A few minutes later, wheels hit the tarmac with a jarring jolt. The collision of rubber and asphalt wakes the woman seated across the aisle from me. Probably would have woken me, too, if I hadn’t been staring blankly out the window for the entirety of the eight-and-a-half-hour flight, adrift in a sea of self-pity as fathomless as the Atlantic below.
The impact of landing jostled my right arm, and my shoulder is protesting with a dull throb. An unnecessary reminder of how drastically my life changed in a handful of weeks. Of who I used to be.
I was midway through a winning season.
I was FC Kluvberg’s starting goalkeeper.
I was a living legend—at least according to the collection of hardware displayed at my house outside the city.
And I was replaced.
I’m replaceable.
That reality stings worse than the healing incision from my shoulder surgery, even knowing I’m physically incapable of playing and my club had no choicebutto bench me. Because I’ve built my career on being willing to do whatever it takes to win, and this isn’t a setback that can be solved by training harder or by digging deeper. The opposite has been prescribed by the hordes of doctors who assessed me. Sleep. Rest. Inactivity.
Passengers are perking up in the surrounding seats as we taxi toward a gate, yawning and stretching, happy to have nearly reached the end of a long flight.
Me? I roll my head right to look out the oval window and study Boston’s airport. Toglowerat it, glaringly empty of the relief that normally accompanies safely arriving at a destination.
The sprawling structure is huge. Twice the size of the airport I flew out of. I’ve never been to Boston before, but I know it’s a major American city. According to the online search I browsed while waiting to board, its population is estimated at six hundred fifty thousand people.
The odds of running into one would be infinitesimal—if I weren’t here to help coach her club.
It’s a matter ofwhen, notif, I see Claire Caldwell during this long-term stay in the States. I know that, and I’m avoiding thinking about it because I don’twantto think about it and because I’ve got enough weighing on my mind already.
The plane’s intercom crackles to life after a brief screech of static, requesting all passengers remain seated until we reach the gate.
I’d prefer to stay in place until this aircraft returns to Germany.
I was on board with the suggestion that I leave Kluvberg for the remainder of the season. No keeper wants to sit on the sidelines, watching his team win or lose without him, helpless to assist. And while I don’t mind fan attention—some would say Ithrive around it—the months of recovery ahead are going to be frustrating enough without fielding questions, wondering how soon I’ll be back on the field, every time I leave my house.
I was also on board with the suggestion I assistant coach on a temporary basis. I don’t have much else to do for the foreseeable future, aside from regular physical therapy appointments, except feel sorry for myself.
By the time the part of the plan I wasnoton board with was revealed, backing out would have raised a lot of questions.
With a sigh, I power on my phone. The device buzzes with dozens of new messages.
I scroll through the flood of notifications, scanning them quickly. Most texts are from my teammates. Even Trent Banks, my backup, who should be focused on tomorrow’s match, checked in.
Adler Beck, FC Kluvberg’s captain—better known asKaiseror Beck—messaged me the most. It’s one of his unwritten responsibilities as the club’s figurehead, and we’re close. Close enough that Beck is worried about me for reasons unrelated to football. His wife, Saylor, who also plays football professionally, helped set up this arrangement with the Boston Siege. Her former college coach, Eliza Taylor, is the Siege head coach now.
I shut my phone off without replying to anyone. The clock on it already adjusted. It’s five forty p.m. local time—nearly midnight in Kluvberg. I’m too tired and irritable to muster replies that will reassure anyone I’m handling this adjustment well, and the plane has reached the gate anyway.
My fingers drum against my thigh impatiently as I wait for the sealed door to open so that the five rows ahead of me can disembark.
German echoes around me in a flurry of clipped consonants. Likely the last time I’ll hear my native tongue spoken for a while. My English is excellent, superior to my subpar Spanishor passable French. I’m unconcerned about a language barrier, but it’s yet another reminder I’m far from home. I’ve traveled around the world with Germany’s national team and with FC Kluvberg, attending tournaments and exhibition matches and international competitions. Those were much shorter trips than this one. More importantly, I was an active member of the roster.
My name pops up in a few of the surrounding conversations. I attempt to tune them out, fingers tapping faster as my impatience increases.
“Are you an actor?”
I glance toward the voice automatically. The question stands out: unexpected, spoken in English, and—based on the near proximity—aimed at me.
The speaker is young, appraising me with a curious frown wrinkling her forehead. She’s seated diagonally across the aisle, staring straight this way.
“No,” I answer since she does appear to be speaking to me.
“Are you sure?”
