I pull my phone out as the driver heads toward Kluvberg’s training facility. I have a meeting with Leon Wagner, Kluvberg’s head coach, then an appointment with the team doctor for him to assess my shoulder.
Unsurprisingly, there are a lot of messages. From Beck and Aster and Banks and the rest of my teammates. One from Saylor, inviting me over for dinner next week. A few from numbers I don’t have saved, but the contents make it clear they are from female senders. I block the numbers rather than just delete the texts, send one quick message, then drop my phone on the seat and reach into my pocket.
Despite careful folding, the creased paper is more crumpled than it was before my flight. I should have stored it somewhere else, flat and impenetrable, but I wanted to keep it on me.
I have the message memorized, but I scan the short note just to see her handwriting.
The best is yet to come, Otto. I know Kluvberg knows how lucky they are to have you, and I feel lucky to have had you too. No regrets.
I’ll be cheering you on.
Love,
Claire
There’s a gap between theOandVinlove, like she second-guessed the word halfway through before finishing it.
She snuck out of my hotel room while I was still sleeping. A move that was not entirely unexpected, although it sucked, waking up alone.
Then, at least I knew she was in the same building. The same city. The same country.
Now, we’re on separate continents.
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing directly outside Leon Wagner’s office.
I’m sure about this. I sat in the studio apartment that never really felt like a home for two days after returning from Miami, wrestling with why I was so conflicted about leaving Boston. Thinking and planning and worrying until my brain felt like one of those toy tops, spinning around.
I’ve decided. But it’s still strange as I stare at the Kluvberg crest on the wall, knowing what I’m about to tell the man who’s one of the primary reasons I have any career, let alone an incredibly successful one. Kluvberg bet big on me as a scrappy teenager with no backup plan. The fact that I’ve repaid that investment several times over doesn’t make this any easier.
“Come in,” Wagner’s deep voice rumbles after I knock.
When I appear, he flashes a rare smile. “Otto. It’s good to see you.”
“You too, sir.”
We shake hands, and I notice the approving glance he gives my shoulder as I grip his palm tightly.
We met briefly when I flew home for Opa’s surgery. And I know Wagner has been receiving regular updates from my rehab team in Boston. But we rehash the basics anyway, then go over my training plan for the summer—assuming nothing comes up during today’s assessment—until I can’t hold the announcement in any longer.
“This will be my last season, sir.”
I’ve never witnessed Wagner struck speechless before. He’s a stoic man who takes his job seriously, rarely effusive with praise and pointed with criticism. He’s been my coach for over a decade, and I’ve never witnessed him look so stunned.
He taps the folder that contains my medical records. “There’s no indication that?—”
“This has nothing to do with my injury. And I’m not retiring. I’ve decided to play…elsewhere.”
Confusion edges into anger. “This organization has made you one of the top-paid players in Europe, Berger. I’m aware your contract ends next year, and I can assure you that last season won’t affect any salary negotiations?—”
“I’m not worried you won’t resign me. Or about the money.”
Both arrogant statements. Both true.
Wagner glowers, waiting for me to continue.
This is actually going better than I anticipated. I figured he’d have started yelling by now.
“I’ve decided to move to the States. Play for an American team.”
