He stands firm, clutching a hand-drawn sign. My gaze drops, scanning it, and then I veer right, separating from my teammates.
I’m near enough to watch the boy’s eyes widen as I approach the fence. To hear the creak of metal as the crowd realizes what’s happening and presses closer before loud voices drown the protesting barrier out.
“Hi,” I say to the boy. “I like your poster.”
“T-t-thanks,” he stutters.
I smile, attempting to put him at ease. “What’s your name?”
His eyes widen. “P-Pierre.”
“Want me to sign that for you, Pierre?” I ask, nodding to the poster he’s gripping tight.
He nods eagerly, so I grab a marker offered from someone in the crowd, saying, “Merci,” since we’re in France. I scrawl my autograph in one corner of the paper poster, handing it back to Pierre with a grin. “There you go.”
Pierre stares at my signature with an awed look on his face. I barely hear his thanks over the rising volume of the crowd, everyone trying to catch my attention next. We weren’t told not to stop, but it wasn’t expected that any players would. This isn’t a presser or a planned appearance, just the last leg of our trip to Paris.
Several security guards have rushed over from other posts, trying to maintain order as I move along the line, shaking hands and signing more posters and posing for photos. Everyone seems to know who I am, even those not wearing or holding Deutschland memorabilia.
It’s bizarre, being on this side of the barricade. I remember being the kid, praying his favorite player would stop. I’m not accustomed to being the one with the power to grant that wish. To that favorite player being me.
And as I reach the end of the line and continue after my teammates, I’m even more determined to be worthy of that worship. To be a gold medalist the next time I walk through this airport.
1
OTTO
Everything is gray. The clouds. The seat in front of me. The sweatpants I threw on early this morning, stained by a single drop of coffee that splashed mid-thigh.
My mood.
