Kulti

Exactly one week after the softball game, days after pictures had gone on the internet of Jenny, the bratwurst and I playing Uno at the airport, I had Kulti pull me aside after our cool-down following practice.

We rarely spoke during practice unless it was him calling me a different synonym for slow, or asking me if I was going to finish my passing drills in the next decade. I didn’t take it personally and tried not to think about it too much. We’d just played softball. We hadn’t gotten married.

Awkward thought.

So… whatever. I was learning and growing, and I was busy enough that this weird friendship didn’t live at the front of my brain.

“Are you playing again tonight?” Kulti whispered the question when I was close.

I kept my eyes forward, no matter how badly I wanted to look at him. “I was thinking about it.” I paused. “Do you want to go?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly. “Same time, same place?”

“Yep.” I waved at Harlow as she walked by; totally not missing the raised eyebrow she was giving me. “I’ll wait for you in the same spot.”

Kulti grunted his agreement.

We both went our own ways, wordlessly.

I couldn’t help but think about the fact that he wanted to go play again. He wanted to play softball of all things.

Then it hit me just like it had the first time; Reiner Kulti wanted to play with me. He’d asked. Again.

I was on such a one track mind that I wasn’t paying attention as I prepared to leave. My mind was on the fact that I had his phone number—poop—and that I really hoped Marc wouldn’t say anything this week either, when a reporter snagged me on the way to my car.

“Casillas! Sal!”

I slowed down and turned. A man not much older than me was sitting off the side under the shade, a tape recorder clearly visible in one hand and a messenger bag over his shoulder. Whatever media showed up was always before practice, no one ever stayed after.

“Hey,” I told him.

“I have a few questions for you,” he said quickly, rattling off his name before skipping the whole ‘if you have time part.’ I didn’t have time, but I didn’t want to be rude.

Instead I said, “Sure. Shoot.”

The first two questions were easy, normal. What I thought about analysts saying we had a tough road ahead for the championship, with the inception of two new teams in the WPL? Why would it be a tough road? I enjoyed a struggle. What we were doing to assure we would continue to move up past the regular season? He must have thought I was dumb enough to give away the imaginary tricks we had planned. No one ever wanted to hear that it was hard work, practice and discipline that were the key to winning at anything. Then finally, it happened: “What do you think about the rumors circulating that Reiner Kulti has a drinking problem that’s been kept confidential?”

Again?

I tried to think about all of my PR training in the past. There could never be any hesitation when journalists asked questions like that. You absolutely couldn’t let them see that they’d rattled you. I especially wouldn’t since I’d grown almost fond of the German bratwurst lately. Well at least I think there was more beyond his crispy exterior. “I think that he’s a fantastic coach and that rumors are none of my business.”

Fantastic coach? All right. That was stretching the truth a bit, but it was a white lie. At best I’d say he was trying.

“Has he given the impression that he might be drinking excessively?” He snapped out the question quickly.

I allowed myself to blink at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry but you’re making me feel really uncomfortable. The only thing he does excessively is push us to better ourselves in any way he can.” What I didn’t say was that he did it by yelling at us like we were the scum of the earth, but did the method work? It most definitely did. “Look, I like him. I like him a lot as a player and as a coach. He’s one of the most decorated athletes in history, and he’s a good man.” Lie? Not so much. He’d sent my dad a present. How? I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. A complete prick wouldn’t have thought twice about my little dad. “If there’s something in his past or if there isn’t, I could care less. I know him and respect him now more than ever. To me, that’s all that matters.”

“So, you’re neither confirming nor denying that there might be a chance—“

“Look, you can’t be that caliber of player without extreme self-discipline in some form. I’ve tried to drink a Coke before a game once, and it nearly killed me. I will gladly answer any questions you have about our upcoming games or practices, or just about anything else related to Pipers, but I’m not going to bad-mouth or spread gossip about someone that I value and respect when I don’t have a reason to.”

Value and respect? Meh… Another stretch of the truth.

He didn’t exactly look sure whether to believe me or not, but fortunately, I guess I’d frustrated him enough that he looked back behind me to see another player coming. Hallelujah.

“Thanks for answering my questions,” he said, not exactly grateful. But what did he expect? Me to trash talk Kulti?

I’d had people I played with in the past do that to me, and I had sworn to myself a long time ago that I would never be that person. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all, right?

The German was waiting for me in the parking lot when I pulled in that night.

Impressive.

Until I realized I hadn’t decided whether or not to tell him about Sherlock Junior asking dumb questions after practice. His response could go one way or the other, and I really didn’t know him well enough to predict which one.

By the time I grabbed all of my crap, I hadn’t made a conscious decision.

A minute later after we’d greeted each other with a, “Hi,” and a, “Hello,” on the sidewalk, I was still undecided.

