“I’m good,” I promise, then drain the rest of my coffee to wash away the bitter taste of the partial lie.
This is, in my opinion, the worst part of being on a team. And of working with people you genuinely consider friends. All the typical boundaries between personal and professional are erased when you travel and sweat and commiserate with each other.
More players filter in. Tasha teases me for sitting in the back row, knowing exactly why I chose it, before taking the seat in front of mine.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to squint at the screen. Probably Cassidy, asking me to pick up Tommy. She has another interview today. At least I’ll be finished with practice with plenty of time to pick him up on schedule.
It’s not my sister; it’s my dad.
Heartbeats thunder in my ears as I stare at the preview line of his message.
Mark Caldwell:We need to talk about …
I bite the inside of my cheek, torn between curiosity and contempt as I wonder what he could possibly want to talk about. My father and I have the dictionary definition of a strained relationship. In addition to the house, Mom got me in the divorce.
“Caldy,” Mallory hisses, elbowing my ribs. “Caldy.”
I drop my phone in my lap and glance at her. “Huh? What?”
“He’s here.” The whisper is so low that I practically have to read her lips.
“Who? Oh.” I glance toward the front of the theater, registering that she must mean the new assistant coach. There’s no otherhehere.
I spot Coach Taylor first. She’s busy unpacking a couple of thick binders onto the table beneath the screen. To her right, ablond man nods in response to what she’s saying to him. He’s unexpectedly tall—well over six feet—surprisingly young, and oddly…familiar.
His head turns to watch Grace and Maddie sneak into two remaining seats in the front row, revealing more than his profile, and realization dawns with rising urgency as I get my first clear glimpse of his face.
No.
I’m numb, no longer aware of the solid surface I’m sitting on. I’m floating somewhere above the three rows of seats, stuck in a state of utter disbelief. The surrounding room spins, then stands eerily and entirely still.
Nothing about the scene in front of me has changed.
No, no, no, no,no.
He looks different yet the same. Hair longer and a shade darker. Harder, expression serious instead of smiling, the edge of his jaw a straight angle, and his posture perfect. He takes up so much space; maybe that’s why I can’t seem to suck in enough air.
And the biggest change? He’s not a photo on my phone screen or a face in my dreams.
Distantly, I register the prick of pain as my fingers curl into tight fists, nails creating crescents on my palms. No matter how rapidly I blink, he refuses to disappear.
“Do you know who thatis?” Reyna says quietly.
She’s not actually asking. It’s a reverent, rhetorical question she already knows the answer to. Spoken in an admiring tone, echoed in the awed mutters around us.
Nothing was announced about who would be replacing Coach Willis. Most—I—assumed the replacement would be a former college coach or a recently retired player. Someone who would, at best, meld well with the team and, at worst, fill a spot on the sidelines.
A nonevent.
Nothim.
Otto Berger is widely considered to be one of the best goaltenders to ever set foot on a field. Legendary to anyone with more than a superficial knowledge of the sport he calls football.
Everyone in this room already knows who he is.
What they don’t know? He broke my heart.
5
