I’m happy to have an excuse to lean down and dig through my soccer bag as the door opens and Otto climbs inside. I locate a bar, avoiding eye contact as Otto starts the car.
“Here you go.” I hold the snack out to Tommy.
“I don’t like that kind,” he informs me.
I sigh, tossing it back in my bag. “Okay. I’ll make you something at home.”
“Can we stop at Freeze Palace?”
Otto asks, “What is Freeze Palace?” before I can say, “No.”
“It’s the best ice cream in the whole world,” Tommy announces dramatically.
Otto glances at me. “Do they have non-dairy?”
I’m too startled by the fact that he considered that to speak. I just nod.
“Sounds good to me,” he says, shifting into drive.
Tommy cheers in the back seat.
I assumed the past six years of silence meant he never really cared. I blamed Otto for not fighting for us.
But the truth is, I gave up first.
And for the first time since I left Paris, I allow myself to wonder if that was the wrong choice.
28
OTTO
Teal and purple collide in midair, fighting for possession. The ball lands wide, left of the goal. The Portland player pivots, knocking her defender into the post. The huddle of players gathers, then parts as the referee’s whistle sounds, stopping play. He beckons with one hand, calling the trainers on the field.
I’m already in motion, unaware of anything except shrinking the distance between me and that end of the field.
The Portland players have scattered outside the box, separating themselves from the teal Siege jerseys surrounding Claire.
“Back up,” I bark, reaching the goal.
They do because I’m their coach. Because I’m supposed to be an authority figure with answers, not a panicked spectator. There’s a reason family members aren’t seated on the sidelines during matches. I try to recall that, to rein in my spiraling emotions. To keep them off my face at the very least.
Claire is conscious, sitting up with her elbows resting on her knees. The band around my chest loosens a little, panic receding as I scan her over and see no visible signs of injury.
“Caldwell?” I crouch on the turf beside her.
“I’m fine,” she says, reaching up to gingerly touch her forehead. She winces.
“Let me look.” I gently grip her chin, tilting her face so I can see where her head collided with the goalpost.
Red is blooming along her temple, and there’s a small cut just above her eyebrow. Shallow and less than a half-inch long, but welling blood.
I drop my hand fast, aware of the eyes on us. “You are out.”
She exhales, “I’m fine.”
I hear the waver in her voice—the fear below the adrenaline. As it fades, the pain will appear.
“You willbefine. Right now, you are bleeding, and you need a concussion protocol.”
