My current contract expires at the end of this season. I was considering retiring anyway.
“Have you heard of the EmpowerEd Foundation, Claire?”
I blink at Eloise. “Uh, no.”
She nods. “They’re an education initiative, partnering with local public schools to create scholarship opportunities for underserved youth in the Boston area.”
“That’s…great,” I manage, feeling like I just jumped off a merry-go-round.
This meeting has nothing to do with my personal life, it seems, and I’m so relieved that it’s taking effort to not slump out of this chair and exhale a massive sigh.
“EmpowerEd is being honored at the Boston Sports Foundation’s annual gala, which serves as a fundraiser for some of the scholarships they offer. This year, they’re announcing a new scholarship exclusively for female athletes. The foundation asked me to select a Siege player to make the announcement at the gala, and I immediately thought of you.”
“Me?”
Eloise nods, smiling. “You’re an integral part of this club, Claire. I hope you know that. Plus, with your connections to this city, I couldn’t think of a better person to represent this organization publicly.”
Shedefinitelyhas no idea about me and Otto then. I don’t feel like much of a role model at the moment.
I glance at Coach Taylor. She’s smiling too—a rare sight.
“I-I’d love to,” I tell their expectant expressions.
“Perfect.” Eloise stands. “The gala is two weeks from this Saturday. I’ll have my office send you the details, as well as the relevant talking points for your speech.”
The mention of a speech stirs some anxiety. The last public speaking I did was presenting my senior thesis in college. But I’m still swimming in relief that this meeting wasn’t Otto-relatedin any way, so the apprehension is easy to shove away for the time being.
“Sounds good. Thank you, Eloise.”
“Thankyou, Claire.” One final firm handshake, and Eloise is gone.
“Something else you wanted to discuss, Caldwell?” Coach Taylor asks, grabbing a black binder off the shelf behind her desk.
I startle from stillness, shaking my head. “No, Coach. Thanks.”
“See you tomorrow.”
I nod, then head into the hallway. My teammates are all gone, so I walk to the parking lot solo. Toss my equipment bag into the trunk and sink into the driver’s seat, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel.
I don’t want to do this. But I need to. I took the easy way out the other night, and I need to grow up. Still, I second-guess this decision the entire drive to Otto’s apartment. Right up until I knock on his door.
No answer.
I guess he’s not home. Maybe he’s still at his doctor’s appointment?
I turn to leave, but only manage three steps down the hallway before the door opens.
When I glance back, Otto is standing in the doorway. The knuckles of his left hand are stark white against the dark wood frame. “Hey,” he croaks, looking absolutely awful. Pale and exhausted.
I don’t remember moving, but I’m in front of his door again. “You’re—what’s wrong?”
Otto rubs at his forehead with his free hand. “Migraine,” he finally mutters.
I frown.
At Lincoln, I had a roommate, Ramona, who had episodic migraines. Once a month, sometimes more often, she’d lock herself in her dark room for hours. Days sometimes. She tried medication, diet changes, been to dozens of specialists. Nothing helped.
Is that something Otto’s been dealing with? It feels like something I should know, even though I can’t come up with a logical reason why I would. He never had one in Paris. Or if he did, he never told me.
