“I am not getting involved,” Otto calls from the kitchen.
Saylor laughs. “One of my proudest accomplishments,” she tells me.
I smile. “I’m sure. I doubt I could get a shot past him.”
Saylor’s eyes dance. “That too. But I was talking about beating Beck. Otto was just a baby goalie back then.”
“You guys have a kid to check on, yes?” Otto asks.
“Nice hospitality, Berger,” Beck drawls, then glances at Saylor. “But Tripp did text. Gigi woke up and keeps asking for you.”
Saylor somersaults upright. “Shit. Okay.”
She gives me a huge hug while Beck and Otto converse in German. I only manage to translate a few words.
“It wassogood to see you, Claire. I hope I’ll see you in LA.”
I hug her back. “Thanks, Saylor.”
Even if I choose not to retire, it’s very unlikely I’ll make the roster for the next Olympics. I’ll be nearly thirty by then, my only caps earned almost a decade ago.
But very unlikely isn’t impossible. And I can’t confidently say that I’d rather never know for sure than fail to get a national team invitation.
Saylor hugs Otto while I say goodbye to Beck. He’s been friendly this entire impromptu evening, but I feel awkward around him. Not only because he’sAdler Beck. He called or texted Otto countless times when we were together in Paris. I associate him with that tumultuous time in my life.
Saylor and Beck depart in a flurry of activity a couple of minutes later.
Without them, the apartment feels smaller, not larger, tension expanding to fill all the empty space. Otto and I havebarely spoken all night, allowing Saylor’s easy chatter to fill any silence.
“Nice place,” I comment, swallowing a large sip of my water. I’ll finish this, mention how late it is, and hightail it out of here.
“Not really mine,” he replies.
“Right.”Right. Exactly what I needed—a reminder he’s leaving soon. “Well, I should?—”
“Are you dating Blake?”
In my frazzled state, it takes me a minute to remember who Blake is and answer. “No. I don’t, um, I don’t date coworkers.”
“Are you datinganyone?”
I swallow hard. “No.”
He nods once. Decisively. “I am finished pretending, Claire.”
“What do you mean, you’re?—”
“I will not tell anyone about us. But I am not talking about Paris and everything that happened then. I am talking about pretending now. About how I still think about you.”
I fight—fighthard—to prevent those words from sinking too deep, pulling in a long, unsteady breath.
“Are you pretending, Claire?”
“I’m…”
I’m in no way prepared to have this conversation, is what I am. Somehow, celebrating my nephew’s birth spiraled into this discussion I never expected to happen. We—sort of—settled the past. We talked about it at least. But acknowledging former feelings is very different fromnow, a collision of past and present I wasn’t anticipating.
I fell for Otto fast, hard, and uninhibited. It was thrilling. Exciting. Wonderful. Devastating when it ended. And it’s normal for an experience like that to leave a lasting impression, right?
