“I am. Otto Berger.” He reaches out a hand to shake my sister’s hand. “You must be Cassidy.”
I go completely still. I mentioned my sister’s name to himonce. Years ago. There’s no way he remembered that, right?
“I met Tommy the other day, after Siege practice,” Otto continues. “Good kid.”
“Yeah, I like him,” Cassidy says affectionately. She glances at me. “He loves going to visit Claire.”
Everyone’s looking at me. I force a smile, reaching for my wine glass again.
“When did you start coaching?” Cassidy asks Otto. “You weren’t at the first game.”
“I am subbing in for part of the season,” he replies. “I missed the match against Chicago because of… I had a family matter.”
I suppress a snort. The photos of him with Juliette Dubois last weekend were posted all over the place, and that’s still the story he’s sticking with?
“Enjoy the rest of your dinner,” Otto continues. “See you tomorrow at ten, Caldwell.”
My head snaps toward him, no longer feigning nonchalance. For a second, I think I’ve lost my mind, but today is definitely Saturday. Tomorrow, Sunday, is a day off.
Otto’s already walking away, continuing after the hostess. The rest of his party follows, headed toward another four-person table closer to the wall of windows that overlooks the water. A waiter is whisking one chair away to accommodate the wheelchair.
I stand, the legs of my chair scraping the mosaic tiled floor that ties in with the restaurant’s Mediterranean theme. “I’ll be right back,” is the only explanation I offer before hurrying after the group.
“Ot—” I catch myself just in time. “Coach Berger, can I talk to you for a minute?”
I’m not sure how he hears me over the overlapping conversations and the music playing, but Otto pauses, saying something to Will before turning and walking back this way.
We meet beside a row of ropes that hang from the ceiling and tie to the floor, serving as a nautical divider between the bar section and the rest of the restaurant.
He tucks his hands in the pockets of his slacks, the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down showing off the raised veins and defined muscles of his forearms. I’m not sure what limitations are still on one shoulder, but his right arm looks no different from his left.
I swallow hard, mouth dry. “I just wanted to clarify, we don’t have practice tomorrow?” I’m certain of that, but it comes out like a question.
“The team is not training tomorrow. We are.”
“We?”
“You and me.”
I shake my head, dislodging some of the strands Cassidy carefully styled earlier. “You’re—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Otto untucks one hand, and there’s a moment when I think he might reach out to brush the hair out of my face. Instead, he runs his thumb along the line of his jaw.
My exhale is dizzying. I’m a little disappointed, which is ridiculous.
“Coach Taylor asked me to do an individual session with you,” he tells me.
“Why?” I demand, refocusing on the topic at hand.
“You allowed six turnovers against Chicago.”
“I allowednoneyesterday.”
“She asked me to work with you, Caldwell. I am doing my job. Would you rather tell Eliza why you do not want to train with me?”
No, I really wouldn’t. Everyone on the Siege—players, staff, Coach Taylor—adores Otto. Media coverage has increased this season. Same with ticket sales. No way am I complaining to my head coach that I can’t take criticism from my ex, and Otto knows it.
“You’re a goalie,” I state. “Not a defender.”
