I liked Eliza as soon as we met in her office this morning. She’s exactly as Saylor described—firm and fair. Someone I respect already. And I probably should have disclosed I had a past personal relationship with one of her players, no matter my first impression of her, but I feel extra guilty about failing to do so now.
Nothing about this arrangement is typical. I didn’t apply or interview for the assistant coach position. No one expected me to peruse the Siege roster while I was recovering from surgery in a hospital bed. If I hadn’t kept track of Claire’s career and already known which club she currently played for, I wouldn’t have known she was on the Siege until I landed in Boston.
I no longer can claim any ignorance, but I’ve still yet to mention it. I’m here, committed to working with the team. And what’s there to say really? It’s been six years.
Meg Jackson, the other assistant coach, meets us midway to the field. She shares Eliza’s brisk attitude, her hair cropped short in a no-nonsense style. I get the distinct impression I’m being tested as she asks what coaching experience I have. Rattling off the long list of clinics I’ve participated in seems to mollify her. I name-drop Saylor, too, mentioning we’ve coached together, which seems to improve Meg’s opinion of me even more.
Nicole Green, the head of goalkeeping, is the friendliest face I’ve met yet.
She gushes over my performance in the semifinals of the most recent World Cup, then begins offering Boston recommendations. I nod along, although Will has already sent me a year’s worth of them.
“The path along the Charles is chilly this time of year,” Nicole tells me. “But there’s a beautiful view, and it’s a lot less crowded than it’ll be during the summer.”
I nod. “Good to know. Thanks.”
I don’t mention I’ve already explored it. Or that it was the first place I went. Or why.
No one, not even blunt Eliza, has asked about my shoulder, despite the black sling. I wore a black T-shirt to make it less conspicuous, but my injury’s obvious. My presence here makes it obvious. I should be on Kluvberg’s practice field right now, preparing for Saturday’s match.
Once we reach the field, Eliza runs through the plan for today’s practice. I listen carefully, tensing each time another teal-clad player arrives and starts to stretch, only relaxing when I comprehend it’s not her.
Claire is one of the last arrivals. I don’t have any reference to if that’s typical, but I’d guess not. She’s not a morning person, but she prides herself on being punctual.
I track her in my peripheral vision, watching her smile at one teammate and shove another with a smirk. Her ponytail is higher than it was earlier, the strands barely brushing her shoulders.
She’s gorgeous. And utterly unaware of it, which irritated me before and still does now.
But before, I wasn’t one of her coaches, so I look away before she catches me staring.
I lean against one of the support beams, letting my good shoulder hold all my weight, observing closely as Eliza begins talking. She’s running through the same schedule she already shared with me, so I allow my attention to drift. My eyes flick over the assembled players, attempting to better remember faces now that I’m seeing them in person.
A few make eye contact, glancing away quickly. Some miss my assessment, focused on their head coach. One—Savannah, I think—holds my gaze and winks.
Claire is angled as far left as physically possible. I stare hard at the5on the back of her practice jersey, my jaw tensed tight enough to ache, regretting taking Eliza up on her offer for me to only observe today. If I were the one running through today’s practice plan, she wouldn’t be able to ignore me. Or she couldn’t without being more noticeable about it.
I’m used to attention being aimed at me. But I’ve never been more bothered by the lack of it until today. By her pretending we’re not in the same place.
Or maybe she’s not pretending. Maybe Claire is truly experiencing the indifference I’m striving hard for.
Considering I was too nervous about seeing her to eat breakfast this morning, that possibility doesn’t make me feel any better.
Practice begins a couple of minutes later. The women run through a series of sprints, followed by reps of sit-ups and push-ups. Then split into position-specific drills.
I walk down to one end of the field with Nicole, introducing myself to the goalkeepers—Kristin McKinnon and Daniela Cascarino—before watching them work with Nicole. I offer a few suggestions, which are enthusiastically integrated, but mostly continue to observe. It’s fucking weird, standing right next to a goal, knowing I’m currently incapable of blocking any of the kicks Nicole is aiming at it. She played in college—one local to the Boston area, she shared earlier—joining the Siege staff after the club’s inception last year.
“Any improvements for me?” Nicole jokes as we head back toward midfield.
She’s dragging a bag of footballs, which I offered to help with. She insisted she had it, staring at my shoulder, and I didn’t offer again.
“Nope,” I say lightly, tucking my left hand in one pocket.
“Really?” She lengthens the word, filled with disbelief. “I haven’t played since college, which was…gosh, six years ago.”
“Wouldn’t have guessed,” I lie. Not only would I suggest changes to her footwork, but I also figured she was in her early thirties, not younger than me.
We reach Eliza and Meg, who are passing out pinnies to players for the scrimmage that will end practice. I scan the field, a prick of disappointment appearing when I see Claire already has one on, then resume my same pose by a support post.
Play commences a minute later. A red player, whose name eludes me, sprints up the field, met by a yellow pinnie worn by the one Siege player I can immediately identify.
