Kulti

It sounds pretty stupid to say that I felt like a small weight had been lifted off my chest, but it was the truth.

While this new and ever-so-slightly improved version of Kulti—at least the coach edition—wasn’t nice or even polite, he was present and in the moment during each practice. I was pretty sure he didn’t actually know any of our names because all he did was call us by our numbers, but the point was, he was actually calling out our numbers. Like they were curse words, sure, but he was speaking. He was participating, and every player on the field soaked in his suggestions and demands.

We won the first three games of the preseason by more than four points and managed to keep the opposing team to no more than one goal a game.

Was it because he suddenly gave a shit and was giving us pointers? I wouldn’t give him that much credit. We usually won period, but whatever, winning was winning.

I could live with that.

We practiced, we played and continued the repetitive cycle.

Kulti stayed on his side of the field and I stayed on mine, and if by chance our eyes happened to meet, we looked at each other and, as amicably and indifferently as possible, we looked away.

That totally worked for me.

“Do you want to go watch a movie later?” Jenny asked right before lunging to the right to block one of the penalty kicks I’d just taken at her. She blocked it in time. Bah.

“Maybe.” From off the side of the field, Gardner kicked another ball for me to attempt another shot. “I was thinking of having a boxed wine type of night.”

She snickered. “What happened?”

Of course she’d understand that something had driven me to drink. “I talked to my sister on the phone last night and she called me a know-it-all, nosey bitch after I told her she needed to chill out and quit giving our dad a hard time. Every time I talk to him on the phone, she’s always yelling at him for something or another. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with her.”

She grinned at me. Boxed wine was our cheat meal-slash-comfort food. Nothing said how truly crappy you were feeling like boxed wine. But hopefully it wouldn’t come down to that. It wouldn’t… I hoped. But apart from waking up aggravated because of my conversation with Ceci the night before, I’d just felt a little on edge all morning. Pissed off maybe, though I wasn’t sure what the hell I had to be mad about. It was just one of those days, I guess.

“I’m sure she’ll grow out of it eventually.” Jenny offered what I’d already considered years ago when Ceci’s hormones kicked in and she began going through these phases. Sometimes we were best friends, and then suddenly I was her worst enemy in the universe.

“I hope so. I’ve told her a hundred times that there’s no comparison between any of us. She knows Mom would have rather I’d chosen something else to do with my life, but she still acts like she’s the black sheep of the family. She thinks she’s the letdown, because according to her she’s not good at anything.” I rolled my eyes. “Such a drama queen. I wasn’t like that when I was younger. Were you?”

Jenny shook her head. “No, but my older sister was the devil. She used to hide my cleats, draw penises on them with a Sharpie, and stab my practice balls because she thought it was funny.”

We made eye contact with each other and then burst out laughing together. “You win, Jen. Holy shit.”

She made a little curtsy in acknowledgment.

I backed up four steps and eyed the top right of the goal, making my way like I was aiming in that direction, but at the last minute, kicked the ball left. Nailed it.

“Good one, Sal!” Gardner cheered from his spot. I gave him a thumbs up.

Jenny frowned but waved me on. “Another one.”

I backed up five steps and aimed for the right of the goal, chest level. Jenny’s outstretched hands managed to block the shot and made the ball go flying out. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted someone blocking the ball’s rogue trajectory with his chest.

It was Kulti.

Holy crap, it was like a high-definition flashback of him from a few years ago.

He let the ball roll down his sternum and onto his knee, where he bounced it a few times. Somehow I just knew to take a step away, just like Jenny knew to squat a little to get into position to block the shot that was coming. In the blink of an eye, Kulti let the ball fall to the top of his foot, one bounce and then another, and then it was whizzing through air, lightning-fast in his signature way, on a one-way ticket into the goal.

Then it got detoured by Jenny’s freakishly large hands.

“Holy shit!” yelled Gardner.

I clasped my hand over my mouth in shock.

How I didn’t make a big deal out of the block, much less manage not to say anything, amazed me. I was an adult most of the time.

“Hey, pass me the ball,” I called out to her, giving her this ‘dang, girl’ look that showed how impressed I was. I mean, Jenny was the best goalkeeper on the team. She was probably one of the best goalkeepers in the last decade but… whoa. Kulti had been one of the best players in the world, ever.

