“You’ll be back next season.”
He sighs, the cloud of his breath hovering between us temporarily. He reaches to adjust his sling with his left hand, the strap making it impossible for his jacket to zip all the way up. The cold doesn’t appear to be bothering him. He looks healthy—solid and capable.
“Youwill,” I insist, his silence scaring me a little.
The smallest of smiles tugs at his mouth. “You a doctor now, Claire?”
There’s nothing small about the reaction to him using my first name, paired with a glimpse of his former playful self.
“What did the doctors say?” I ask, forcing myself to remain in the present only.
Otto blows out another breath. “It was a bad tear. The surgery went as well as it could have. Nothing to do now but wait. I am stuck wearing this”—he adjusts the sling again—“for a couple of more days, and then physical therapy will start. After a few months, I will be cleared to start training again. Or not, and I will… I don’t know what.”
“You’re not a terrible coach,” I tell him.
Kristin and Daniela have been singing his praises ever since Otto started working with them.
That earns me a short laugh. I hate—hate, hate, hate—how I almost smile in response.
“Thank you, Caldwell.”
I also despise the brief burst of disappointment when he reverts to using my last name. But it’s a needed reminder of ourcurrent roles. We’re not old pals or friendly exes. We might be in the same place again, but it’s temporary—again.
I straighten. “I should keep moving.”
His eyes skim over the leggings and thermal top I’m wearing. The tight layers suddenly feel too flimsy. I fight the urge to cross my arms, erecting more of a shield between us.
“Today is your day off,” Otto comments.
“I’m aware.”
“You should be resting before the match.”
I bristle at the imperiousness in his tone. “We’re not at work, Coach Berger. I’ll prepare for tomorrow however I want to.”
Rather than appear offended, he smiles again, prompting another cardiac event in my chest. “You are the same.”
I can’t tell from his voice if that’s a compliment or an insult.
And he must see it on my face because he adds, “Still stubborn, I mean.”
There are very few people on this planet who would describe me as stubborn. But I can be, if it’s related to something important or if I’m around someone I trust enough to stick around when I’m not shiny and accommodating.
“So are you,” I tell him. “Which is how I know youwillbe back in goal next season.”
Otto nods once, shoving away from the metal railing. I can’t tell, from the slight movement, if he believes me. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Rubs the back of his neck, and I want to close my eyes so I don’t have to battle the urge to stare at the sliver of abs the motion reveals. I think I catch a glimpse of a boxers band and wonder if he wears the same brand. Wonder how different he truly is, beneath the depression about his injury.
“See you tomorrow,” he finally tells me, starting in the opposite direction I was running in.
Does he live near here? Does he have a car in Boston? Was this his first time walking here, or has he come before?
I shove the questions deep down, close to the forbidden ones I’ll never ask. Near,Did you ever think about me?and,Do you have any regrets?and,Why didn’t you marry her?
Before I begin jogging again, I check the time on my phone. It’s later than I expected; we talked for longer than I’d realized. Sure enough, I have a missed call from Cassidy, and I’ll need to head home soon to check on Mom. Turning back now runs the high risk of running into Otto, so I resume my music and continue running the same way I was before.
Not because I don’t want to see him again.
Because I do, and that’s more dangerous than a swim in the frozen Charles would be right now.
