Yet I suddenly can’t breathe, imagining Claire being sick in any way. It’s the awful moment of her hitting the ground, before knowing she was okay, all over again.
“I don’t know all the details. There are certain tests they can do, but I decided I don’t want to know. There’s no cure. Nothing they can do either way. Figured another language would be a fun challenge.” Her voice has changed, injected with fake cheerfulness.
She doesn’t want to discuss this anymore, I can tell.
I’m still reeling.
I don’t just care about Claire; I’m in love with her. I think I knew when she went down on the field, but it was washed away with the relief of her being fine. I didn’t have to confront the possibility that she wouldn’t be. Didn’t have to consider what it would be like to live in a world where she didn’t also exist.
Loss has a devastating way of putting things in perspective. I appreciated football all over again as soon as I found out I could be done. I discovered what being in love felt like by losing it.
And I’m about to lose it again.
Claire’s finished fixing her appearance. She’s grabbing her phone and bag, setting her water glass down by the sink. Heading for the door.
I trail after her like a lost puppy. “Why German?” I finally ask.
She stiffens, reaching for the door handle, so I know she heard me.
But all she says before leaving is, “Bye, Otto.”
35
CLAIRE
Coach Taylor greets me in her usual no-nonsense manner, then tells me we’re waiting on Eloise Knight, the Siege’s general manager.
My stomach, already stuffed with wriggling nerves, performs a cartwheel. I rub the coin in my pocket, trying to calm my racing pulse.
Otto wasn’t at practice today. Coach Taylor said he had a doctor’s appointment, which I took as a stroke of luck that allowed me to avoid him a little longer. I’m now spiraling over the possibility that was a lie.
What if theyknow? What if I get traded to another team and it’s impossible to visit Mom weekly? What if this is how my career ends—decades of literal blood, sweat, and tears diminished to a shitty kick in Paris and an illicit affair with an authority figure?
I’ve never blamed Otto for that failed attempt—not directly. I’ve blamed myself for being distracted. And I’m distracted again.
“What’s this about?” I ask tentatively.
Coach Taylor doesn’t look up from the sheaf of papers she’s rifling through as she answers, “Let’s wait for Eloise. I know she wanted to deliver the news personally.”
“Okay,” I say weakly, relieved by Coach Taylor’s distraction. I don’t think I’m doing a good job of keeping the apprehension—the guilt—off my face.
I rub my damp palms against my practice shorts, wishing the mesh were more absorbent.
I’m staring at the framed diplomas on the wall, busy assembling excuses in my head. If someone took a photo of me leaving Otto’s apartment, there’s no proof anything scandalous happened. Was it bad judgment to go to a coach’s home? Yes, but I can tell them I went to see Saylor. I don’t want to involve her, but I will to save my job. She can explain why I was there.
The door to Coach Taylor’s office opens.
I jump to my feet, propelled by nerves and grateful to have an excuse to move.
Eloise Knight steps inside, wearing a linen pantsuit and a serene expression. I’ve only met the Siege’s general manager a handful of times before, and I’m as intimidated now as I was then. She’s petite—even in heels—polished, and has the presence of someone important. If I wasn’t seventy percent certain she was here to discipline me, I’d appreciate being part of an organization helmed by such badass women.
“Hello, Claire,” she says, holding a manicured hand out for me to shake.
“Hi, Ms. Knight,” I reply quickly, holding her hand a beat too long before I drop mine to discreetly wipe it on my shorts again.
“Eloise, please. Take a seat.” She gestures toward the chair I just leaped out of as she gracefully perches on the matching one angled toward Coach Taylor’s desk.
Eloise and Coach Taylor exchange pleasantries as I sit silently, saying,It’ll be okay,on repeat in my head.
