There are plenty of spaces in the Village where athletes from different countries can mingle. Residential housing is supposed to be segregated.
Otto turns, flashing me a smile that I feel everywhere. “Hi to you too. I pretended to be American.”
His impression is impressive. There’s no trace of the accent that clips some consonants.
“You still need a badge,” I remind him, pulling mine out of my pocket to hastily unlock my room.
My teammates were downstairs, eating dinner, when I stopped by the post office, but that doesn’t mean none of them are on this floor by now. I’m frazzled—thrilled—he’s here, and I have no clue how to react to it. Again, I’m bad at flirting.
Otto motions for me to enter first, then follows. The door swings shut after us. My heart knocks against my ribs with the realization we’re together. And alone.
We’ve texted practically nonstop. I glimpsed him in the cafeteria two days ago, and I watched most of Germany’s match against Uzbekistan with Gemma and Mackenzie yesterday.
So, it’s especially surreal, seeing Otto—the central focus of a game watched by millions—standing in my messy bedroom. I went yesterday out of curiosity. But I stayed out of necessitybecause it’s soobvious, watching Otto in goal, that it is where he’s meant to be. I had known he was a big deal before. Witnessing it firsthand was different, and I’m suddenly shy.
If Otto notices my uncertainty, he doesn’t let on. He gives my room a quick once-over as he stands in its center.
“Nicer than yours?” I question as I collect some dirty laundry and toss it on the pile in the corner.
The space is smaller and sparser than the dorm I lived in freshman year, but it’s fully functional. A twin bed, a side table, a desk, and a metal frame with hangers that serves as a closet are the only furniture. I lucked out with a single since most of my teammates are sharing.
“It is cleaner,” Otto says, sprawling on my neatly tucked comforter like he’s been in here a million times before. “Wirtz is messy. And he snores.”
He’s on mybed.
“So, you came here to get some sleep?”
Otto smirks, making my rapid heartbeat even more irregular. “Not exactly.”
Is he here for sex? Does he want to have sex with me? I’m unprepared for that to take place. I would have showered and shaved and?—
“These your family?”
I refocus on Otto, who’s picked up the framed photo on the small table beside my bed—the one personal item aside from the clothes, toiletries, and soccer gear scattered around the room.
“Yeah.” I take a seat on the edge of the foam mattress, leaving a foot between us, glancing quickly at the photo even though I could describe it from memory.
It was taken at my eighth-grade graduation from Arlington Middle School. It’s the final picture of my full family together. My dad dropped the divorce bomb a few days later.
“Are they here?”
I swallow hard before answering, “No.”
Mom would be cheering me on in person, if she could. She’s on tour for her latest book. Last I talked to Cassidy, she was “super busy,” studying for her real estate exam and dating a chef named Marcus. It’s entirely possible my dad doesn’t know I’m in Paris. I sure didn’t tell him.
Otto sets the photo back down, leaning back against the white plaster wall and crossing his ankles.
“What about you?” I ask. “Are your parents here?”
Our families are one of the few topics we haven’t discussed. I haven’t brought it up because I avoid talking about mine.
The pause before Otto says, “No,” suggests he hasn’t broached it for a similar reason. He hesitates, and I think that solitary syllable might be his only reply, but he continues a few seconds later. “My mom had me young. I have never met my dad. My mom died a long time ago. I lived with my grandfather until I was nine, and then I started training at Kluvberg’s Academy.”
I stare at him, startled and unsettled by the matter-of-fact depiction of what sounded like an awfully bleak childhood. “I’m so sorry about your mom,” I say. “I-I didn’t…know.”
That second sentence felt necessary to add because people are invasive enough with celebrities. I’m guessing parts of his background are public information. I want to know Otto based on what he chooses to share with me, nothing else.
He nods. “I used to make up stories. I would tell people my dad was in the military or my mom was a spy. Sometimes, I would say they were happily married and on a trip. I never shared the truth with my teammates. Still avoid the question in interviews. It is in the past, and I am focused on the future.”