She started to do a little bow before eyeing Kulti on the side of the field, and she stopped, thinking better of it. She’d just blocked his shot; maybe it wouldn’t be the best idea to rub it in his face. Maybe. But seeing her do it motivated me. I let the ball stop where it finished rolling, took two steps back and went for it. The shot just barely cleared the top of the frame, swallowed by the net. Score.

“Once more,” Kulti called out from his previous spot off to the side of the field.

Gardner passed him a ball. The King took two long steps back, eyed the round white object and then eyed the goal, and he went for it. The ball sailed through the air, a quick sharp arc that flew—and hit the side bar of the goal.

What the hell was happening?

“Again.”

Jenny passed him the ball the third time. He backed up again and went for it. That time, it did manage to escape Jenny’s reach and once more, it was just short of making it in the net. I don’t think I’d ever seen this man miss a penalty kick—ever. Ever. Not once in any tournament or season game. Never. There were videos on the internet of him nailing ridiculous shots that defied gravity, nature and pure good luck.

I made sure to school my features so that I wouldn’t have an expression on my face that gave away how surprised I was. If I were him… oh man. I’d want to crawl under a rock and die. And if he still had a fraction of the ego he did before… Jenny met my eyes in silence for a moment before she tipped her face back to make it seem like she was wiping her eyes. I was well aware of the fact that I should have looked around or pretended like I hadn’t just seen Kulti miss three shots. It was a sign of the apocalypse.

Unfortunately instead of looking anywhere else, I looked right at him, trying to figure out what the hell had just happened. It’d been two years since he’d retired, so obviously he probably wasn’t playing anywhere near as much as he used to. But, regardless.

Poop. Poop.

Okay, right. He was human. Humans made mistakes.

I felt myself nibbling at my bottom lip and looked from side to side. Scratching the tip of my nose, I waved Jenny forward. “Another ball, please.”

She nodded way too sharply and threw a ball overhead. I stopped it with my chest and let it fall to the ground. I backed up even further and intended to let the ball arc up high to make it into the net. Jenny really went for it, the ball tipping off her fingertips, but it still managed to get past her and make it in. I almost cheered, almost, but then I remembered Kulti was there, and I reined it in.

“Let’s do some upper body work today,” the fitness coach called out from the edge of the field.

We went about grabbing things lying around and put them up. I couldn’t help but think about what had just happened. Once we were done, Jenny and I sort of wandered together toward the section of the field where they’d set up some suspension equipment for body weight exercises. The moment we met up, bumping our shoulders against each other, I held a hand out to her, palm facing up.

Jenny slapped her big Hulk-smash hand down to mine in a low-five, each of us giving the other a discreet, sly smile. Sure my palm felt like it got hit with a sledgehammer, but I managed not to wince.

I squeezed her fingers. “Freaking ninja skills.”

She chuckled and thankfully refrained from squeezing my fingers back. “I know, right?”

We both laughed.

I’m not positive why I turned around. Whether it was to check and make sure no one was too close behind to overhear what we were saying, or whether it was because my subconscious had picked up on something being different, but I did. I looked over my shoulder and met that distinctively familiar stare.

Maybe for all of ten seconds, I felt bad for celebrating that Jenny had not only blocked Reiner Kulti’s shots, but that I’d managed to score where he hadn’t. Ten seconds of guilt, possibly.

Then I really thought about it and decided I had no reason to feel bad or ashamed. Whatever the hell was going on with him was his business. Wasn’t it? I practiced and practiced some more to keep my skills on track.

But still… how in the hell had he missed so many shots? What a sucker. What a human, mistake-making sucker.

The next day, toward the end of practice, I was working on my PKs again—penalty kicks—this time with one of the other goalkeepers on the team. The woman was about my age and it was her first year on the Pipers after playing in New York for the past two seasons. She was good, but she wasn’t on Jenny’s level yet.

That was the point of practice though, wasn’t it?

The goalkeeping coach was standing off to the side, monitoring us as we practiced against each other for the second time since this season had begun.

