11
OTTO
Istare at the final score, prominently displayed on the Jumbotron of the Siege’s brand-new stadium. My first win as a coach. It was a preseason match, and there’s a full season of games ahead. Matches that will matter for rankings and playoffs and a championship. Today’s victory doesn’t count, technically.
A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth anyway. Winning is an addictive sensation. No athlete ever thinks,Okay, I’ve won enough. Turns out, that’s true for coaching too. I’m proud of the Siege, even though my role in their success is so different from what I’m accustomed to. Even though there’s a full season ahead.
“Nach dem spiel ist vor dem spiel,”is probably what Wagner would say.
After the game is before the game.
Every victory marks the start of preparing for another match. No goals or saves carry over to the next opponent. Getting to the top isn’t nearly as difficult as remaining there, and there’s a reason Wagner has kept Kluvberg dominant for the past decade.
I wasn’t averse to the idea of coaching—not until Boston came up at least—but it seemed unnecessary. I’m discovering how necessary it was.
Since I arrived at the stadium, I focused on the Siege. On watching Cascarino manage a shutout and saying some choice words to the ref who’d given Rodman a yellow card in the first half. It got me out of my own head for the longest stretch since my injury had happened, a break that I desperately needed.
Most coaches would have told me to focus on nothing except recovery. But Wagner knew I needed an upcoming match to look forward to, even if I wasn’t in goal for it. I feel a part of something again, like I’m connected to the Siege’s success. Invested in the outcome of their season.
Not that I’ll be here to see it. If all goes to plan, I’ll be back in Kluvberg with a healthy shoulder by mid-summer.
“Nice work today, Otto,” Eliza tells me, tucking a clipboard under one arm and offering me her hand to shake.
I do, aiming a brief smile her way. “You too.”
Eliza smiles back. “I’ve got a good feeling about this season.” She grabs the clipboard, glancing at the emptying stands. “The organization hasn’t made an official statement about your role, but we might need to.”
She’s referring to the Kluvberg jerseys in the audience. My jersey, I’m assuming, although I didn’t look long enough to tell for sure. I was focused on the match.
“Whatever you think is best,” I tell her.
Eliza nods. “I’ll check with the team publicist.”
I nod back. As soon as Eliza walks away, Nicole approaches. “Your first win,” she announces, beaming. “How does it feel?”
A child’s shriek draws my attention left. Preseason games are free to attend, and there were a lot of families in the stands. Plenty of them have filtered from the stands down onto the turf field, congratulating players. It’s been a long timesince I witnessed a post-match celebration that was so casual. Barricades block any fan entry onto the pitch at Sieg Stadium for security reasons.
The screeching child—a young boy—is hustling after a rolling ball as fast as his short legs will allow. A Siege player chases after him, lifting the child and swinging him around. He laughs and wiggles. She kisses his cheek before setting him down.
All the air exits my lungs, like a football just collided with my chest.
It’s Claire. Claire with a kid. Claire with a kid who looks just like her.
“Otto?”
I tear my gaze away, refocusing on Nicole. Shake my head. “Sorry. I was… It is strange, being on a different field, not playing. An adjustment.”
Her expression softens with sympathy, prompting a burst of guilt. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the full truth either.
“Took me a while to adjust too,” she tells me. “I had this fantasy of playing professionally. Getting to this level, but not actually playing…well—” Nicole laughs. “I know you can’t relate to that part. You’re Otto Berger.”
She says my name the way a lot of people do. Like I’m a brand, not a person. And it’s never bothered me before. But it bothers me now since that brand feels separate from me. That brand was a guy who never had to think about what he’d do aside from play football.
“I will get used to it,” I say.
More shouting comes from the direction of the field, but I don’t turn to look this time. My excitement about the team’s first win has sapped away, like air leaving a leaky balloon. The stadium’s celebratory, relaxed atmosphere suddenly seems stifling.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, barely registering Nicole’s nod before I continue along the sideline, avoiding eye contact with everyone I pass.
