Reyna frowns. “Claire, you’re not a downer. You’re literally the center of this team. Coach Taylor knows it. We all know it. We all want you around. You hold things together.”
More tears threaten to appear. I swallow hard, managing a, “Thanks, Rey.”
“You missed Sav singing karaoke. And we were talking about trying to go to a Kluvberg game this fall, after our season ends. You’ve never been to Germany, right?”
“Right,” I reply right as we reach my room. Fake a yawn, which isn’t hard, considering I’m running on a few hours of sleep. “I’m going to head back to bed.”
“Do you want me to stay with you?” Reyna asks.
I give her a confused look.
“In case you sleepwalk again,” she explains.
Oh.
“I’m fine,” I tell her. “I never sleepwalk twice in the same night.”
I really hope Reyna never researches sleepwalking because my guess is, I’m spouting a lot of inaccurate facts about the disorder.
I pull her into an impulsive hug, squeezing her tight. “Thanks.”
Her forehead creases when we separate. “For what?”
“I’m just lucky to have you as a teammate.”
She smiles. “Back at ya, Caldwell.”
Something occurs to me. “Wait. What wereyoudoing up?”
Reyna blushes. “Uh, I was going to see Daniela.”
My eyes widen. “What about Paige?”
“We broke up back in March.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You had a lot going on with Cassidy. The season was just starting. I didn’t want to talk about it. It’s new, with Daniela. If you could not…”
“I won’t say a word,” I promise.
Reyna exhales. “Thanks. Night, Caldy.”
I flip her off before swiping my room key, her throaty laugh the last sound I register before the door shuts and my smile instantly disappears.
44
OTTO
Landing in Germany is bittersweet. Everything I brought to Boston is with me this time, but I can’t shake the sensation of leaving something behind.
I disembark behind the other passengers, tugging the brim of the ball cap I’m wearing lower as I enter the airport, where the number of looks I’m getting multiplies. The line for customs is long. I sign autographs for two teenage boys while I wait to show my passport, prompting excited exclamations of my name throughout the waiting area. When I travel with Kluvberg, we fly in and out of the private terminal. Until I signed the autographs, most people likely assumed it couldn’t possibly be me.
Finally, I make it outside. The late June air is balmy. It was hot when I left Boston, so it shouldn’t be a surprise, but the contrast from my last trip here is stark. A reminder of how long I was away—the longest stretch I’ve ever left home for. It feels like more than four months have passed. This isn’t how I anticipated my triumphant return—with what’s been deemed a healthy shoulder by a dozen American doctors—would feel like.
I climb into the waiting car, not missing how the driver’s eyes light up when he sees me. I wasn’t forgotten during the second half of last season, like I’d feared. Wasn’t replaced entirely.
Again, it leaves me feeling hollow, not vindicated.