But apparently, my brain had chosen for me. We had barely taken three steps forward when I blurted out, “There was another journalist asking about a supposed drinking problem.” Well it wasn’t so supposed. I wasn’t going to base his drinking off one experience, but I couldn’t forget about it either.

Kulti didn’t jerk or react in any outward way. “Who?”

I rattled off the man’s name.

“What was his question exactly?” he asked.

Word for word, I repeated what the man had asked. Slowly, making sure to watch Kulti’s face, I told him verbatim how I responded. Well, mostly. “I wouldn’t violate your trust or your image in any way.”

Those green-brown eyes looked into my own, making me think of a rusted lime. “I know you wouldn’t.”

What? That easy? He knew I wouldn’t? Nothing was ever that simple, and his easy acceptance made me feel uncertain. “Okay.” I paused. “Good.”

He did that European short nod of agreement that consisted of a chin jerk. “Thank you, Sal.”

There were two parts of that statement that had me stumbling, mentally at least.

The t-word again. Thank you.

But the most shocking in my book was… the Sal. Sal.

Honest to god, I think I said something remarkably close to, “Ermghard.” What the hell did that even mean? I had no idea, but it seemed fitting.

In a split second, I got it together and offered him a tremulous smile. “Thank… you.” Wait. What was I thanking him for? Stupid, stupid, stupid. “For that,” I explained quickly, even though it sounded more like a question than a comment. My face went all warm suddenly at the compliment he’d just paid me.

He’d given me his trust, or at least something close to it.

What do you say after that? I couldn’t think of anything intelligent that didn’t end up with me smiling like a goofball afterward, so I kept my gaze elsewhere as we approached the field.

“You came back!” Marc greeted us, his eyes immediately flashing toward Kulti, with that deer-caught-in the-headlights look. Or maybe he was constipated, both expressions were strangely similar. He’d finally started willingly speaking to me today, when he asked if I was planning on going to softball that night.

“You know I don’t like to lose.” With a smile, I eyed Kulti and tipped my head over to Marc. “Marc, Rey. Rey, Marc, again. Just in case you didn’t remember.”

Extending out his free hand, my brother’s friend shook my coach’s hand and I swear—I swear—I saw Marc eye his palm like he was never going to wash that bad boy again. We were going to need to have a talk, seriously. He was just as bad as my dad.

“Is there room for us?” I asked.

“Yeah, except I’m positive no one is going to agree to let you both be on the same team together.” A familiar arm was thrown over my shoulders. “I want to be on his team this time.”

I groaned and tried to elbow him in the ribs. “Traitor.”

“You ladies ready to play?” Simon called out from where he’d quickly gotten surrounded by multiple people.

To no one’s surprise, Kulti and I were chosen for two separate teams, in a way that told me the captains for the week had planned it, before we arrived. A look passed between the two of us that was a mix of a smirk and a grin. Splitting up into our respective teams—my team was playing defense and I’d been assigned second base—I suddenly felt like we were two boxers circling each other, or two rams about to go head to head.

This was going to be fun.

“Tag him! Tag him!” someone yelled.

It was the last inning, with only one out to go. I was playing second base, and a ball had been hit straight at first base. The player on first was barreling toward me as the first baseman ran up behind him.

One of my legs was braced behind me, the other one out in front so I could tag the runner out, if the first baseman didn’t get him first. I should have recognized the look on the guy’s face—pure determination. I was just a girl in front of someone insistent on not getting out. Muscles contracted, my hand was out to catch the ball in case first baseman decided at the last minute to throw it.

But he didn’t.

A second later the runner was on me, one foot stomping down on mine, in an attempt to make it to second. What did I do? I got the hell out of the way, even though it was too late to avoid the heavy-ass shoe on my instep.

Holy freaking shitttt.

A giant puff of air escaped my mouth, and pain flared up through my foot and shin. It was one thing to get stepped on and another to have an elephant-sized foot try and trample me.

“Out! He’s out!”

“Are you blind? He made it!”

Hands gripping my foot over my shoe, I looked up at the sky and breathed through the pain while I tried to convince myself that I was fine. Some of the players were arguing about the call, but I stood off to the side cradling my freaking foot.

“Are you going to live?”

Breathing out through my nose, I looked just slightly down to see Kulti standing in front of me, his thinner bottom lip pulled into a straight line. “I’ll be fine.” Yeah, that didn’t sound convincing at all.

From the shape his eyebrows took, he didn’t believe it either. “Put your foot down.”

“In a minute.”

“Put it down.”

I should and I knew it, but I didn’t want to.

“Now, Sal.”

I gave him a look that said just how much I disliked it when he got bossy and set my foot down anyway, gingerly, gingerly, gingerly—

I groaned, grunted and whimpered just a little at the same time.

“You’re done,” he ordered.

Yeah, we were. I needed to ice myself because there was no way in hell it wasn’t going to bruise spectacularly. Marc and Simon were two of the people arguing about the outcome of the game, those assholes not giving a crap that I’d gotten practically crushed.

