“Beck said he hasn’t heard from you.”
Great. They’re talking about me instead of focusing on salvaging the remainder of Kluvberg’s season. Banks is solid. They can—will—win without me.
I shove the burger container away, watching it sail along the marble counter and land in the sink. “I texted earlier, letting him know I landed. There’s not much else to say.” I glance around. “The apartment’s fine. Small.”
“Did you meet the team yet?”
“Tomorrow.”
“That’ll be good!”
I keep my contrary thoughts to myself.
I’m dreading tomorrow. Increasingly bothered by how easy it is to pinpoint the source of my unease.
I’ve interacted with plenty of celebrities. Models and actors and influencers. Political figures—presidents and prime ministers. I’ve played in matches attended by British and Spanish royalty. An introduction to a group of American soccer players shouldn’t be a big deal.
Being aroundhershouldn’t be a big deal. Yet my stomach feels like it’s folding in on itself every time I picture it taking place.
“Juliette keeps texting,” I say to fill the silence.
Will chuckles. “Poor you, receivingget well soonwishes from models.”
I squeeze the foam ball in my fist. The physical therapist I met with yesterday recommended it as an exercise to maintain my grip strength.
“Weird timing, is all.”
“What do you mean, weird timing? She obviously heard what happened and is using it as a reason to reach out.”
He’s close, but not completely right.
Juliette’s interested again because I’m injured. Because she thinks I might be done. Because football was the biggest obstacle in our relationship, and it’s been temporarily—maybe permanently—cleared.
“Wagner enlisted every specialist in the States.” I’m not even exaggerating our head coach’s efforts. One of the doctors at yesterday’s appointment flew in from Cleveland. “I don’t need a nurse,” I add.
“My guess is, she’s offering more than medical care, Berger.” I can hear the grin in Will’s voice.
I roll my eyes. Toss the ball in the air, wincing when catching it causes a twinge in my shoulder. The adjustment from my in-season training regimen to walking and squeezing a chunk of foam hasn’t been an easy one. But I’ve been warned how catastrophic any attempts to push my shoulder too soon could be. For a perfect recovery, I’d do absolutely anything.
I relax my fingers, allowing the ball to fall to the floor silently.
“She’ll be in New York for a shoot next month. I agreed to meet her there for dinner. So, I guess we’ll see.”
“I don’t know everything that went down with you guys, obviously. But if you ever want to talk about it, let me know. This could be an opportunity to figure things out.”
I nod like Aster can see me. Then add, “Thanks,” because he can’t.
Will sounds nothing like the cocky troublemaker who swaggered onto Kluvberg in the midst of a media firestorm. He’s seemed settled—content—lately, especially since he and Sophia got engaged.
I felt the opposite after I proposed to Juliette. Stifled, like the oxygen around me was being sucked away, slowly suffocating me.
Probably shouldn’t mention that during our dinner. We broke up like it was a business decision, opting to focus on our individual careers. Juliette wanted an entertaining date who was available to attend the endless industry parties she sought out. And I wanted… I don’t know what I wanted. To breathe easy again, I guess.
“I emailed you the flight details for April, by the way,” Will tells me.
That catches my attention. “You’re really coming?”
Before I left Kluvberg, Will told me he was hoping to make a trip to Boston for his brother’s birthday. Since Kluvberg would still be in season then, I wasn’t sure he’d be able to make it work.
