And now, I’m not even sure Icanleave. There might have been no point in telling Wagner or Beck a thing if leaving Kluvberg next year will also mean abandoning my grandfather when he needs me most.
“How long?”
“Six months.”
I glance down, blinking rapidly, absorbing the impact of another hit. My grandfather just told me he’ll be dead in lessthan a year, and I can’t even look him in the eye. I’m so swamped in regret and anger and uncertainty that it feels like drowning. I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
“Otto.” Opa grips my shoulder, his hold surprisingly strong.
I sniff, rubbing a palm across my face. There’s hardly anyone around. The nearby vineyard that attracts tourists is on the opposite end of town, and it’s not a Sunday that draws locals to this location. But I feel on display anyway. Out in the open, during one of the moments I feel most vulnerable and most alone.
I lift my head, finally meeting his gaze. “And you decided to tell me this at acemetery?”
Opa nods. “I wanted to show you where I’m moving.”
I stare at him.
One corner of my grandfather’s mouth lifts. Mila often comments how funny Opa is, and I’ve rarely seen any evidence of it. We’re not comfortable enough around each other to joke around. But I guess I inherited the playful part of my personality somewhere after all.
“You’ll get everything, of course. It’s not much, but?—”
“Stop it,” I say. “Just…stop.”
“We need to discuss it.”
While there’s still time, he means. Before there’s no time left. Because, in some contexts, six months is a long while. But in others, like our relationship, it’s an average amount of time for us not to see each other.
“I know. I’ll come back soon, and we can talk about it. Not…now.”
I expect him to argue—he normally does—but today, he nods.
“Okay.” His hand drops from my shoulder as he turns back toward the street, appearing ready to head back to his house.
Suddenly, I’m scared to. I don’t want to revert to the heaviness that house contains. None of the memories there are particularly happy ones.
“I’m moving too,” I blurt.
My grandfather turns back to face me, a quizzical frown on his face as he says, “Where?”
“Boston, hopefully. The details are still—I’m under contract with Kluvberg for another season. It won’t be…before.”
“Can I meet her?”
When I aim a questioning look his way, Opa has the temerity to roll his eyes at me.
“I know how you feel about that club. Only a woman could have prompted such a major change.” He glances at the graveyard. “I was the same way about my Ella.”
Opa mentions his late wife even less often than my mom. She died during a rare complication following childbirth, and it occurred to me, years after she passed away, that my mom’s death must have felt like losing all he had left of his wife. And also like history repeating itself, leaving him with a child and a whole lot of grief for the second time in his life.
“I’d love for you to meet her,” I say.
Opa nods like the matter is settled. I don’t mention, as we walk the blocks back toward his neighborhood, that my future is far less firm than I made it sound. Not only have I not told Claire that I intend to swap leagues, but I have nothing certain to tell her. I can’t guarantee I’ll wind up in Boston or anywhere close to Massachusetts—only that I’ll be closer than Germany.
My grandfather has enough on his mind without me burdening him with the details.
When I first started playing professionally, retirement was the furthest thing from my mind. Now, I’ve realized that day will come, and I might not be able to pick it. If believing I havesomething—someone—in my life aside from football will offer him some peace, then I fully intend to give that to him.
Halfway back to Opa’s, a young boy—probably about ten—runs out of his front yard with my jersey in hand. I talk with him for a few minutes before signing the shirt with the marker he shyly offered.
