Claire’s soccer career is public information. But her social media profiles are all set to private, and I never requested access. I didn’t want to know what her life post-Paris looked like.
But now, I know. She had a kid. He looked young, but not that young. I’d guess four or five. Add nine months to that, and she didn’t wait long to move on. He could almost be mine, but I know he’s not. No matter what happened between us, Claire would have told me. I shared things with her I’ve never mentioned to anyone—like how growing up without a father affected me.
I already resolved to keep my distance after yesterday. Foolishly, it’d never occurred to me that Claire might still run on that path. Seeing her there was a shock, and I expected her to breeze by. Not to stop. Not to strike up a conversation. I knew—maybe from the moment a mention of the Siege cut through the post-injury haze I was in—that Claire still affected me. Being around her for two weeks should have shaken off any novelty. Instead, the opposite seems to be taking place. The more time I spend around her, the more I crave her presence. And I fell in love with her once, during one of the biggest moments of my career, when football should have held all my attention. Right now, I can’t even touch a ball. It would be easier than falling—to dig up all those emotions again.
Calls of my name pull my attention to the stands. Two boys are standing on the closest seats, both wearing my jersey.
I hesitate for a second. I’m here as a coach, not a player, and interacting with spectators in the latter capacity sets a precedent I’m not sure I want to. If the Siege does release a press statement, odds are, more people will start showing up to games to see me.
Also, I’m in a shitty mood. The longer I linger, the more likely I am to see Claire’s…boyfriend? Co-parent? She’s never worn a ring. And that’s a reunion I have no interest in witnessing. If he’s not here, it’ll just piss me off that she’s ended up with someone who doesn’t support her the way she deserves to be celebrated.
But the boys are bouncing with excitement, staring at me like they can’t believe I exist in real life.
So, I veer in their direction, pasting a grin on my face. “Hey, guys! How is it going?”
One is too stunned to speak. The other starts talking a mile a minute—so fast that it takes me a few seconds to realize he’s requesting I sign his jersey. I accept a marker from a middle-aged woman, who also offers a fervent, “Thank you so much. They’re huge fans of yours,” as her kids clamor about, spinning so I can scrawl my signature on their backs.
Once I have, a few more fans have appeared. I sign everything they hand me, pose for a few photos, and then hustle toward the exit.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I stride through the gate toward the private parking lot. I pull it out, expecting it to be Beck or Will. Kluvberg played yesterday—a loss—so they’re both off today.
It’s Mila calling. She’s been my grandfather’s caretaker for the past few years. Despite having four children of her own to keep her busy (and that I only pay her to look after Opa) she checks on me regularly.
“Hallo, Mila,” I answer.
“Otto! How are you,liebling?”
The warm endearment is nostalgic. So is hearing German.
“I’m better.”
The past few times we’ve talked, I’ve pretended. My entire world was crumbling around me, my current life unrecognizable from my old one. But I am adjusting—and not just with theSiege. I bought an art print at the MFA to add to my apartment’s spare furnishings. I walk along the Charles every morning. I buy my own groceries. It’s different, but if not for the glaring absence of football, I wouldn’t even say it’s in a bad way.
I tell Mila about the win today. About the bookstore across the street from my new apartment. About Will and Sophia’s upcoming visit.
I can sense Mila’s excitement—her relief—as she prompts me for more details.
After she updates me on what her kids have been up to, we lapse into the awkward pause that predates every discussion about the reason these calls started.
“How is he?” I finally ask.
I don’t have a bad relationship with my grandfather; I don’t havearelationship with him. Opa was pleased—relieved, undoubtedly, to not have the burden of caring for a kid—when I was accepted to Kluvberg’s academy at age nine. Up until he realized football was all I intended to do with my life. I was eighteen by then, no longer his ward. He couldn’t do a damn thing to stop me from signing a contract. He tried, told me he’d never forgive me for abandoning the construction company he’d built from nothing; I signed the contract anyway, and we’ve barely spoken since.
He was wrong—I did have what it took.
He was right—his company folded a few years later without me stepping up to help run it.
I hired Mila when he started struggling to care for himself, and that’s the only financial help he’s ever accepted from me despite my attempts to do more. He refuses to cash checks, locks out housekeepers, and chases off landscapers. Mila, somehow, became the one person he tolerates assistance from.
And it takes me too long to realize she hasn’t replied, swamped with the regret and resentment that accompanies any thought of my sole family member.
Mila sighs. “He’s having surgery next week.”
I fumble with the keys in my hand, pressing the lock button instead of the unlock one and nearly dropping the phone.
My grandfather is in his early eighties. His health was going to decline eventually. It already has—he hit a neighbor’s fence, which was what prompted Mila’s hiring. But that was cataracts, nothing serious.
Opa has always reminded me of a mule. Steadfast and sturdy.
