I lean forward involuntarily, watching them clash, studying the defender’s movements like I’m trying to memorize them.
Claire triumphs over her opponent, stealing the ball and streaking up the field. She passes to another yellow player before she pivots around a red defender. The ball returns to Claire’s foot a few seconds later—she’s the only open player. She takes the shot without hesitating, a beautiful black-and-white bullet that blasts toward its intended target at an impressive trajectory.
I know it’ll land long before Kristin lunges and misses, fighting a smile as the back of the net bulges from the ball’s impact.
To my left, Eliza shouts, “Nice work, Caldwell! Masters, get there faster next time.”
Claire jogs back to position for the kickoff, a brief smile crossing her face as a teammate pretends to bow to her.
Just before she crosses the center circle, her gaze slides from the turf to me.
I’m not expecting the eye contact. By this point, I’ve convinced myself I was the visual equivalent of white noise to her. And I’m definitely not expecting the jolt that travels through my entire body like an invisible lightning strike.
I should smile, offer silent approval and friendliness, but my facial muscles are as frozen as my immobilized arm. It feels wrong to flash a grin like we’re strangers. Even weirder to pretend we parted on good terms or that she’s possibly pleased to see me.
So, for the few seconds our eye contact lasts, I just stare.
And realize why I’ve never been able to watch the ending of that match.
7
CLAIRE
In the five weeks since Cassidy moved back home, she’s only been up before seven a handful of times. I’m not sure this—her sneaking in just after six—should count in theresponsible adultcategory.
But that’s mostly me being bitter that she inherited all the fun, carefree genes in the family. That I’m up early, obsessing over a guy I haven’t seen in six years, while my sister is returning from a date. Based on her messy hair and swollen lips, she and Josh didn’t spend all night discussing “job leads.”
“Jesus, Claire,” Cassidy huffs, doing a double take when she spots me slouched at the kitchen table.
“Morning,” I say mildly, sipping more coffee.
Cassidy groans, grabbing a mug out of the cabinet before taking the chair opposite me and reaching for the pot I brewed an hour ago. She pours a full cup, swallows a hearty sip, and then slumps back in the chair. “Sorry for getting home so late.”
“It’s fine. I saw your text when I woke up. I take it the, uh, evening went well?”
“It was amazing,” Cassidy gushes. “Incredibly romantic. Why did I ever break up with him?”
It’s a rhetorical question, so I don’t offer up the obvious answer.
Cassidy and Josh dated in high school while she was tethered to staying in Arlington. As soon as graduation rolled around and that string snapped, there was nothing that could or would keep Cassidy in town. She has the same wanderlust Mom has, except Cassidy takes it literally while Mom travels to fictional worlds.
“The timing wasn’t right for you guys,” I say reasonably. “And if you’d stayed together, then you wouldn’t have Tommy now.”
“That’s what Josh said,” Cassidy tells me.
Josh was always my favorite of Cassidy’s boyfriends. He’d play soccer with me in the yard and always brought Mom flowers when he came over. I’m relieved, although unsurprised, to hear he still sounds like a more-than-decent guy. This is the happiest I’ve seen my sister in a while. And it would be good for Tommy, who’s getting older and has a shortage of positive male role models, to have a guy around.
I’m impressed by—envious of—Josh’s apparent ability to move past the feckless way Cassidy broke his heart.
Because you can think you’ve moved past someone, forgiven and forgotten, and have it blown to bits by reality.
I’ve known Otto Berger was in Boston for six days, been in the same building as him for hours, and I still have trouble looking at him. Since avoidance hasn’t been helping, I’ve spent most of the past hour reading articles about Kluvberg’s current season, including coverage of the dive that tore Otto’s shoulder and necessitated surgery. There’s a clip that I can’t bring myself to watch, but I read every article recapping the moment, including the official statement FC Kluvberg released, stating their starting goaltender would be out for the remainder of the season. There was no mention anywhere that he’d be recovering in Boston.
The details don’t help. I’m still dreading tomorrow’s practice. The admiring giggles in the locker room. The extra energy required to not only avoid Otto, but also make it appear unintentional.
“Is Mom awake?” Cassidy asks, sipping more coffee.
I shake my head. “She was up late, working.”
