“We had this exact conversation six years ago, and nothing has changed since then. No matter what I decide to do about playing next year, I’ll still be in Boston. My life is here—my momis here. And we both know you’ll get cleared. Your shoulder seemed plenty sturdy when we…you know.”
His “Ha” is half-hearted.
My smile doesn’t last much longer. “You’ll play next season, Otto. Your life will revert to normal. The fact that we’re still…attracted to each other doesn’t change any of that.”
Otto studies me. Not agreeing. Not disagreeing.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket. I suck in a deep breath, like I just emerged from underwater, as I pull it out.
It’s an email. Information about the gala I agreed to attend. The time above the notification serves as a more important reminder—I’m running late to pick up Tommy.
“You have to go?” He sounds resigned.
I swallow, shoving the phone back into my pocket. “Yeah, I… Yeah. I have to pick up Tommy. Can I do—do you need anything else?”
“No. Thank you.” He gestures to the tub. “This is helping.”
“Okay. Good. Bye.”
I flee the steamy bathroom, wishing—just once—a conversation with Otto could end with some closure instead of more confusion.
36
OTTO
With a frustrated huff, I roll out of bed. It’s only five a.m., but I’m sick of staring at the ceiling, and I have to be up in an hour anyway. We’re flying back to Boston today, fresh off a victory against Phoenix last night.
My third-to-last game as part of the Siege. Only two matches remain before the summer break.
The team has won six of their past seven games. Assuming that streak continues when the season resumes in August, they’ll dominate, not just make, the playoffs.
I won’t be here to see it, no matter how much I want to witness the team win a much-deserved championship. I also want—need, according to my contract—to return to Kluvberg.
I’m fucking stuck.
I get dressed quickly, pulling on shorts and a Siege polo shirt. My shoulder doesn’t twinge the entire time. My injury has become an afterthought, not my main focus whenever I need to move my arm, waiting for pain to appear. I will get cleared, I’m certain. Whether or not that translates when I’m in goal will be another story.
I gather my phone, wallet, and room key, shoving them all in my pockets as I head down the hallway. I’m back to running regularly—and early, thanks to the heat that has recently blanketed Boston and is even more oppressive in Arizona.
When I step out of the elevator, I start toward the automatic doors that lead outside. Glance around the lobby out of necessity, not interest, trying to remember the layout, until I spot a familiar head of hair buried in the hands of someone slumped in one of the couches.
I stride over, the flash of alarm unwelcome and unexpected. “Claire?”
She doesn’t move.
“Claire.” I sit beside her, grabbing her knee and squeezing once. “What is wrong?”
It feels like my stomach is being folded inside out as I wait for her to reply. A knot cinches tight inside my chest.
“Is your mom…”
Claire lifts and shakes her head, but the knot doesn’t loosen. “Nothing’s wrong.”
I raise a disbelieving eyebrow.
She blinks rapidly. Sniffs. “My sister’s boyfriend called me last night. He’s planning a trip for them this summer, and Josh wanted to make sure I could watch Tommy before he booked everything.”
She smiles, but it’s a sad one.
