I manage to open the car door and sink into the driver’s seat. “Surgery for what?”
“He fell on the stairs and told no one.” The sentence is rife with disapproval. “I took him to the doctor yesterday. He needs a new hip.”
Fuck.
“I tried to have him call himself,” Mila continues. “He didn’t want to…bother you with it.”
I’m sure Opa put it far less politely, but Mila has always been diplomatic about the disconnect between me and my grandfather. She’s the one way our lives overlap, the single means of communication we have. A saint for tolerating our disfunction.
And I’m mad at her for telling me.
I haven’t spoken to my grandfather since last summer. I spent a week in Tannfeld, handling all the repairs I’d hired workers for and that he’d chased off. He didn’t call after the game that landed me in the hospital, let alone visit me there. I’m sure he’s heard I’m sidelined for the remainder of the season. Mila would have mentioned it; so would have his neighbors. And still…nothing.
I blow out a long breath, staring at the row of cars in the parking lot. All stationary, and I feel stuck too.
I can’t play. Can’t fuel this conflict into anything productive. Can’t use football as a barrier to block everything else out or as a scheduling excuse.
Mila stays silent, patiently letting me process.
“What day is the surgery?” I ask.
“Friday.”
I could fly back Thursday. Stay a day. Return Saturday. I’d miss the Siege’s first game next weekend, but it’s a game I’m not playing in. Nothing I did on the sidelines today was anything Eliza, Meg, and Nicole couldn’t cover for one match.
“He agreed to have a nurse stay with him after. We’ll set up his bedroom in the living room. He’ll love being closer to his books.”
She knows Opa well. Better than I do.
“I know it’s a difficult time for you right now. But I thought I should mention it.”
“Thanks, Mila,” I say.
I don’t promise anything.
But we both know I would have told her I wasn’t coming if I wasn’t.
12
CLAIRE
“Too much space, Caldwell! Shadow her!”
The shout—the voice—is so unexpected that I nearly stumble, recovering my balance at the last possible second before pressing closer to Reyna, who’s searching for a yellow pinnie to pass to.
Otto has worked with Daniela and Kristin individually. Post-practice, the Siege goalies have reported to curious teammates (while I eavesdropped) that he wasn’t “chatty.”
Which was weird. Because the Otto I know—knew—always had a lot to say. Well,almostalways.
Maybe he’s assuming a new persona as a coach. More likely, he’s too preoccupied mourning the unexpected end of his own season and stressing about his recovery to bother with small talk.
I wish I didn’t know that. I wish I’d kept running that morning along the Charles. His problems aren’t my problems. He’s one of my coaches. And, worst of all, he acts like our conversation never happened, essentially ignoring me ever since. He didn’t even bother to congratulate me after Sunday’s scrimmage. I contributed, in part, to Daniela’s shutout, lettinghardly anyone past, and no acknowledgment. He talked to Coach Taylor and Coach Green, signed a few dozen autographs, and left.
It’s what I wanted. What I asked for. And it’s pissing me off.
“Challenge Rodman, Caldwell!”
I grind my molars, fighting to stay focused and to not flip Otto off.
