Kulti

“Casillas!” Gardner yelled.

I stopped, just like that, in the middle of the game I was in. The ball was right by my feet after I’d taken it away from one of the defenders I was playing against. Said defender was now on the ground.

Things had gotten a little intense.

I held my hand out to the girl and helped pull her to her feet. She knew there were no hard feelings. She’d gone for the ball at the same time I had, and obviously only one of us was going to get it. Needless to say, we both really wanted it. With only a few days left before the start of the season, we all thought we were Highlanders. At one point, I had been the one knocked to the ground, I mouthed to Jenny ‘There can be only one.’ She didn’t even bother trying to be discreet when she burst out laughing.

But it was true, mostly.

When Gardner didn’t get to the point, I yelled, “What is it?”

He held up a hand before turning around, discussing something with the German. He was standing a few feet to the side and behind the head coach, facing the field I was on. Gardner’s posture changed, he leaned forward a little bit as they spoke, his hand occasionally jabbing backward for emphasis.

I rolled the ball onto the top of my toes and tapped it into the air, bouncing it up and down.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted the special edition RK running shoes coming toward me. I looked up so quickly I lost control of the ball and let it drop. Those light-colored eyes were focused in on my face, making me so incredibly self-conscious.

How the hell had I gone from someone who didn’t really pay a lot of attention to my looks, to suddenly asking myself if I should start slapping some make-up on?

Wait. Poop. Poop. Poop.

We’d been squatting right next to each other when he ‘changed’ my tire, and that was close enough to see pores.

If I could go without make-up ninety percent of the time in front of practically everyone, I could do it in front of him. Easy. I might not be the one on the team with a cosmetics deal, but I wasn’t a troll either. And if I was, so what?

Okay, so maybe I wasn’t that above petty things, but beauty was way down the list of characteristics in life that really mattered to me. I was a good soccer player and a pretty good person. I repeated that to myself a few times before holding my head up a little higher. That mattered more to me than whether or not I had a line of men who wanted to date me.

At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

I took a deep breath in through my nose and took in those hazel-green orbs straight on. “Yes?”

He tipped his head down at the ball, still looking me dead on. It wasn’t the first time I’d talked to someone who looked at others so intensely, I’d been around high-strung self-confident people who didn’t know how to communicate in any other way. “It’s better if you do this…”

Kulti toed the ball to himself and started to move around me, making his way toward the goal as he spoke in a low voice that conveyed how tedious he found talking to be. It made sense, even if it sounded like the words were getting ripped from his throat. What he was saying and explaining made total sense. When he was finished, he kicked the ball back toward me and walked off like nothing happened.

Reiner Kulti had just dribbled the ball around me effortlessly, despite not being able to land a few PKs recently. I’d be a liar if I said that the hairs on my arms hadn’t responded to what I’d just witnessed. Having him yell your shortcomings was one thing, but actually getting on the field and participating… Jesus Louise-us.

I rubbed my tongue over my teeth and took it all in for a second.

“Thanks!” I called to his retreating back.

Was there a response? Of course not.

“What’s that look on your face for, Sally?” Harlow asked as she walked by.

“He just helped me.”

She gave me an impressed look. “Your bratwurst?”

I nodded.

“How about that? Maybe he’s finally getting his head out of his big ass and really pitching in around here.”

The fact that Harlow both noticed and commented on Kulti’s big sculpted butt amazed and amused me. I snorted and then I snorted again as we both took a quick peek at his retreating buns. They were pretty perfect. Time and gravity hadn’t affected them at all.

When we both looked back at each other a good fifteen seconds later, we shook our heads and said at the same time, “Nah.”

Some things were too good to be true.

One week and two preseason games later, the man formerly known as Silence of the Lambs had branched out to make exactly three other demonstrations. The second time had been again with me during another three-on-three mini-game, and the other two times had been with two of the younger forwards on the Pipers. The girls had stood there and just nodded as he moved around them. It wasn’t like I’d done much better, I shouted out a “thanks!” awkwardly both times.

But the point no one was missing was: he was helping. It was only a little, but something was something.

