“Football, Caldwell.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re going to have to call it soccer when you play in the States, you know.”
He scoffs, but there’s a smile on his face. “When?”
I glance at the ball by the field, blushing. “Can I try to score on you?”
It’s one thing I never got to attempt when we trained together in Boston. His shoulder wasn’t fully cleared yet. And I got to see him in goal earlier, but that felt very different. This is just us.
“You cantry.”
I grin, sprinting toward the ball.
“My last name looks good on you,” he calls after me before jogging toward the goal.
I smile before turning around, appraising the goal like I would during penalty kicks. There’s a lot of net to aim at. But I’ve never faced Otto before. He’s the best in the world. Players far more famous than me have tried and failed to get a shot past him. He shrinks the space around him, somehow, in full command of his surroundings as he watches me. Waiting.
I dribble up the field slowly since I have no defenders to worry about, deliberating about my approach. Pause outside the penalty arc.
“I cannot save it if you do not shoot it,” Otto comments dryly. His voice is casual, but his body is tense, position identical to during the match earlier.
He’s teasing me, but he’s also treating me like a worthy opponent. He pushes me and supports me, and it suddenly becomes impossible to contain what I came all this way to say.
I call out, “I love you!” then plant my left foot and swing my right. It’s a decent shot—moving hard and fast—but I’ve seen Otto make many more challenging stops.
I watch him rather than the ball.
I’ve never been less invested in whether or not a shot lands in the net.
Either way, it’ll feel like winning.
52
OTTO
“This is Tannfeld?”
My fingers clench around the steering wheel, and then I force my grip to relax. “This is Tannfeld,” I confirm.
Claire watches the white church pass by, then glances at me. “We can do this another time,” she says softly.
I shake my head. “No. Now is the right time.”
We’ve spent the past three days in our own private bubble, removed from the rest of the world. No football. No responsibilities. No distractions. We were standing in the stillness, was how Claire described it, cooking dinner in the kitchen last night.
But reality is becoming inescapable. I have a training session tomorrow morning. Claire’s Siege teammates have been blowing up her phone, and she told me Eliza wants to meet with her as soon as she’s back in Boston. Plus, Cassidy wants her help with wedding planning. She’ll have to leave soon, and I’m not sure when we’ll see each other next. We haven’t discussed the logistics of the upcoming year.
That doesn’t scare me. I have full confidence we’ll figure it out.
What I am apprehensive about? Introducing Claire to my grandfather. He’s a separate, unpredictable section of my life I’ve never included anyone in before.
The fact that Opa and I are on better terms than we’ve been in over a decade should make this easier. But it’s the opposite. I don’t want to upset the recent balance between us. I have no precedent for how my grandfather will act around a girlfriend. I’m embarrassed how detached we are, embarrassed Claire will see how detached we are. It took him months to tell me he wasdying. That summarizes the state of our disconnect pretty succinctly.
I can’t go back and change any of the past. All I can do is stop avoiding, and that starts with showing up. Time is never a guarantee—Claire’s as aware of that as I am. I want to ensure this meeting takes place, and I want it to go perfectly when it does.
A few minutes later, I park in the empty driveway, staring at the white cladding and the pitched, red-tiled roof. The closest I have to a childhood home and also the host of my most painful memories. Hazy visits to see Opa with my mom. Endless arguments with my grandfather.
“Is he home?” Claire asks, studying the house too.
