“Yep, Wagner signed off since I’ll only miss one practice. Sophia’s coming too. We’ll spend more time on a plane than in Boston, basically, but it’s worth it to see Tripp. And you, of course.”
Will and I chat for a few more minutes before he ends the call. It’s past seven there, and he and Sophia are headed over to Beck and Saylor’s for dinner.
If I were in Kluvberg, there’s a fifty-fifty chance I would’ve gone too. Even odds because, as much as I enjoy spending time with my teammates and their significant others, hanging around two happy couples while you’re single sort of sucks.
I abandon my spot at the kitchen counter and head for the couch. It takes about ten steps. The furnished apartment I’m staying in is about a hundredth of the space I’m accustomed to living in. It would probably bother me less if I had somewhere to go. People to see. I’m in an unfamiliar city filled with strangers, except for the one person I’ve met before, who’s the same woman I’d voluntarily avoid.
Once I’m settled on the cushions, I open my laptop and search the Siege roster. It takes longer to type—to do everything—one-handed, but I manage.
The roster is sorted by jersey number, so she’s in the second row.
I stare at her headshot, wishing she’d done something drastic to her appearance. Her bright smile and curly ponytail make it harder to convince myself it’s been six years since I last saw her.
I navigate to Bookmarks next, clicking the first link.
“Why do you have a US women’s soccer game saved on here?” Juliette asked once while borrowing my laptop.
“It’s a good match,” I replied, like I’d ever had the balls to watch it in its entirety and judge so for myself.
I battled against the urge to question why she was browsing through my Bookmarks in the first place. We weren’t engaged yet. Weren’t even living together.
“WithAmericansplaying?” she responded, laughing.
Juliette’s French accent always sounded sophisticated, even when she acted childish.
I didn’t answer. If we’d been discussing the men’s team, I’d have jumped on board with bashing them.
But I couldn’t do that to Claire.
Not when I’d already done too much. And…not enough.
The video’s a full recording. Coverage starts with commentators discussing the stars on both sides. Most of the conversation on the US team is centered around Saylor Scott, anticipating another stellar performance from Beck’s now wife.
I zone out for the first half, my attention sharpening when players return after halftime. I mostly watch the ticking clock, hating each higher minute, knowing what’s coming.
Then I hear it. “And what a moment for Claire Caldwell, who’s subbing in for Sierra Sanders. Caldwell, out of Boston?—”
I slam the laptop shut. Lurch forward, resting my good elbow on my left knee and ignoring the way my shoulder protests the abrupt movement. The burger I ate for lunch is a leaden lump in my stomach.
Six years later, Istillcan’t watch the end of that damn game.
And tomorrow, I’ll have to see her.
4
CLAIRE
When I’m halfway across the parking lot, a “Hey,” is grunted to my left.
I recognize the low grumble instantly.
My reply to Reyna Rodman isn’t much more coherent.
Waking up early for a jog along the Charles sounded like a better idea when I set my alarm last night. I’ve never been a morning person, but another thing I’ve learned about kids since Tommy moved in: they don’t like to sleep in. Or tiptoe around quietly.
The cold air and exercise woke me up fast, but I spent the subsequent drive to the Siege’s practice facility wishing I’d slept in an extra hour instead. If we were starting with drills, like we normally do, I’d be fine. But first on today’s agenda is a team meeting.
I chug half of my remaining coffee in one go. The bitter liquid burns my mouth. Cassidy bought groceries yesterday, part of her apology slash thank-you for my picking up Tommy the other day. Unfortunately, she forgot to buy soy milk. I avoid dairy—not as a personal preference, but because I’m lactose intolerant—so I was stuck with black. It tastes more caffeinated this way at least.