Were things still weird? Yes. No one really spoke to him except the staff—Grace hadn’t said anything to him since that argument they’d gotten into after Kulti had been ugly with the two Pipers. Mostly everyone gave him his distance and went about their way.

But it worked. We won all of our preseason games and life kept going for each of us.

“See you later!”

Jenny winked at me just as her phone rang and she took off toward her car. I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck with a sigh. Marc was already waiting for me at our next job, and I was incredibly tired. Insomnia had kicked me in the ass hard the night before, and I’d stayed up way too late watching half a season of Supernatural.

Grabbing my bag off the turf, I swung it over my shoulder, ignoring the pain that shot through me at the movement. Most of the girls had left already after practice finished, but I’d stayed and talked to Jenny about having dinner and a movie on Saturday. We hadn’t spent too much time together off the field since practices had begun, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d hung out with another girl outside of practice. Maybe when I’d gone to the mall with Ceci almost two months ago?

I was busy trying to remember the last time I’d spent time with someone who wasn’t Marc or Simon, my brother’s other childhood friend, when I came up to the tall man standing at the curb in the parking lot. It didn’t take more than a single brain cell to recognize who it was, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out what the hell he was doing.

He ignored me as I walked past him. To be fair, I didn’t make an effort to say anything to him either, on the way to my car. But I dropped my stuff off in the trunk and got inside, still watching the German at the curb as he looked at his phone and then held it up to his face, over and over again. In between he looked around the lot and went right back to the phone again.

I pulled out of the spot and thought about whether I’d feel bad if I kept going or not when he could have needed help. How many times had someone helped me when I needed it, damn it? Nerves squeezed my stomach as I pulled up alongside the curb and rolled the passenger window down, leaning over the center.

“Do you need help?” I asked, hesitantly.

Kulti looked up from his phone, the skin between his eyebrows already wrinkled in either annoyance or confusion that someone had stopped to do something so preposterous as to ask if he needed help. Once he saw that it was me, he just blinked. His eyebrows didn’t smooth out or anything like that, but with one last glance at his phone, he looked at me again.

I widened my eyes but kept my gaze on him. “Yes? Or no?”

He gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “Could you give me a ride?”

Could I…?

An extra-nice person wouldn’t have asked where, but I had to get to work. “Where to?” I asked slowly.

“I believe it’s called Garden Oaks,” was his answer. “Do you know where that is?”

Of course I did. Marc and I worked there every other week usually. Garden Oaks was a nice neighborhood not exactly too far or too close by; and it was just that: a neighborhood. A quiet sort of expensive neighborhood—at least for my taste, and the exact area where I’d picked him up from the bar. It wasn’t where the super-wealthy resided. On my income there was no way I could ever afford to live there unless I had five other roommates.

I smiled in response and nodded, pushing away my curiosity at what exactly he was doing in Garden Oaks. “Okay. Come on.”

He gave me a curious look but didn’t ask anything. Instead he got into the passenger seat, wordless and stiff. As soon as he was in, I was pulling out of the parking lot.

Was I taking him home?

The only answer to my mental question was silence, obviously. I hadn’t used the radio in forever and hadn’t plugged in my phone to the car’s stereo system in the distraction of having Reiner Kulti in my car. My dad was probably going to shit his pants when I told him.

Damn it. Poop. Poop. Poop.

I cleared my throat and made sure to keep my eyes on the road. “Do you need to call a towing company or something? I have a service on my phone in case of car trouble you could use.”

His attention was focused on the view outside the window. “No.”

All right. “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

“I said no,” he replied forcefully enough that I felt it in my chest.

Jesus freaking Christ. All I was trying to do was help. What a prick.

Suddenly angry with myself for making an effort to be nice to someone who obviously didn’t want it, I clenched my mouth and kept my eyes forward.

This was exactly what I got for trying. Why did I even bother anymore? Sure, he’d been nice to my dad by making up for being a freaking bag of nasty dildos, and he’d gotten me out of my crap with Cordero and given me a couple of tips on how to improve some playing skills, but it wasn’t enough. Not everyone was like this. I’d been nice to thousands of people in my life, and most didn’t act like pricks.

