Tommy runs into the kitchen and barrels toward Cassidy, throwing his arms around her.
“Morning, my bug,” she says, kissing the top of his curls. “How did you sleep?”
“Good. Aunt Claire made me waffles for breakfast. I ate them in my room while playing with dinosaurs!”
Tommy beams at me. I wink at him.
“That sounds awesome, bud,” Cassidy says, setting him down. To me, she mouths,Thank you.
Tommy’s cheerful chatter chases away the tension lingering in the kitchen.
But it’ll be back.
8
OTTO
My office is clean, neat, and practically empty. Tucked in a corner at the end of a long hallway, on the back side of the facility, overlooking the outdoor practice field.
Despite the temporary nature of this arrangement, the engraved nameplate next to the door has my name on it. SeeingCoach Bergerwritten in neat block letters is as strange as hearing it spoken aloud has been.
Today marks the start of my second week with the Siege, but it feels like it’s been longer. Late June—my tentative return date—feels years into the future. I keep waking up in the middle of the night, squinting at strange surroundings and cursing the constriction of the sling I’m stuck with. Wearing it during the day is bad enough, but it’s especially uncomfortable at night. The immobilization might be helping cartilage reattach to bone, but it’s doing nothing for my REM cycle.
I yawn, tossing my jacket on one of the two chairs facing my desk. The office’s furnishings are basic—desk, chairs, empty filing cabinet. Its former occupant cleared out any personal belongings, and I don’t have any to move in. All I packed were clothes.
A large bulletin board hangs on the wall facing the window, copies of the season schedule and team roster neatly attached with matching pushpins. The season opener—against Chicago—is set to take place in two weeks.
I walk over to the window to stare outside. I have a perfect bird’s-eye view of the field. The sky is gray and overcast. Snow covers the ground, pure white in some sections and stained gray in others. The turf field stands out like a tropical island dropped on an iceberg, a neat rectangle of brilliant green.
Sharp longing jabs at my ribs as I look at it, recalling the thousands of hours I’ve spent on a football field. I took being on the field for granted. Wouldn’t change a minute of it, but I have a bad habit of not realizing how I feel about things until I lose them.
I knew I loved football. But I had no clue how gaping the hole of its absence would be.
Coaching isn’t the same. So far, I’ve enjoyed it more than I expected to, but it’s different from playing. You’re watching someone drive a car rather than holding the wheel or pressing the gas yourself.
I might never play again. I’ve tried to stay positive, but it’s a fear that resurfaces regularly, overshadowing any attempts at optimism. I spent Saturday walking the Freedom Trail and Sunday wandering through the galleries in the Museum of Fine Arts so I had something to report to Will and so I didn’t sit in my apartment all weekend, wearing down all theshoulds andlikelys the doctors used until I reached the worst-case scenario beneath what I hoped would happen.
I yank my eyes away from the field before my brain can spiral down that dark path now, swiping my empty water bottle off the desk and heading back into the hallway. Aside from my prescribed physical therapy, walking is the only form of exerciseI’m cleared to participate in right now. I feel like a racehorse, pacing a small stall.
I stride around the corner, then come to an abrupt halt, nearly dropping the plastic bottle I’m carrying. The sole reason my grip prevails is the reflexes I’ve honed for two decades.
Claire Caldwell is standing at the water fountain, one hip casually propped against the metal ledge as she watches her thermos fill with water. She glances up, toward the sound of my approach, the relaxed expression on her face shuttering to blank as soon as our eyes connect.
She straightens immediately, shoulders tensing to a straight line.
I should say something.Hiat the very least. But my throat constricts, preventing air from entering or words from exiting as we stare at each other.
She’s been avoiding me. Subtly, but it’s no coincidence that she always goes to Meg when we pass out pinnies or footballs. That, no matter where I stand, she’s on the opposite side of the circle. That, when I’m working with Kristin, she opts to practice with Daniela. And when I’m by Daniela’s goal, she chooses Kristin.
I haven’t made it harder for her. Haven’t pulled her aside and forced this conversation.
I knew it was coming, that we couldn’t coexist on the same team without talking for four months, yet I’m still foolishly unprepared for this interaction to actually take place. I had a whole speech planned for Melbourne, expecting she’d be at the most recent summer Olympics with the American team. And now that she’s standing directly in front of me, I can’t think of a single worthwhile word to say.
So, I keep staring. My gaze dips without permission, scanning the Siege apparel she’s wearing. The joggers and fleece cover her completely. But I don’t have to imagine what’s beneaththe fabric. I’ve explored every inch of Claire’s body, and those memories are burned into my brain.
Splashing draws my attention to the water fountain. Her bottle is overflowing, water streaming down the sides. I watch it happen, and Claire follows my gaze. She swears under her breath, grabbing the bottle, and it fractures the silent stillness.
I clear my throat, the uncertain sound betraying my nerves. “Hey.”