I reared back a couple of steps and went in with my right foot, only at the very last minute, switching it up to kick forward with my left. The ball went in with a satisfactory journey as the coach stepped forward to talk to PJ, the goalkeeper, about what she could have done differently.

“You’re anticipating it,” she said. “It’s because you know Sal that you think she’s going to keep going to that right foot when she strikes, but if you didn’t know her, you would have noticed…”

When they kept talking for a couple more minutes, I walked over a few feet and started volleying one of the balls lying around on my knee. I used to do it for hours, to see how long I could keep the ball in the air with whatever body part was closest, my knees, chest, head or foot, every and any combination that included those body parts or my feet. For practice, for fun, both were so tightly wound together they were one and the same. Rain or shine, I could do it in the garage or outside.

“Sal, can you go for it again?” PJ asked.

I dropped the ball and nodded at her. “Same thing?” I checked with the coach, who gave me a nod in response. All right. Six steps back to spice it up; I decided to try the same fake-out again, thinking that she’d assume I’d try to get her with my other foot next time to catch her off-guard. That time, she was watching like a hawk and only just barely missed blocking the ball. Another ball came at me from the goalkeeping coach’s direction and I went for another shot. It went in again.

When the coach approached PJ again, I took in the other girls on the team to see what they were doing. That was when I saw Kulti standing about fifteen feet away, watching me.

Not knowing what else to do I gave him a smile that was probably a lot more grim than it needed to be. Awkward all right, it was downright awkward. Jenny yelled in the background as one of the defenders nailed a shot on her.

He didn’t look away and neither did I. So…

PJ was standing off to the side of the goal with her coach. When I looked back, Kulti was still there. I’m not sure what the hell I was thinking or doing, but I thought back on his missed shots the day before and the next thing I knew, I kicked the ball I’d been using over to him.

If he was surprised that I kicked it over, his face didn’t register it. When those murky eyes met mine again, I tipped my head in the direction of the goal just barely. A silent ‘go for it.’

I wasn’t a very good goalie; I didn’t have the fearlessness in me that was required when people kicked super-fast balls at my face. So was I going to try and block? Hell no. I didn’t want my face coming between a man that had been the leading scorer and a net.

As I turned and began walking back toward the goal, a white object shot past me. It went in effortlessly. I didn’t miss the look PJ or the goalkeeping coach shot each other as they realized who had just kicked the ball, but I wasn’t surprised when neither one of them said a word or made a move to retrieve the ball. I went in, grabbed it and threw it overhead in Kulti’s direction, getting out of the way a second later so that I could watch him go for it again.

For the first time in a long time, at least long enough in recent history, he didn’t let me down. Another shot soared through the hot spring-summer air and caught the back of the net. I didn’t smile or make a big deal out of it as we did it twice more. Me getting the ball and throwing it back at him, Kulti kicking it in.

Four times total, that was it.

It was… I wasn’t sure how to describe it. Beautiful was lame. Nostalgic was weird. It was something to witness in person. This man I’d seen on television a hundred times playing in person just feet away—it was definitely something.

But I’d done this thousands of times with other people, and I reminded myself that it wasn’t any more special because this was Reiner Kulti. It sort of reminded me of when I worked with kids during the youth camps and how excited they were when they improved. Sure he didn’t smile or thank me for kicking a ball back to him, but I let the moment sink in. Just for a second, I let myself accept that this was Reiner ‘The King’ Kulti whom I was kicking a freaking ball to.

And then I looked at PJ and asked if she wanted to keep practicing.

“You know, I was thinking we’d have a better turnout by now,” Jenny noted from her place right next to me.

With a sad look around the bleachers surrounding the field we usually practiced on, I felt inclined to agree with her. While the college team’s stands were decently filled considering it was a weekday, our side had exactly thirty people. Thirty people total.

Needless to say, it wasn’t anything out of the normal for a preseason game. But with the way everyone had been hyping up having the German on staff, and how it would help out the team, we’d all been expecting more.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I told her. Every game so far had low numbers, and that was even more sad considering that at least a third of the people in the audience had Kulti jerseys on. My money was on the fact that they weren’t even really paying attention to the game and were instead focusing on the brown-haired man who sat in the sun the entire game, actually paying attention but managing not to say any of his reassuring words of ‘is that what you all call a pass?’ He gave us commentary during practices, but he’d yet to make any suggestions during a preseason game. Whatever.