Especially not ones that I’d idolized.

Embarrassment at being snapped at made a knot form in my throat as I got on the freeway. For a second, I thought about turning on the radio to avoid the awkwardness that had settled in the car, but I didn’t. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and it wasn’t me who deserved to feel awkward. He did.

“What exit should I take?” I asked in a controlled voice when we were close enough.

He answered.

I exited and then asked whether to turn right or left.

Step by step, I asked him to tell me when to turn again and he did. What lane to get in, he told me. Two more turns and I was driving my car down a street I had a client on. Go figure.

Right before an immaculately landscaped two-floor modern monstrosity that seemed to take up two lots, Kulti gestured. “Here.”

I pulled the car closer to the curb and stopped, keeping my eyes forward; it was immature. I didn’t have to do that. I didn’t have to let him know that what he’d said bothered me, but I couldn’t help it. In hindsight later on, I’d curse myself for letting him see that he’d upset me, but right then I couldn’t stop myself. I just kept staring out the windshield.

I waited patiently, hands gripping the steering wheel gently.

He didn’t move. He didn’t get out. He didn’t say anything.

I didn’t look at him or ask him to get out of my car. I just waited. I could wait. I wasn’t impatient. Chin up and face relaxed, I out-waited him for what seemed like five minutes but was probably only thirty seconds.

Finally he reached for the handle and got out. There wasn’t a sigh or an apology out of his mouth, or even a freaking thank you for the ride.

The minute the door was closed, I pulled away. I didn’t peel out or act like a jackass as I tried to get away; I got back on the street and on the way to work like he hadn’t just hurt my feelings.

But he had, a little.

It was enough that I didn’t give a single shit about whether the big house in the family neighborhood was his or not. I didn’t even bother telling my dad about it.

“…like this,” he said in that deep voice with a hint of a watered-down accent in it.

I blinked at the ball on the ground and nodded. “Okay.”

“Yes?”

Scratching at my neck, I nodded again. “Got it.”

Maybe he expected me to jump for joy or kiss his feet for working with me for the third time, but I couldn’t find it in me to drag enough of a shit together to care that he had singled me out again. After having the weekend to cool off, I’d come back to practice with my head straight yesterday. Needless to say, that included me deciding to avoid Kulti as much as possible. I had better things to waste my time and energy on, and jackasses with short tempers and no manners weren’t at the top of my list.

I managed to make it through one whole practice without expending any calories on him.

Then today he decided to jump into the middle of a five-on-five game I was playing.

To be an adult, I really watched what he did and listened. I sure as hell wasn’t going to do more than that. I lifted my head and gave him an affirming nod, my face neutral. Moving around him, I went back to where I’d been and gestured to the defender I was playing against that we should restart. We did.

Fifteen seconds later Kulti interrupted us again. His long legs ate up the turf as he stopped right between us. “You’re doing it wrong,” he said, showing me what he wanted me to do differently.

I nodded and went back at it.

Another fifteen seconds of uninterrupted playing time went on before he stopped us again. “Watch. You’re not watching,” the German insisted.

I was watching. I was watching him very carefully.

“All right, I got it,” I said as soon as he’d finished his demonstration.

The other player shot me a look that I returned.

Not even ten seconds later, “Twenty-three! What the hell was that?” exploded out of Kulti’s mouth.

My hands clenched at my sides, and I asked myself, why? Why it’d been decided that this ass-wipe would make an appearance in my life ten years too late?

Taking a deep breath to steady my frustration, I put my hands on my hips and slowly faced him. “Please tell me what I did wrong because I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said before I could even comprehend the fact that words had come out of my mouth.

Catching him so off-guard must have been a testament to how much he was not accustomed to people talking back to him, or at least not accepting his word as something holy to be treasured.

Those light-colored eyes narrowed on me, and his eyelids dropped just enough to shield the interesting shade. “You would have a clearer shot if you—“ He broke off his words as he quickly changed the foot he was leading with and turned around with the ball.

