EPILOGUE
CLAIRE
“And we are mere minutes away from the final whistle in this gold-medal match between the United States and Canada. If you’re just joining us, it’s been a grueling tactical battle between these two teams. The stakes of this game aren’t lost on either side. They’re leaving everything on the field. After two stellar first-half goals—Scott for the US and Buchanan for Canada—the score remains tied at 1–1.
“Here comes the US, pushing up the right flank—that’s Robbe leading the charge—but Canada’s holding strong. McGill steals it back. What a resilient back line the Canadians have maintained this entire tournament. Their keeper has only?—
“Wait a minute—the Americans regain possession at midfield. It’s cleared out to—hold on—here comes Claire Berger! Berger pushing forward… She takes a touch—what a kick! From that distance, I don’t think she can—it’s still airborne—IT’S IN! IT’S IN! That’s a good goal by Claire Berger! From THIRTY yards out! The goalkeeper didn’t even move!
“You can hear the cheers from the American fans. It’s absolute chaos on the US bench, celebrating that goal. It shouldseal the gold medal for Team USA. Berger is being mobbed by her teammates! WHAT A GOAL!”
“Caldy,” Mackenzie shouts, nudging my arm with her elbow.
Legally, my last name might have changed, but my Siege teammates have stuck with the same moniker. Everyone on the national team—at least everyone who was on the national team with me in Paris—has followed suit.
“Caldy,” she repeats, elbowing me harder.
I drag my eyes away from the pandemonium surrounding us to glance at her. Odds are, I’ll never win another Olympic match, let alone score a goal during one. I’m determined to be fully present for this moment.
When my gaze meets Mackenzie’s, she smiles and nods toward the sideline. I whirl right, searching faces and running once I find a certain one. My exhausted muscles protest the extra exertion, but my shaky legs carry me to my destination.
Field access is extremely limited, but I’m unsurprised they made an exception for Otto Berger.
He catches me as I literally collapse against his chest, my hamstrings quivering. My head nestles perfectly in the hollow of his throat while his arms band around my back, over the sweaty jersey plastered to my skin. I register the insistentclick, click, clickof the cameras around us, capturing the moment, but I’m too tired and thrilled to care about the invasiveness. Or that I must look a red-faced mess.
I just won a gold medal. And my favorite person was here to witness it.
My favorite people, I should say. My dad and Cassidy and Josh and Tommy and Quinn—my new niece—are all heresomewhere. Lydia texted me last night, saying she was planning to spend the day at Echo Glen with Mom, watching the match on TV.
Otto is the one who trained with me though. Who was my first call when I found out I’d made the final roster again. Who understands what this moment truly means to me.
I’d like to say I always knew we’d be back here. That I always had faith in a second shot.
But I didn’t. I didn’t think I’d make it back here. I didn’t think he’d be here to witness it.
I appreciate it more because of that uncertainty. The doubt makes this moment feel especially significant. Exceptionally precious.
I’m not sure how long we stand like that. It’s easy, around Otto, to let the rest of the world fade to white noise. There must be thousands of spectators staring at us, dozens of cameras aimed in this direction, and I’m only distantly aware we’re not entirely alone.
“I can’t believe we won,” I murmur.
He kisses the top of my head, then pulls back far enough to see my face. The corners of his eyes crinkle as a wide grin stretches the sides of his mouth. “I can.”
“I’m so—” My throat constricts suddenly, making more words a challenge to get out. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Otto’s hands run up and down my back, creasing the5and the letters spelling out his last name. “It took me six years to watch the last final you played in,” he confesses quietly. “Because I knew that I should have already seen it. That I should have been there, in person, to watch it live. If you had decided to retire, I would have supported you. But I am so—” His voice cracks. “So glad I am here too.”
I rise up on my tiptoes—my trembling calves protesting—and kiss him. The clicking around us picks up in frequency. Ourhouse in Cohasset sits on several secluded acres, and most of our time is spent at Echo Glen, the Siege or Beacon practice facilities, or my parents’—now Cassidy, Josh, Tommy, and Quinn’s—house. All private properties, meaning paparazzi shots of us are rare.
I was already breathing heavily from ninety-six minutes of play. But I’m a little smug about how rapid Otto’s inhales are when our mouths separate.
“I would have been here even without working with the Siege, Claire,” he tells me, voice low and earnest as he brushes a wayward strand of hair off my forehead. “Maybe not the making-out-with-my-wife bit, but I would have come to see you play.”
I believe him.
Otto doesn’t let many people in, but once he does? I saw it when he moved to Tannfeld during his grandfather’s final months since Karl didn’t want to leave his home, adding an extra hour to his commute to Sieg Stadium. When he read my mom’s entire backlist so he could talk to her about her novels during our visits, laughing when he got to the title featuring Otto Serger. When he flew back to Kluvberg to watch his former team win their first championship without him. Somehow, during those few weeks in Paris, I had become one of those people he showed up for. He’s proven it over and over again.
“And”—his tone turns teasing, as he’s likely noticed the suspicious sheen I blink rapidly to remove—“I would have at least asked you out to dinner after talking my way onto the field.”
