That was the wrong thing to say. Again.
“There aren’t any solutions,” she says. “That’s why neither of us has brought it up before now.”
Her eyes are shiny, and the realization of why hits harder than any kick that’s ever collided with my chest.
I step closer. “Claire.”
She shakes her head. “Obviously, this isn’t going to last longer than the Olympics. We both know it.”
Do we? Do I?
I’ve treated us like an active match, focused on the guaranteed time rather than considering added minutes or overtime. The outcome.
Football is all I have. FC Kluvberg has been my family, my focus, my purpose for as long as I can remember. Nothing’s escaped sacrifice in my pursuit of the singular goal of cementing my place as one of the top goalkeepers of all time.
I’m twenty-three. I’m playing the best football of my life. The best years of my career still lie ahead.
Claire musters a smile. Too tight and too tiny to be her real one. “This was fun, okay? We’re good.”
I scoff, miffed and—fuck—hurt by the easy dismissal.
She’s ending this. Cutting herself out of my life, and I can already feel the hole of her absence. The size of it stuns me.
“I do not want this to be over,” I tell her, finally managing to say something right in this conversation.
I don’t have any answers, but I do know that much.
“You’re looking for a relationship?” Claire arches an incredulous eyebrow.
“I…”
I don’t know, is the honest answer. Which is light-years from the emphaticnoI would have given before I met her, but not theyesshe wants to hear.
I laughed at Beck’s trips to visit Saylor when she was still at university. I’m accustomed to doing what I want, when I want, unless it’s a directive from a coach. Would I remember to call her after an exhausting match? Could I commit to flying nine hours to see her on any sort of regular basis?
I don’t know, and she reads it on my face.
“I want you,” I say, which is the truth.
I want Claire.
I also want her to win. I want her to have the career she’s dreamed about, the one she’s worked so hard for.
And I don’t want to lie. Don’t want to promise she can have both when I can’t guarantee anything.
“Good luck on Saturday.”
I nod, then swallow hard. “I will be at tomorrow’s match.”
There’s still time. Time to think, to plan, to fix.
Claire shakes her head. “Don’t come.”
I frown. “Why not?”
“You should be focused on your final. And I… If I know you’re there—just…please. Don’t come.” She heads for the bathroom.
“Claire.”