I looked at him and asked someone, somewhere for patience. “Wouldn’t it be better if I passed the ball?” Of course it’d be better, I was asking a hypothetical question.

A question that he obviously didn’t understand by the way he shook his head in response. “No.”

No?

“If you have the shot, take it.”

I glanced at Genevieve, my teammate who was standing off to the side watching us, and then looked back at Kulti. “It’s not sure I’ll have it.”

“Unless you’re not paying attention or you suddenly can’t move your feet, you’ll have it,” he ground out in an irritated tone.

Fighting the urge to pinch my nostrils, I squeezed my fist tighter. “All right. Whatever you say.” Whatever you say for me usually meant yeah, sure, and then I’d end up doing whatever the hell I wanted anyway. He was wrong. What he was telling me to do was too risky, and it was selfish. But, whatever. I knew how to pick my arguments.

For some reason he didn’t look appeased by what I said at all. It was almost as if he knew I was just saying the words to get him off my back, which I was, but he didn’t know that. At least he shouldn’t.

He didn’t say anything else, and a minute later time for our game ran out. Another ten players headed out onto the field for their practice game. I watched and shouted out encouragements, Harlow receiving some of them. As much as I tried not to pay attention to Kulti, I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t stop that game to make any suggestions.

Of course not, I thought almost bitterly.

Sometime later practice ended and I found myself walking to my car. I was debating whether to try and catch a yoga class that night, or just do some serious stretching at home, when I happened to look up and find someone standing by the driver side door of my car.

Only it wasn’t just someone. It was the German.

My muscles immediately tensed up at the sight of him leaning so casually against my beloved car.

I took a calm casual breath and tried to push my emotions down as I kept walking. Kulti had his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white polyester workout shorts. He looked exactly like he had a dozen other times on a magazine cover. Show-off.

Oddly enough, I wasn’t affected in the least bit.

I felt smug and disinterested. Mostly I didn’t find myself giving a single crap that Reiner Kulti was standing by my car. Not anyone else’s, mine. He wasn’t the first guy I’d seen doing it, and he wouldn’t be the last.

My face didn’t betray me as I closed the distance between us. I didn’t think about the fact that I’d ripped my headband off as soon as I finished cooling down, that I hadn’t tweezed my eyebrows in a week or taken care of my upper lip.

My muscles were tight from exercise, I felt strong mentally, and that was more than enough for me.

Kulti’s lake-colored eyes stayed locked on my face as I walked right in front of him to pop my trunk and drop my things inside. I hadn’t finished slamming it shut when I said, “I have to get to work. Do you need something?”

“My driver isn’t here.”

So that’s why he’d gotten into the backseat the one day I saw him getting into his car, and why he’d hitched a ride with me the day before.

I left my hand on the trunk and looked at him over my shoulder, at his short hair, his stern face, his full mouth. Yeah, I still didn’t care. “Okay. Do you need to borrow my cell?”

“I need a ride,” he said in his low voice.

What was I? Driving Miss Daisy?

“Could you give me one?” he asked.

Was this real life? Was this really happening? “You want me to give you a ride again?”

To give him credit, he didn’t break eye contact once. “It would be appreciated.”

It would be appreciated. My eyes almost crossed in response. “I have to get to work,” I told him in a calm voice because it was the truth. Sure I was meeting Marc at a house about a mile away from Kulti’s, but he didn’t know that. Also it wasn’t like spending one-on-one time with an ungrateful jerk was at the top of my list of things I wanted to do.

The look he gave me in response said that he didn’t exactly believe me. At all. For one second, I felt guilty for lying. Then I remembered how I’d tried being friendly with him time and time again and for what? To get snapped at? I didn’t owe him a thing.

The corners of his mouth tightened and a noticeable deep breath made its way out of lungs that used to carry him across the length of a full-sized soccer field effortlessly. The “please” caught me totally off-guard.

I faltered. For one split second I faltered, and then I found myself again and reached for the door handle. My attention stayed forward. I almost said I was sorry, but that would be a lie. “I’m sure just about anyone would give you a ride if you asked nicely.”

