“Take it,” Eliza tells me. “We’re just gossiping.”
I smile, nod, and pick up. It’s Beck, headed to practice. I wander over to the windows, listening to his update on the team. Kluvberg has lost two of their past three matches. They’re playing poorly overall, and a small part of me is relieved by it, thinking I’m not entirely replaceable. The rest of me, invested in the club’s success and not my own issues, hates hearing it.
Beck and I would sometimes travel to training together since my flat in Kluvberg is close to his and Saylor’s place and so he could appreciate my new cars after he defaulted to his boring SUV. Listening to him talk is a poor imitation of those trips, but closing my eyes, I can almost picture him in the passenger seat, rolling his eyes as I boasted about horsepower.
It feels like another lifetime. Like a former reality I’m already detached from. It makes me uneasy. Has part of me already given up on returning? Playing with Claire didn’t give me a damn clue about my former abilities. I won’t know for months if my shoulder will fully recover, my future in flux until I receive that final verdict.
I hang up with Beck once he arrives at the facility, glancing out the windows at the workers loading luggage and really tracking her return in my peripheral vision.
A man bumps into her, not looking before he turns around from dumping something in the trash can. He says something—presumably an apology—and Claire smiles and nods in response before continuing in this direction. His eyes linger on her ass as she walks away, and my jaw clenches.
Somehow, Claire still seems oblivious to her own appeal. Unaware of the fact that she’s the most beautiful woman in any space.
She walks over to an empty section of seats, sinking down into one and pulling a pair of headphones out of her backpack. She reaches into her pocket, but pulls nothing out. Checking on her Detroit Zoo coin, I’m guessing, sure she still carries it with her.
She’s not inviting company, yet I walk in that direction anyway.
We’ve barely spoken since we practiced together on Sunday. The timing of Nicole’s interruption was terrible. Had I known another coach was about to appear, I wouldn’t have brought up Melbourne. But I did, and it’s hovered between us ever since.
Claire glances up as I approach, slipping the headphones off.
I sit, leaving an open chair between us.
“Mila?” she questions, nodding toward the phone in my hand.
I smile. “Beck. He was on his way to practice. Just checking in.” I pick up her headphones, guessing, “Fleetwood Mac?” even before I hear “Go Your Own Way” playing through them.
It’s bittersweet, discovering more similarities that exist between this Claire and the younger version I met years ago. A collision of relief and regret.
“Nice hat.”
I set her headphones down and tug the brim again. “Thanks. I went to a game with Tripp.”
“Did they win?”
“No. And I had no clue what was going on. I think Tripp invited me, thinking I would be able to explain the rules to him.”
“Not a lot of baseball fans in Germany, huh?”
“Not so much.” I glance down, rolling the water bottle in my palm. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing’s—”
I look over. “Claire.”
She plays with a string of her teal hoodie. “It’s not about football.”
It’s the first time I’ve heard someone refer to our shared sport by its proper name since I arrived, and I appreciate her using it for my benefit. “When have we only talked about football?”
Claire exhales, tugging harder on the string. “When you asked about my mom…I lied. She’s not fine. She’s sick—she’s been sick. That’s why Cassidy moved back. Why—part of why—I wasn’t in Melbourne. I’m not trying to use it as an excuse. I-I don’t have what it takes anyway.”
I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. It takes me a minute to absorb and sort through everything she just said and reply, “I am so sorry about your mom. Is there anything I can do?”
“No.” Claire glances away, out the window. “It’s dementia. There’s nothing anyone can do. But thank you for asking.”
I process that, then recall what else she said. “You have what it takes, Claire.”
“Don’t lie to?—”
