“I’m sure.”
I’ve never been so sure. Never wanted anyone more.
He smiles, then leans forward and says something to the driver in French.
18
CLAIRE
The photos show up the same morning Otto is supposed to return. And they’re brought up in the locker room five minutes after I arrive.
“How is New York on the way back from Germany?” Savannah laughs before passing her phone to Reyna.
“It’s not,” Reyna states, grinning. “Good for Coach Berger. She looks like a model.”
“Sheisa model,” Savannah says, grabbing the phone next. “Juliette Dubois. She’s the face of, like, everything. Hey, Cascarino!”
Daniela wanders over with a half-eaten apple in one hand. “What’s up?”
“Coach ever mention his hot, famous girlfriend to you?” Savannah flashes the screen at Daniela.
She and Kristin are considered the resident Otto experts since the two goalies are the only ones who have worked with Otto individually.
Daniela shakes her head. “Nope. He pretty much sticks to talking about footwork or catching versus parrying. No gossip.”
“What gossip?” Mallory asks, approaching her locker, two down from mine. She drops her bag on the bench and eyes us all speculatively.
“Coach’s hot-date detour.”
I keep my eyes on the laces of my cleats as I knot them, relieved no one’s asking for my input. I’m never up-to-date on pop culture, so my teammates are used to my lack of participation in conversations like these.
I saw the photos first thing this morning, posted on an Otto Berger fan account that popped up on my feed because I stupidly used to follow the page, up until it announced his engagement. He was wearing a suit, she was in a glamorous dress, and they were exiting a fancy-looking restaurant in Manhattan. The caption speculated their engagement must be back on.
I spent most of the weekend worrying what could be urgent enough for Otto to fly back to Kluvberg and miss our first game, and what was he doing? Wining and dining his former fiancée.
Prick, I think vehemently, conveniently forgetting he has every right to go anywhere and do whatever he wants.
But it feels spectacularly unfair—that he’s allowed to do that and then come back. The day I saw his engagement announcement, I didn’t have to face him in practice a few hours later. Or listen to my teammates theorize about their relationship. Or know he skipped out on his job to see her.
Maybe he’s not even back. Maybe he overslept in some swanky hotel with silk sheets. Maybe he’s returning to Kluvberg for good and giving up the assistant coach position he’s clearly not committed to.
The worst part of this shitty morning? The possibility of Otto leaving—of never seeing him again—isn’t accompanied by relief. My stomach lurches with the same scary sensation as missing a step on stairs, that terrifying moment of slipping from gravity’sgrasp. The aftermath is a pit of nausea in the bottom of my stomach.
“You see these, Claire?” Savannah asks me, aiming the dreaded phone my way with a cheeky smile.
My least favorite shot is on the screen. Otto is shielding Juliette from the cameras, one arm raised in an ineffective attempt to block the shot and the other curved protectively around her waist, guiding her toward a waiting car.
They look good together. Regal and rich, like European royalty.
I make a noncommittal sound that could be interpreted in the affirmative or negative—but hopefully not asI spent twenty minutes staring at them this morning—and quickly stand. “See you guys out there.”
My eagerness to leave the locker room backfires when the practice field comes into view.
Otto did return from New York. He must have left at dawn to make it back to Boston this early—unless he chartered a private jet or something—but he looks well rested.
Guess the date didn’t go as well as it looked in the photos. That, or he doesn’t last as long in bed as he used to.
I deliberate doubling back, pretending to have forgotten something in the locker room or dumping and refilling my water bottle, but I square my shoulders instead.