“Actually, I heard that they were only posting the regular season games on the website, and that they weren’t putting playing times for any of our preseason games. The only people with times are season ticket-holders or friends and family,” Genevieve, the player sitting on my other side explained, though we hadn’t been speaking to her.

That was interesting. “Really?” Jenny and I both asked at the same time.

Genevieve nodded. “Yeah. For security or something like that, I think. It was an agreement his management and the owners had to come to before he took the job. At least that’s what my friend in the office said.” She didn’t have to be specific about who he was. “Too many psychos would lose their crap and try to come watch him for free.”

That made way too much sense.

I eyed the German sitting at the far end of the bench from a side-view. What would that be like? To have psycho fans that would stalk you, or possibly be such a danger to you, that an entire association had to agree to not post times you’d be present without putting you at risk? I couldn’t imagine that. I didn’t want to. The simple idea of it made me feel claustrophobic.

He was just minding his own business, living his life, and…

Poop.

I faced forward again to watch what was left of the game.

We won. Again.

After the two teams high-fived each other in good sportsmanship and we congratulated each other for kicking ass, we were all ready to leave. There was still some equipment around the field we’d finished using and I wasn’t one of those people who just pretended not to see it and left. It made me feel bad, so I went ahead and started grabbing things, helping the rest of the staff along with a couple other players that hadn’t immediately taken off.

“Thanks for helping out,” Gardner called out as we walked right past each other, me heading toward the bag as he walked away from it.

I nodded at him. “Sure, G.” My parents hadn’t raised me to be a lazy ass.

There was a sudden loud yell—a scream really. High and just barely distinctively male, it made my ears hurt at the same time it embarrassed me because it was almost deranged-sounding. Sure enough, the noise had originated from way too close. A man was halfway on the field, his gaze locked on the six-foot-two retiree about ten feet away from me, shoving dirty towels into a bag.

I watched as the man let out another shriek—it was a happy one, I guess—and took two baby-bird steps forward before stopping again.

“Kulti?” he wavered the name, and then he went charging.

I’m sure I stood there with my mouth open in awe as Kulti took it all in stride, smiling gently for what had to be the first time I’d ever seen—possibly ever?— and made it seem like it wasn’t a big deal at all that this guy was flipping out. I didn’t stare, but I kept an eye on them, watching as Kulti talked to his fan in a low voice, signed something the man presented him, and gave him a handshake while the remaining players finished putting equipment up. Out of the corner of my eyes, I watched as he looked around the field. There were only four other people; one coach, two other players and me.

He still kept on looking around like someone would magically appear. Over the course of the next five minutes, he glanced up five more times. It was finally on the last look-around that I sighed and realized what he was doing.

He was searching for help.

By the looks of it, no one else in the general vicinity seemed to be catching on, or they just were unwilling to help. That little voice in my head that seemed to be my conscience reminded me that if I didn’t help him I’d feel guilty later.

Not that it made it any easier.

One more sigh and I started walking toward the German, bag over my shoulder, hands knotted behind my back; I thought about what I was going to say to get him out of his encounter. Kulti looked up as soon as I got about halfway to him, his features calm and even as he listened the fan talking.

I raised my eyebrows and made my eyes go wide in a ‘just go along with it’ gesture.

He blinked in response.

While I was a shitty liar, I could bend the truth so I wasn’t really lying… mostly. I plastered on a smile as soon as the fan saw me coming. “Hi,” I greeted him before turning my attention to Kulti. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but would you mind helping me change my tire, please?”

Yeah, I almost winced at myself for inventing such a girly make-believe situation. I could damn well change my own tire. When I moved away from my parents for the first time, I made sure to look up an instructional video and watch it enough times that the steps were ingrained in my memory. But it wasn’t like anyone else knew that. Plus, it’d been the first thing that had popped into my head when trying to think of an excuse to save Kulti.

