Movement catches my eye. Tommy’s emerging from the tent, rubbing his eyes, looking around for me.
“I’ve got to go,” I say. “Tommy just woke up. Fingers crossed he’s ready to head inside and sleep on an actual mattress.”
I could call him back, but I don’t offer, and Otto doesn’t ask. He saved my number, I’m realizing, and I’m terrified by how much that matters to me. More evidence that I was wrong—that he didn’t forget about me as fast as I’d feared. Maybe he never forgot about me at all.
He replies, “Okay,” acknowledging that he heard me.
“I—bye, Otto.”
“Bye, Claire.”
I’m glad Tommy is waiting for me. Otherwise, I know I would sit there, staring at the sky, for a while.
48
OTTO
The sun beams down on Sieg Stadium, bright and relentless. My palms are damp inside the gloves, my jersey wet with sweat. I clench and unclench my fists, waiting for the first kick as I study the line of my teammates. They’re not all on the field, but they’re all here. On the sidelines, sprawled in the shade of the bench. Watching. Waiting. Wondering.
The stakes are highest for me. But they exist for the entire team. If I’m not up to the task, my speeches to Wagner and Beck won’t matter. Kluvberg won’t want me anyway.
“Go, Pires!” Wagner calls out.
Olivier nods. Plants a cleat and kicks.
I read left correctly. I dive low, extending my arm, punching the ball clear from the open net. My left shoulder slams to the ground, but there’s no sharp stab after. There’s no twinge in my healed right either as I push upright and stand, rotating my arms.
I glance at Beck first. He’s grinning.
Wagner right after. He nods, the relief clear on his face.
“Attaboy, Berger,” Aster calls out.
I don’t allow any emotions to soak in. One save is nothing impressive for me. I still have more shots to block. Including attempts by Beck and Will, who are considered to be two of the best players in the world.
Friedrich Schneider is up next, his usual cocky smirk in place. Some of his bluster is earned. He’s not always accurate, but he’s fast. He also opts for a stutter step before taking his shot to the right. I hesitate for a split second longer than I did with Olivier, and it almost costs me. My fingertips barely graze the edge of the ball, but it’s enough to send it spinning harmlessly to the side.
“Aster!” Wagner shouts.
Will walks toward the ball, no sign of teasing on his face now. He won’t take it easy on me. He’s still trying to prove himself to the club, and the entire point of this exercise is testing what shape my shoulder is in.
Sure enough, Aster fakes high, then kicks low. I guess left, and he aims right, but my foot reaches the ball in time.
Applause starts on the sidelines, quickly silenced by a sharp glare from Wagner.
I want to smile, but I don’t. Assurance is spreading through me, steady and slow and sure. I’m fine. I’m better than fine.
It’s still too soon to celebrate though.
Beck is stepping up last, and I know he’ll be the toughest opponent. Not only because of who he is, but because we know each other so well. We’ve played together for the past eleven years. He used to pull me out on this field, under the guise of practicing his penalty kicks so he could coach me on improving. It’s the only reason I witnessed the moment he met his future wife. And it feels like all that history is stuffed in this stadium now as we stare at each other, facing off.
He wants this triumphant return for me, knows that temporarily losing football was as devastating for me as it would have been for him.
But he wants a goal more. His ability to focus on his own performance first is what makes him such a dominant athlete.
I’m drenched with sweat and flooded with adrenaline.
There is nothing—nothing—like facing down a penalty kick. There’s no distraction of other players. Just me, the net, and an incoming shot. No clues in the form of angles or approach to guess which direction the ball will go in. No defenders running interference.