A hand that wasn’t my own pressed down on my window, long fingers with short fingernails extended wide, his palm as big as I remembered from our handshake. “I’m asking you.”

“And I’m not the only person that can give you one. I need to get to work.” I jerked the handle, but the door didn’t budge. At all.

“Casillas.”

Holy shit. My name came out of his—

Poop.

I glanced at him over my shoulder; this wasn’t a big deal. So he’d said my name when I didn’t think another player’s name had crossed his lips… hell. Ever?

“I would appreciate it,” his deep voice insisted.

I didn’t say a word, I just jerked on the handle again.

His forearm flexed as he held my door down. “I can pay you,” he offered, casually.

The hell?

No one in my life had ever offered to give me money for doing them a favor, because it wasn’t necessary. Here was a person who made more money retired than I would in a decade. He had a freaking driver yet, he wanted to pay me to give him a ride.

Ugh.

What was I doing? I might feel like a badass right now telling him that I wouldn’t take him home, or wherever he was going, but later on there was no doubt I’d feel like an asshole for not doing a favor that was easily within my reach. I didn’t want to be that person who was an asshole just to be an asshole; it wouldn’t make me any better than this jerk-off.

I fought the urge to tip my head back and groan; instead I let out a resigned sigh and waved him on. “I’ll take you.”

Kulti blinked and then quickly nodded, getting in. Wordlessly, I pulled out of the lot and made my way in same direction we’d gone on Friday.

“Same place?” I asked with only the slightest hint of an attitude in my tone as I pulled onto the freeway.

“Yes” was his solitary answer.

All right. This time I did turn on the radio, and I drove quietly to the same house in the same family neighborhood I’d just been in.

Just as I was pulling over he started shifting in his seat, and I glanced over to see him pulling a slim black wallet out.

Jesus. I pulled over to the curb in front of the square white stone home. “Don’t.”

His silence was deafening as he sat there, duffel on his lap, one hand on the car door, and the other holding a slim coffee-colored leather wallet.

“I’m giving you a ride as a favor. I don’t want your money,” I explained to him carefully.

He started to pull out a bill from his wallet regardless.

“Hey, I’m not joking. I don’t want your money.”

Kulti started to shove a fifty at me. “Here.”

I reached up and cupped his hand, crushing the bill between us. “I don’t want it.”

“Take it.” He pushed against me.

I pushed back. “No.”

“Stop being stubborn and take the money,” Kulti argued, his face exasperated.

Well if he thought he was the only one getting aggravated, he was dead wrong. “I said no. I don’t want it. Just get out.”

It was his turn to start with the one-word replies. “No.”

Screw this. I put some muscle behind it and slowly started pushing our hands back toward him. Well I made it two inches before he realized what I was doing and then began pushing back, only he was stronger and he advanced more than two inches.

“Quit it. I’m not joking. Take your money.” I grunted a little, putting more weight into my push, almost futilely.

Those green-brown eyes flicked up to with an even look that had annoyance written all over it. “I said I would pay you—“

“I don’t want your money, you hardheaded ass—“

Oh dear God.

I stopped pushing the second I realized what I said. It must have been so unexpected that he wasn’t paying attention because the next thing that I knew, he was punching me in the shoulder.

It didn’t hurt at all.

But for some reason, instinct had me saying “oww” anyway.

We both looked like we’d violated the other. Like I’d backstabbed him for saying ‘oww’ and I’m sure I looked at him like I couldn’t believe he had the nerve to hit me. Sure it was an accident, and an accident that didn’t hurt on top of that, but…

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, looking down at his hand like he couldn’t believe what he’d done.

I opened my mouth and then I closed it.

Reiner Kulti had just punched me in the shoulder.

I had driven him home, argued with him over how I didn’t want his money, and then he punched me in the shoulder.

I closed my eyes, pinched my nose and burst out laughing.

“Get outta here,” I said when I started laughing harder.

“I didn’t mean to—“

I threw my head back against the headrest and felt myself shake with how stupid this was. “I know. I know you didn’t. But just get out, it’s fine. I need to get to work before you punch me in the other shoulder.”

“This isn’t funny,” he snapped. “It was an accident.”

