Even if we had gotten married, we wouldn’t still be together now. I’m certain of that, suddenly.
I wasn’t nervous to see her. I didn’t plan out what I was going to say tonight on the eight-hour flight to New York. I watched the Siege lose to Chicago and then game footage of Atlanta—the team’s next opponent.
I know what it’s like to see an ex and realize old feelings are still there.
This? This isn’t what it’s like.
Juliette calls my name, and my attention jerks back to her. There’s a new tightness in the corners of her smile that tells me that wasn’t the first time she tried to get my attention.
“Sorry,” I say, reaching for my water glass. “Long flight.”
She nods, accepting the excuse, but that’s exactly what it is. I used to blame football—I was tired from practice, or I was focused on an upcoming match.
Football was only one of the issues in our relationship, and that’s especially obvious now that it’s a non-factor.
She tilts her head. “Why did you fly back to Kluvberg?”
“Meetings.” The lie exits easily before I can even consider telling the truth.
Juliette knows I have a strained relationship with my grandfather. She never met Opa. Never asked to and I neversuggested it. If our engagement had ended with a wedding rather than a mutual return to work, I have no idea if my grandfather would have shown up to the ceremony. Juliette used to say he wasn’t my responsibility, that Opa was fully capable of making his own choices. Which is true, but I’m certainly not blameless in our estrangement. He was there for me when no one else was, and then I walked away at the first opportunity.
But I don’t want to discuss any of that with Juliette, and she’s not interested enough in my job to ask for details about work meetings.
“How long are you in New York for?” I question, turning the conversation back to her.
And as Juliette starts talking about the various campaigns she’s working on, something occurs to me that I probably should have realized a lot sooner.
When we met, I didn’t like that Juliette had no interest in football.
I liked that she didn’t remind me of Claire.
17
CLAIRE
Six Years Earlier
“C’est magnifique,” I comment as we pass a fountain, headed toward the glass pyramid that’s far more impressive in person than in photographs.
To my left, Otto grins. “Tres bien.”
He’s been teaching me some basic French phrases. We started with, “Tu peux m’appeler un taxi?”—Can you call me a taxi?—so I don’t get stranded again. I also bought a portable phone charger, just in case.
“I can’t believe this place exists,” I say, switching to English because I have no clue how to say it in French. “Just right here, in the middle of the city. It’s like stepping back in time. Is this what Kluvberg is like?”
“Parts of it,” Otto replies. “There is a big art museum oppositeDom St. Liobarda, on the other side of the canal.” He grabs my hand, tugging me to the left of the glass pyramid. “Entrance is this way.”
My entire body buzzes from the sensation of his palm pressed against mine.
“That’s the German goalie,” someone whispers in English, walking past us.
I glance at Otto. If he heard the comment, he doesn’t react to it.
I’m accustomed to soccer being overlooked. Lincoln has a reputation for being a pipeline for professional athletes, but the powerhouse football team steals most of the interest on campus. No one has ever recognized me or looked starstruck.
Forty million.
That’s how many results come up if you searchOtto Berger. I did, once, curious about his age—twenty-three—then quickly shut off my phone like I had been caught doing something forbidden.