There was no hesitation on his behalf when he nodded and said way too sincerely, “Of course.” The German Chocolate Cake—which I was not a fan of, for the record—turned his attention back to the other man and quickly thanked him for his support and something about it being a pleasure meeting him. Before I knew it, The King was walking alongside me across the field in the direction of the parking lot.

I repeat, Kulti was walking alongside me.

Poop. Poop. Poop.

I took a mental breather and swallowed, glancing at the man next to me.

“Don’t turn around,” he ordered in a low voice.

All right. The ‘how about you don’t tell me what to do’ lived and died in a split second right on my lips.

Instead, I shot him an annoyed glance.

He happened to be looking right at me as I did it. Fantastic.

Almost as if he could read my mind, he explained, “He’s watching. I’m sure of it.”

“All right.” I scratched at the place behind my ear as we kept walking, stepping over the curb that led to the parking lot. “Do we need to pretend like you’re actually helping me?”

“Let me take a look when we get to your car.” He said the longest sentence I’d ever heard from him.

I nodded and steered him toward the little brown Civic parked on the second row. “This is me.”

Kulti made a noise of acknowledgment as we came to my car. Popping the trunk open, I threw my stuff inside and watched him angle his body so he could look back at the field nonchalantly. I wasn’t exactly known for being inconspicuous—Eric liked to refer to me as an elephant—so I didn’t bother trying to look.

Instead I looked at the tattoo that barely peeked out from beneath his shirtsleeve, and the small scars that had to have been edited out of all the pictures he’d had taken over the years because I’d never seen them before. I noticed the way so much red mixed with the brown of his facial hair that had started growing in. Tall and still in fantastic shape, my poor, stupid, stupid heart gave a little thump in recognition of an attractive man.

Then I stomped it to death and reminded myself he was just a guy. I’d grown up around guys. They weren’t anything special. They were fun, funny and complete pains in the asses just like women, who were also fun and funny.

I was fine. Totally fine.

So maybe he had a slight accent, okay. And he’d won a few championships. Right.

But he wasn’t a god. He hadn’t found a cure for cancer. And he’d upset my dad, even if he’d made up for it.

I was one hundred and eighty percent fine.

Apparently from the looks of it, his face was a little flushed. I didn’t need to glance at the field to know we were still being watched.

“He’s looking?” I asked quietly, like his fan could hear me.

Kulti nodded, the sunlight hitting his face just right so he looked just as young as he had fifteen years ago.

“Okay, then let’s pretend to change my tire real quick. I have to get to work.” It wasn’t like I’d get in trouble with Marc or anything if I was late, but I still didn’t like taking advantage of him or screwing him over. The sooner we got started, the sooner we finished.

The German made a face when I told him I needed to get to work but didn’t say another word. I got the wheel lock key out of my glove compartment, jack out of my trunk and pulled the spare out, just to be safe. Was I actually going to change it? No. But I’d go through all the steps and make it seem like we did.

We gave each other side glances as I crouched down on the concrete, as he did the same. I handed him the tire iron and let him loosen a bolt.

“I know how to change my own tire,” I felt the need to tell him for some reason, as if not knowing made me less of a person.

Those green-brown orbs slid back over in my direction as he loosened the rest of the bolts.

I slid the jack to him and watched as he put it under the axel.

“Don’t turn around,” he said once he’d gone through the long act of raising the car and pretending like he was taking the bolts completely off. What a freaking actor.

No argument or question came out of my mouth. I just crouched there with him as we pretended to change my tire for a few more minutes. Eventually he finished and we stood up. It wasn’t until then that Kulti turned around to look back at the field.

“The coast is clear?” I asked.

“Yes,” he responded in that low voice that caught my interest a little more than it should have.

I nodded and lifted up my shoulders. “All right.” What was I supposed to say after that? I wasn’t sure and from the looks of it, he wasn’t either. Okay. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then,” I offered up, unsure.

Kulti gave me a sharp nod. No thanks, nada.

One awkward smile and two retreating footsteps, I deposited the jack and the spare into the trunk. I got into the car and let myself grip the steering wheel for a second. Just as I was pulling out of the parking lot, I looked in my rearview mirror and watched Kulti make his way toward a black car parked off the curb in the lot.

He got into the back seat, not the driver’s.