The realization hits me with the subtlety of a sledgehammer, coming from someone whose default settings are grumpy and grumpier. Who would deny being scared until the day he is dead.
“It’s not your last day. I had surgery at the same hospital and survived.” I open the front door, nodding for him to walk out first. “You’ll be fine.”
I use the hidden key to lock the front door while Opa watches like he’s expecting me to mess up the simple task. I should have parked closer to the door, but I was attempting to maintain the element of surprise.
Offering to move the car will only irritate him more, so I walk behind him instead, ready to assist if necessary. He grumbles the entire walk, about the overcast weather and the neighbors’ yapping dog and the ridiculous car I drive. My sympathy well isdry by the time he’s inside. Steps dragging, I walk around the rear, delaying the drive that’s to come.
I say nothing as I click on my seat belt and start the engine. We coexist mostly peacefully in silence.
“They must be making a real fuss over your recovery.”
I glance at Opa, taken aback. He has some sense of my success—he knows I can afford to hire him help, and he’s seen his neighbors ask for my autograph—but he’s never directly acknowledged any of what I’ve accomplished. Probably because doing so would imply my decision to pursue football wasn’t the massive mistake he made it out to be.
He’s never apologized.
I’ve never offered any forgiveness.
We’re frozen around each other, stuck at the same impasse.
Yet I think that was his own stubborn way of asking if I was okay.
“They are. There’s a whole team of specialists working with me. The doctors expect I’ll make a full recovery, be back in goal this summer.”
He grunts. “Football won’t last forever, boy.”
Neither of us says anything else for the remainder of the drive.
15
CLAIRE
Chicago—an opponent we should have easily beaten—wins by two goals in our first game. At least I didn’t have much time to get attached to the possibility of an undefeated season. It’s gone, just like that, morale dissipating with it.
Otto—Coach Berger—missed the game.
“He had to return to Germany for a family emergency,” was the explanation Coach Taylor provided us before the match.
Which sparked intrigue and concern among the entire team because the novelty of our new coach hadn’t worn off yet.
But no one on the team, aside from me, knows that Otto doesn’t have any family. None that he’s close to at least, unless things have changed drastically.
Maybe they have. I mean, it’s been six years. My life isn’t identical to how it looked when we met.
I stare at the exterior of my parents’ house, tired and annoyed. Maybe we should sell it. Mom has settled well at Echo Glen. And she’s not going to get any better, only worse. Chances are, Cassidy will end up moving too. Before she called to tell me she was coming home, she’d never expressed any intention of living in Boston long-term.
And I… I could start over, sort of. Selling would make money a non-issue for a while. Allow me to play without worrying how to stretch my salary.
I sigh. I’m not sure I can let this house go. I can’t let the silly Detroit Zoo token go; it was in my pocket during our loss earlier. I keep paying more to fix this car than it’s worth, because Mom went with me to pick it out. I can’t stop thinking about Otto, my memories a muddled mess of moments from Paris and “It’s good to see you,” and “I know how long it’s been.”
I shouldn’t be worrying about what might have been urgent enough for him to rush home. I could ask; I still have Otto’s number saved in my phone, assuming he hasn’t changed it—which is a big if, based on his level of fame.
But I can’t call him. I don’t even know why I would want to.
I bang my skull against the headrest once, then climb out of the sedan and start up the front walk. My hand slides into my pocket, thumb rubbing against the grooved side of the coin. It hardly weighs anything, but it’s a comforting heaviness anyway.
“Claire! Claire!”
I glance left, spotting Lydia shuffling this way.
