And I was banking on the US winning. I thought it’d be easy to revisit the topic of us during the high of a victory. That plan was just shot to hell.
I don’t even know when she’s leaving. I never asked.
I lean my head back against the wall, surveying the empty locker room surrounding me.
One thing I simultaneously love and hate about being a goalie: it’s isolating. Every other position on the pitch has duplicates. Standing in goal, it’s just me. Maybe that’s why, off the field, I’ve always surrounded myself with lots of people—to counteract that on-the-field seclusion.
This—right now—is the most alone I’ve ever felt. I don’t want to talk to anyone about Claire. I want to talk to Claire.
But I doubt she wants to talk to me. I don’t know what I’d say if we did talk. No magical solution appeared as I lay awake in bed last night, listening to Leroy Wirtz snore.
Losing sucks. There’s no way to sugarcoat that. You sit with it, let the sting wear off some, learn what you can from it, and pick up and prepare for the next match. But with the Olympics, that isn’t for four fucking years. It’s a mountain ahead, of training and selection, just to get back to this point, and then the rounds of wins required to make it back to a final.
“Berger.” Wagner walks into the locker room with one of the trainers, studying me with visible concern.
I don’t normally hang out in here, alone. And there’s definitely not a smile on my face.
Wagner says something to the trainer, dismissing him, then walks over to me. “Is something wrong?” he asks.
I could tell Kluvberg’s head coach—Germany’s head coach—that it feels like someone is carving a cavity in my chest. That it feels like something important is slipping through my fingers, and I don’t know how to stop it from happening.
“I’m fine, Coach.”
He studies me for a few seconds. “It’s normal to have nerves before a big match.”
“I’m not nervous.”
I’m not. I’m devastated and conflicted, but I’m not nervous about tomorrow. My focus on the pitch has always been an immovable object. It’s lonely, blocking everything else out, but I’m fucking good at it. It’s just me and the goal out there. Everything is within my control.
He nods. “Good.”
When he’s halfway to the door, I call after him, “Are you married, Coach?”
Wagner pauses, and I prepare for him to tell me to mind my own business.
Instead, he sighs. “I was.”
“What happened?”
“I had to choose between being a good husband and a good coach.”
“Do you—do you regret it?”
“Depends on the day. Rest up, Berger.”
He leaves, and I resume staring at the text she never responded to.
39
OTTO
There’s a tiny balcony off the living room of my apartment. I head out there with my laptop and a glass of water, still sweating from what’s become a daily run along the Charles River. I haven’t seen Claire there since the frigid morning we ran into each other. I’ve kept my distance as much as possible since the afternoon she came over here.
Only two games remain on the Siege calendar before the summer break—one home this weekend, one away next weekend—and then my commitment to the team will have officially ended.
I still haven’t booked a return ticket, but that’s not what I’m doing now. I swallow a large sip of water, nearly draining the glass, and then navigate to my Bookmarks. Lean back in the small chair that matches the small table, both barely fitting out here, and watch as the video begins to play.
My unease mounts as the minutes tick up, same as always. My hands clench into fists as I hear, “And what a moment for Claire Caldwell, who’s subbing in for Sierra Sanders. Caldwell, out of Boston, has had very little playing time during theseGames. She’s one of the youngest players on the team. Only one cap earned in her entire career.”
