“I will stay,” I say. “No need to change the plan.”
Kluvberg’s season ended a few days ago. And there’s nothing else for me to rush home for.
Eliza smiles. “I was hoping you’d say that. I hope it goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway: you’ve been an enormous asset to the Siege this season. I know it’s been a challenging time for you personally, and the entire organization appreciates your contributions. I trusted her judgment, but Saylor undersold you, frankly.”
I laugh. “That sounds right.”
“I also wanted to mention, the Boston Sports Foundation is having their annual gala in a few weeks. Eloise Knight, the Siege’s general manager, personally asked that I invite you. It’s a charity event first and foremost, but it will also be a fun evening. I’ll be there, along with Meg and Nicole, and so will representatives from all of Boston’s professional sports leagues. Team owners and political figures tend to attend as well. I’m sure you’ve attended similar events before. Someone from the front office will email you all the details.”
I nod. “Sounds good.”
“Enjoy your day off.” Eliza grabs her bag, then departs.
Leaving me alone with all the thoughts I’m trying not to think about.
29
CLAIRE
“What are you doing?” Cassidy exclaims.
I glance up, my hand frozen mid-stroke. “Frosting?”
I say it as a question, but it’s fairly obvious.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” she informs me, walking over to the fridge and pulling out an assortment of lemonades.
I sigh, resuming the process of icing Tommy’s birthday cake. Today is his party. “I’m fine, Cassidy.”
I woke up with a headache. Every time I woke up, which was every two hours, thanks to my concerned sister and her online research.
The Siege medical staff cleared me. I passed the concussion evaluation and haven’t experienced any of the symptoms that indicate anything might be wrong. My hair is down, the curls mostly concealing the bruise by my hairline. Painkillers are managing the lingering ache from my collision with the post.
But Cassidy is still freaked out. She, Josh, and Tommy were all at the game last night. We literally carpooled since I’m without a car, which worked out well because I didn’t have to drive home after leaving the game early.
My sister hasn’t been to many soccer games. That wasn’t the first time I’d left a game to be evaluated, after a messy tackle or a bad header or a collision with another teammate.
When I told Cassidy that, she frowned and said, “Maybe you should retire.” She followed it up with a sly mention of how “romantic” it was that my coach ran onto the field to check on me.
Two topics I’ve avoided discussing with her—leaving soccer and Otto—and at least I could claim being tired and not feeling great as an excuse to dodge the subjects. Which was when Cassidy pulled out her phone to set a series of alarms throughout the night.
“Seriously, Claire,” she says, walking over, “I have everything handled. Josh will be here soon to help. So will—so will Dad and Lindsey.”
The soy milk I ate with my breakfast cereal curdles in my stomach at the reminder. “I want to do it,” I reply stubbornly.
Mom would always stay up late the night before my or Cassidy’s birthdays, making a homemade cake to celebrate. The last one she made was for my eighteenth birthday, nearly a decade ago. I offered to make Tommy’s this year. Followed the same recipe, written out in Mom’s messy scrawl. We’ll visit her later this week, on Tommy’s actual birthday, but we agreed that her attending today’s party would be overwhelming and confusing for her.
“It looks just like hers,” Cassidy says quietly.
I clear my throat. “Thanks.”
My sister studies me for a few seconds as I continue to smear chocolate frosting on the cake. “If you’re really fine?—”
“I am,” I interject.
“Then you’re coming out for drinks with me and Josh tonight.”
I groan. “What? No.”
