I was debating pressing closer to Reyna. Guarding someone is a delicate dance. Too close, and you risk fouling or allowing a fast pivot to leave you behind. Too far, and you allow them too much space and time to strategize a next move.
Unfortunately, Otto is correct. I’m not close enough, and the only reason Reyna hasn’t passed is that my fellow defenders are marking better than I am.
I strike, catching the ball and sprinting ahead as soon as I feel it settle in the sweet spot of my foot. I boot it ahead to Mallory, and she dribbles up the field to attack Kristin’s goal.
Jogging back to position, I glance at Otto. He should be tracking Mallory, but he’s looking at me. Our eyes catch, and he nods.
A nod. That’s all. No smile. No praise. But I don’t need either. I’d rather he act like this, noting what I should have done all along. Acting as if excellence is what he expects from me.
And it hits me then—I like having him here.
I look away as soon as the thought strikes, worried he’ll see it on my face. And refocus on the scrimmage, where my attention should have been all along.
Otto calls out more corrections as the scrimmage continues. I was teasing, trying to lighten his mood, when I told him he wasn’t a terrible coach. But I meant it. He’s a really good one actually.
Some players make great coaches; some struggle with instructing others. The most talented players tend to make theworst coaches. They have a legacy to protect, they’re accustomed to being the center of attention, and they’re frustrated by players who can’t perform at the same level they did. I placed Otto in that second category.
I was wrong, I decide, as he continues to call out feedback. By the time practice ends, he’s commented on every single player on the field.
Otto—Coach Berger—didn’t single me out again, and I try not to fixate on what it means that he focused on me first. I also attempt to ignore how this was one of the best practice performances I’ve had in a while.
I’ve always struggled with compartmentalizing. Some players suit up and are immediately in the zone. My brain has never worked that way.
Today, I was locked in. And it showed. After practice ends, Coach Taylor stops me to praise today’s performance.
In the locker room, Mallory comments, “Caldy, you were on fire today,” before tossing her sweaty jersey toward the hamper.
“Had an extra cup of coffee this morning,” I say, busy digging through my bag for my phone.
I played the best soccer of my life in Paris. I wasn’t reckless then, but I took more risks than I tend to take now. I’ve used being younger as an excuse for why my career hasn’t improved from that point. Based on today, I should have given being in love with Otto more credit. He believed in me then, more than I believed in myself, and some of that faith appears to have survived the past six years. I want to be the player he sees, not the one who’s mediocre more often than not.
“What brand of beans are you brewing these days?” Reyna wonders, making Tasha laugh.
I smile and shake my head, finally locating my cell at the bottom of my duffel. There are no new messages from Cassidy, so I don’t need to rush to Little Red Wagon. Now that she’sworking full-time and my soccer schedule has gotten more hectic, Cassidy hired a babysitter to pick Tommy up and watch him until she gets home. I’m simply a backup.
I don’t have anything from my sister, but I do have a missed call and a voicemail from Echo Glen. I raise the phone to my ear, gnawing nervously on my thumbnail.
“Do you think Coach Berger’s going to be like that from now on?” Savannah asks, dropping dramatically on the bench.
Whatever Tasha replies has the whole locker room laughing, but I’m distracted by the voicemail. I drop my phone back in my bag and toss my cleats on top, hastily shoving my feet into my untied sneakers.
“What’s wrong?” Reyna asks, noticing my haste.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie quickly. “I just forgot about an…appointment. See you guys tomorrow.”
“You didn’t even change!” Reyna calls after me.
I’m already out the door, mentally plotting the fastest route to Echo Glen.
The trip to Duxbury takes a full hour, thanks to afternoon traffic. There were closer—and cheaper—care facility options, but Mom’s neurologist recommended Echo Glen most highly.
I silently pray, as I park and rush toward the automatic doors that lead inside the main building, that I didn’t make a mistake.
Mom’s primary nurse, Maggie, is waiting in the lobby. Her sympathetic expression makes me think I look as harried and stressed as I feel. “You didn’t need to come all this way, honey.”
“I don’t mind.” The words exit in a rush.
Maggie glances at my feet. I do too. My shoelaces are snarled and stained with mud, still untied. Her expression settles intothe same kind concern Mrs. Combs would display when I picked up Tommy late.
