Otto is talking to Coach Taylor, but his eyes flicker toward me as I approach the sideline. I quickly avert my gaze, dropping my water bottle by one of the benches.
“Good weekend, Caldwell?” Nicole’s approaching, carrying a stack of cones.
“It was fine,” I reply. “You?”
“Not bad. I saw this great band at Paradise Rock on Saturday night.”
I nod and smile. Nicole’s the head of goalkeeping, so I don’t interact with her as much as Coach Taylor or Coach Jackson. She’s younger than them, close to my age, and has always felt like less of an authority figure.
Nicole walks on the field to set up the cones. I start to warm up on my own, jogging in place with high knees for a couple of minutes, then running through a series of leg swings and forward lunges. The entire time, I keep my gaze locked on the white line between my cleats, counting the number of reps in my head.
I’ve just settled on the turf for some sit-ups when a pair of sneakers too large to belong to anyone else approaches.
Otto announces his presence by saying, “Rough start to the season.”
I consider standing, decide that’s an unnecessary gesture of respect for someone who skips games to get laid, and lift a hand to shade my eyes from the sun.
It poured all day yesterday. Of course today would be sunny, the sky overhead clear and blue, like Boston is celebrating his return.
I glance at Coach Taylor, bent over a clipboard with Coach Jackson. Neither is paying any attention to us. It’s perfectly normal for a player to talk to a coach prior to practice.
But everything about talking to Otto feels charged and forbidden, beginning with my response to his comment about our loss to Chicago.
I adjust my shin guard, then pull up my sock. “You found time to look up the score? Nice coaching.”
The words alone are bad enough. But the bitter bite to them is much more damning. I sound mad—I am mad—and I didn’t want him to know that. Whether or not he’s standing on the sidelines for a Siege game shouldn’t make any difference to me. Losing shouldn’t have felt worse without him there.
Seconds stretch like hours as I wait for his response. I’m out of line—so far past the bounds that I can’t see the perimeter. If it were possible to shove the words back in my mouth, I would.
Otto’s still said nothing.
I gather the courage to glance up. He wipes the smile away quickly once I do, but not fast enough.
My eyes narrow. He thinks this is funny?
Otto crouches down a second later, and I fight the urge to scooch back. He’s a couple of feet away and too close. Way too close.
“You allowed too much space on the wide plays,” he tells me. “Close them down earlier to prevent crosses from coming in.”
Fine, he watched the game. Not the same as showing up.
“Will do,” I say cooly.
Don’t mention New York. Don’t mention New York. Don’t mention?—
“How was New York?”
This time, I manage to keep my tone reserved and polite, but the question itself is bad enough. At minimum, I’m admitting I saw the photos. And people don’t normally ask questions they don’t care about the answers to.
He holds my gaze. I really want to look away, to yank at the turf or adjust my shin guard again or do anything that’s not this searing eye contact, but I can’t.
I wait for the clipped,None of your business. I’m practically asking to be benched for insubordination.Me, who’d never even called a coach by a first name until Otto arrived.
“Not my favorite city, Boston.”
I go completely still. I feel like I was just slapped, the surprise hindered by numb shock.
I don’t like nicknames. Hate being called Caldy by teammates or Clairey by Cassidy. But I never once protested Otto calling me Boston. I never asked him to stop, but he did anyway.
