This isn’t the first time I’ve checked a woman out without knowing her name. It’s the first time not knowing it has bothered me though.
“Is it an American thing—to share your kinks instead of your name?”
She tilts her head, a rueful smile appearing. “It’s Claire. Claire Caldwell.”
“Claire Caldwell,” I repeat, memorizing it.
“Yep.” Claire sucks on her lip again.
I’d think she was being provocative on purpose, but she seems oblivious to her own appeal. Innocent almost, though not naive. Her eyes are alert as she tracks the people passing us in the street.
“Are you headed back to the Village?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She glances at the unhelpful valet, who is waiting with my keys. “I came with some teammates who weren’t ready to leave?—”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
The offer is out before I decided to make it, and I’m almost as startled by it as Claire appears to be. Her green eyes widen—a vibrant color eerily similar to my favorite sight.
“Oh,” she says. “Thank you. But I’ll, um, I can figure it out.”
“We’re headed to the same place,” I remind her, entertained by her hesitation.
Women usually pursue me. That was true before I signed my first contract with FC Kluvberg and has only become more common since I did. If I made a habit of offering rides, which I don’t, I could accurately predict the response. And it’s notno.
“I’ll just…” Claire’s voice trails.
“I can call Saylor?” I suggest, reaching for my phone.
Her “No!” is panicked. “I’m not sure we’re supposed to be…out.” She almost whispers the last word.
I’ve partied with Saylor Scott dozens of times. Captain or not, I doubt Beck’s fiancée would discipline a teammate for having some fun. It’s not like they have a match tomorrow.
But I relate to Claire’s caution. I remember that teetering sensation of excitement and terror in London, eagerness toprove myself warring with the fear of fucking up if Nübel faltered and I was subbed in.
The valet calls out, asking if I’m ready to leave. There’s a line forming behind the Maserati I rented for some sightseeing.
I ignore him, telling Claire, “I can call you a car if you want. But I would be happy to drive you back myself.”
She studies me.
And I literally hold my breath, waiting for her decision. It’s the same sensation as when I’m watching a kick fly my way. That suspension where the rest of the world is quiet and still. My surroundings blur, and it’s just me and the incoming ball.
It’s never happened anywhere else… Until now.
“Okay. Thanks, Otto.”
A strange fizziness appears when she says my name. Like a bottle of champagne was popped inside my chest and is carbonating my bloodstream.
I don’t know why I walked over here. I don’t know why it mattered so much that she saidyesto me. All I know is that I’m happy both happened.
I snag the keys from the rude valet, who’s full of apologies now that he’s assumed Claire is with me. Again, I ignore him, walking to the passenger side to open the door for her.
“Surprised you don’t have a vanity plate,” Claire comments, glancing at the trunk as she passes it.
“Is that an insult?”
“Just an observation,” she replies, eyes sparkling with a mischievousness that’s new.
