I dance back and forth, waiting for Beck to move. Inside my gloves, my palms are slick, but that won’t matter when I reach for the ball.
Beck strikes.
Right, which I predict correctly based on nothing except my gut. He usually goes left first, and he’s trying to test me. He also knows which shoulder I injured, that I’ll possibly be more protective of this side. I pick the correct direction, but it’s a beautiful shot—high and fast and accurate—blasting through the air so fast that I swear I can hear it whistle. I launch toward it, unsure I’ll reach it in time, until it collides with my fist and boomerangs in the opposite direction. There would be a prime rebound opportunity if this were a game, but it’s not.
I twist just in time to hit the ground, the impact with the turf uncomfortable, but no more painful than normal. I didn’t injure—or reinjure—anything.
Then I roll flat on my back, beaming up at the blue sky.
Fuck, that felt good.
Hoots and hollers fill the stadium.
This time, Wagner doesn’t silence my teammates’ cheers.
A dozen people are waiting in the hallway. A mixture of my team and Kluvberg employees. My hair is still damp from the shower I took after practice, the cold air blasting from the vents ruffling the wet strands. I’m run through approved talking points as we make the short trip to the media room. I nod along, not really listening. I’ve never stuck to a script in interviews before, which is probably why I’m the player reporters always want to talk to. Today, the first time I’ve talked to the press since my injury, right before my first match back, is especially juicy.
This year’s charity match was already hotly anticipated since we’re competing against Ludlin. Add in that my medical clearance was leaked already and that I’m participating in a press conference, and it means there’s more attention on this match than most regular season games.
It’s just me, here, even though the entire team assembled for practice earlier.
I can hear the noise inside from down the hallway. It grows exponentially louder as a staff member opens the doors.
I make my way down the side aisle to the front of the room, smiling for the cameras flashing in time with each step. There’s a rush of commotion when I take a seat, and everyone else with one hurries to do the same. It’s standing room only, and even that space has been taken up, people lining the walls of the room.
I twist open the cap of the water bottle set next to the microphone and take a sip from it.
“Too bad more of you couldn’t make it.”
Laughter fills the large room.
“Thank you for being here,” I continue into the microphone. “As some of you might have already heard, I’ve been officially cleared for match play.”
No surprise shows on the faces of the first row of reporters.
“I’ll be back in goal for our upcoming match against Ludlin and for the start of this upcoming season. Any further questions?”
What looks like every hand in the room flies up.
I take another sip of water while a guy wearing a Kluvberg polo calls on a journalist.
He stands eagerly a second later. “I know I speak for the entire city—the entire country really—when I say, welcome home, Otto.”
I smile. “Thanks.”
“Do you anticipate that your active status will be reassessed on a regular basis, or are you certain your shoulder is fully healed?”
“I doubt there’s a doctor in Germany whohasn’tlooked at my shoulder,” I answer, which prompts more laughter. “Not a single one has suggested I won’t be able to perform at the same level. The consistent verdict is, everything healed perfectly. I’d like to take this opportunity to thank the surgical staff at Sankt Marien Krankenhaus for taking such excellent care of me, along with the physical therapists at Mass General and, of course, Kluvberg’s medical team. Injury is a risk for any athlete. But I have no reason to believe my performance moving forward will be affected. In fact, if you ask any of the teammates whose shots I just blocked, they’d probably tell you my shoulder’s better than it was before.”
The journalist who asked the question smiles, jotting something on his notepad.
I answer a series of more questions—inquiring about the rehab process, how I’ve had to adjust my training, what it waslike, returning to Sieg Stadium—before a woman with a neat bun stands. She’s one of the few female reporters in here, probably only a few years older than me.
“There were reports you spent time during your recovery assistant-coaching an American women’s team. The Boston Siege. Is coaching something you’re considering after retirement? Was that a test run?”
I swallow some water before answering, “I did some coaching, yes. And I would consider it again in the future. But I’m not planning to retire anytime soon, so I can’t give you a more definitive answer than that.”
“Did coaching help with your recovery?”