“Losers,” I called out. Sure enough, they both looked up. Ha. “I’m leaving now. I’ll call you later.”

They nodded, with only Marc adding, “Are you all right?”

I gave him a thumbs-up.

With a quick wave at the people I did know, the ones who hadn’t tried to hurt me, I walk-slash-limped around the outskirts of the field, following two steps behind a slow-paced Kulti. He didn’t stop or turn around to make sure I was following after him; he just kept heading in the direction of the lot. As we got closer, he jogged toward his car. In the time it took me to walk the rest of the way toward the bathrooms where I’d found him, he had already opened the trunk of the Audi and set a small blue cooler on the lip of the bumper. He pulled two small white things out and closed it again.

With a large hand, he pointed at the bench right off the curb. “Sit there.”

I squinted to see what he was holding, as I sat dutifully.

“Shoe off.” He continued to order me around and I didn’t fight him on it, realizing he had two ice packs stacked together in one hand.

Toeing my tennis shoe off, I pulled my foot up to rest the heel on the edge of the bench. Kulti handed me one of the packs before sitting down next to me. He didn’t have to tell me what to do; I rolled my sock down until it just covered my toes and placed the still very cold cloth material on what was already inflamed pink skin.

Kulti folded his body so that his leg was partially propped up on the corner of the seat and placed the other pack on top of his knee.

We were sitting on a bench nearly side by side, with icepacks.

I burst out laughing.

I laughed so hard my stomach started cramping and my eyes got all watery and overwhelmed, and I couldn’t stop.

The German raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

“Look at us,” I laughed even harder, unable to catch my breath. “We’re sitting here icing ourselves. Jesus Christ.”

A small smile cracked his normally stern face as he looked at my foot and then at himself.

“And why do you have icepacks in your car anyway?”

His small smile eroded into an even larger one, which eventually cracked into a low chuckle that lightened his face in a way that had me admiring just how handsome something so insignificant could make him. “If I want to walk tomorrow, I need to ice immediately.” There was a brief pause before he added, “If you tell anyone—“

“You’ll ruin me, I know. I got it.” I grinned. “If you tell anyone about this, I’ll kill you, so I guess we’re even, right?”

His expression fell into a flat one. “I won’t say a word.”

I lifted up a shoulder.

He must have thought I didn’t believe him because he kept going. “If you get kicked off the team, I wouldn’t have anyone else to play with.”

My little heart wrapped up that comment in cling wrap to preserve it forever. “What about Gardner?” I offered.

He shot me a look. “Once was enough.”

What? “You played with him?”

“Two days after you.”

“It couldn’t have been that bad.” Gardner had played college soccer.

Kulti sat back against the old wooden bench. “Have you ever played with people that were significantly worse than you?”

That was an incredibly rude way of putting it, but I nodded.

“Picture it, and then imagine that they thought they were a much better player,” he explained.

Ooh. I grimaced and he nodded.

I fought the question that had been living in my brain since that first time he asked me to play and then decided, why not? What if I never got this chance again? “I wondered why you asked me and not anyone else.”

He sat back against the bench and adjusted the ice-pack on his knee, his attention steady, and his words careful. “You play how I like. You don’t hold back.”

“Didn’t you tell me yesterday that I think too much when I have the ball?”

His biceps flexed against the back of the seat. “Yes. You play better when you follow your instincts and not your head.”

Was that a compliment? I thought it might be.

“What about Grace, though? I thought you two were friends.”

Reiner Kulti gave me a look. Yes, I was nosey and no, I wouldn’t apologize for it. “Her husband and I have known each other for a long time. He was a trainer in Chicago when I played there. She and I aren’t on speaking terms anymore. Even if we were, I would not have asked.”

Because of what he’d said to the girls that day? Maybe that question was pushing it, so I dropped it and just nodded in understanding.

The part-time model, who once upon a time appeared half-naked in underwear ads, blinked his long eyelashes at me. “I owe you my gratitude. I never thanked you for what you did that night at the hotel. Most people would have handled the situation differently. I—“ his eyes moved from one of mine to the other, gauging me, “—appreciate it. Greatly.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, though now that we were on the topic I wanted to ask why he’d gotten drunk in such a public place. It was probably a little too soon, so I kept my mouth shut. Wiggling my toes, I sat back against the bench, his hand brushing my shoulder and sighed. “And thank you for the ice pack. Hopefully tomorrow I can walk.”

His index finger nudged me. “You will.”

What he wasn’t saying was that I had to. How the hell else would I explain that I’d taken a hoof to the instep? Accidentally? That definitely wasn’t believable.

That didn’t mean I wanted to have him telling me what to do all the time. “Are you going to boss me around even when we’re not on the field?”

He didn’t even blink before he answered. “Yes.”