Suddenly I stopped laughing and snapped right back at him, “I know it was, jeez. I was just messing with you.” I gave him a wide-eyed look. “A joke, do you know what that is?”

I mean, I’d already gone for calling him a hardheaded ass, and he hadn’t thought twice about it, but that might have been because he’d punched me immediately afterward.

“Yes, I know what a joke is,” he grumbled back.

Whether it was because I was tired of this shit, his shit or whatever, I found myself caring less and less who he was and how I should probably treat him differently. Maybe not totally, but at least a little bit. “I’m happy to hear that.” I scooped the fifty bucks that had fallen on my lap after the meeting of his fist and my shoulder and tossed it at him. “I really do need to get to work though, so…” I tipped my head in the direction of the door at his side, indifferent to how rude I was being.

Did he look confused that I was kicking him out? I think so but he didn’t argue, and he took the wadded-up money and held onto it as he got out of the car. Straightening up, he held the door in one hand and looked inside. “Thank you.”

Finally.

I blinked at him and nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Just like that, he shut the door.

“Can you confirm that his license is suspended?” the eager man asked.

I rubbed at my eyebrow with the back of my hand and stared at the reporter awkwardly.

What I could confirm was that he had an unreliable driver and I had yet to see him behind the wheel. Then again, didn’t rich people have drivers? I’d met a few who did. It wasn’t an uncommon thing. Hell, if I could afford it, I’d have someone drive me around too. Driving in traffic, in Houston traffic, sucked.

But his question nagged at me, right alongside the incident at the bar. Marc had given me the impression he hadn’t carried around any car keys with him, and I’d just never gotten around to investigating or finding out if Kulti had left a car at the bar or not. It wasn’t like I’d really cared anyway.

“I can’t confirm anything; I don’t know. I’m sorry, but I really do need to meet up with the team, I’m running late.” I was. I’d overslept big time.

“Have you seen him drive?” The man was relentless.

I hadn’t but I still wasn’t a dick enough to admit it. He might have been an asshole, but obviously he liked his privacy, and I wasn’t about throw him under the bus. Then there was the whole issue with Pipers’ management being really uptight about all things Reiner Kulti-related, so I sure as hell wasn’t about to dig myself into that hole. What did that mean? I needed to abort this mission, pronto. That’s exactly what I did.

“I haven’t paid attention. I’m sorry, but I really do need to get going. Sorry!” I hated being rude but in the long run, I’d rather come off as a jerk than turn out to be an unemployed person with a big mouth.

His license was being suspended? Wow. Really. Wow.

Whether it was true or not, and regardless of how much it wasn’t my business, I couldn’t help but think about it and how something like that could backfire on the team if the rumor got loose. Shouldn’t his agent or publicist or someone deal with it?

The longer I thought about it during practice, the more convinced I became that maybe I shouldn’t keep quiet about it. Most of the other questions I’d been asked had been harmless, but this wasn’t.

Damn it.

Finally about an hour into practice, I caught Kulti off to the side, going over our playbook. As casually as possible, I made my way over and in a voice just loud enough for only him to hear, I said, “Someone from the Houston Times this morning asked me if I knew about you having your license suspended. I don’t know anything, and that’s what I said, but I thought you should know so you can tell your PR person to take care of it, or whatever it is they do.”

It didn’t escape me that the moment the nine-letter word made its way out of my mouth, he stopped. His entire body strung itself into a tight immovable bow.

His body language wasn’t mine to analyze, I reminded myself, as I walked away to let him absorb what he’d learned.

But seriously, wouldn’t he have needed to get a DUI or a DWI to have a suspended license?

I wasn’t disappointed by the possibility that there was a chance he had one, I’d learned from a friend when I was younger that things like that were more luck-based than anything. How many people didn’t drive home after having a few drinks? Sometimes you got caught and most times you didn’t. Whatever.

Then again I’d grown up reading about Reiner Kulti’s strict regimen. How anal he was about his food and his workouts and his life in general. So…

It’s not your business. It really wasn’t, my business was on the field. I had to remind myself of that.