Kulti

The next day almost immediately after warming up, the German who had shared his ice pack the day before, sidled up next to me discreetly. With his arms crossed over his chest as he prepared himself to rip us new assholes, he asked in a voice so low only I could hear, “Your foot?”

I crouched down and retied my shoes. “It’s bruised.”

Kulti looked unimpressed when I glanced up, like I was a total baby for succumbing to something like bruising. “I have oil that will make it go away faster,” he mumbled his reply. “Find me after practice.”

I almost choked on my saliva. No joke. Somehow by the grace of God, I managed to get out, “Okay.”

But of course nothing with him was easy. If playing softball outside of practice hours was our dirty little secret, then we were going to keep it that way. “Deal with it until then.”

Ding, ding, ding. There was the man I knew and… respected?

Meh. Something like that.

“I will.”

He nodded. “I know.”

I’d been playing for myself for so long because I loved it, that it took a moment to recognize the flare of pleasure I got from someone else believing in me. Like a flash flood, his words from yesterday filled my veins and had me forgetting about the pain in my foot. He might not ever say it to my face, but the fact was Reiner Kulti had sort of worried about me.

How about that.

Like most injuries, the worst didn’t come until two days later.

Within eighteen hours, what had started as a pinkish mark had reddened to a rusty color. After forty-eight hours, the pain had peaked. At least I hoped it had peaked. I could put pressure on my heel and the outside of my foot, but if I tried to walk flat-footed… fuck me. I wasn’t a complete sucker. I handled pain and played around it all right most of the time. While I definitely wasn’t a masochist, I’d adapted that ‘mind over matter’ mentality years ago. If you didn’t think you were sick, you weren’t sick.

So I had iced the crap out of my foot every chance I had after practice and even during work. I applied the arnica oil that Kulti had handed me like it was steroids after practice, all sneaky-like, and kept off it as much as possible.

And every single time that flash of pain shot up my shin, I cursed the day that little fucker at our rec game was born. I hoped he fell face first into a pile of fire ants. There, I said it, and I had no regrets.

When our next match came, before heading to the stadium I drank some turmeric tea and popped two painkillers in the car. I hoped to make it through the next few hours without getting caught. It bothered me so much that I didn’t even care that we were playing New York, when usually I’d be restless beforehand, almost dreading it.

Unfortunately, my sneakiness only lasted until I was in the dressing room. I was wrapping my injury in some athletic tape before putting on socks that went with our team uniform. Harlow leaned over and ‘oooohed.’ “What in the hell happened to your foot?” She made another noise. “You break something?”

I rubbed some more oil on top of it before beginning to wrap the arch and instep as comfortably tight as possible. “It feels like it, Har.”

“I got some extra strength Tylenol in my bag if you want,” she offered.

“I took some right before I left home, but I might take you up on it during halftime.”

“You got it, Sally. Grab ’em if you need them.” The defender smacked me on the back of the shoulder. “Those girls give you a hard time today, you let me know and I’ll take care of them for you,” she winked before walking away.

The New York players. Ugh. I wasn’t even going to worry about them.

I finished wrapping my foot while muttering curses under my breath, and rolled up my sock before anyone else noticed what I’d done and why. Usually we all complained about the small amount of healthcare professionals we had access to, unless you were on the national team, but in this case, it worked out for the best. A trainer would probably make the coaches sit me out if they saw the disco-like colors going on under my shoe.

Unfortunately there weren’t any secrets on our team, at least not between me, Har and Jen. Within ten minutes, I had Jenny hanging over my back. “What happened to your foot?”

“Nothing.” I tipped my head back and blinked at her. “Just a little bruise.”

“Harlow said it was more than a little bruise,” she noted.

I noted that Harlow had a big freaking mouth. Then again, what was new? “It’s fine.”

Jenny made a ‘hmph’ noise in her throat. “Take something for it.”

“I already did, Mama Jenny,” I assured her.

“Well, be careful with it. Don’t leave yourself open on that side and ignore those idiots if they say anything to you.”

“Yes, dear.” Of course I already knew that. But her intentions were in the right place, and I wasn’t going to act like an ungrateful douche for no reason.

Knowing I was being a bit of a turd, Jenny yanked on my ear and then slid away before I had a chance to retaliate. A few minutes later, Kulti, Gardner and the rest of the coaching staff came into the locker room and reviewed the plan we’d gone over during practice the day before. They revisited our opponent’s weaknesses, our own weaknesses, things to focus on. Win, win, win.

Our semi-circle of hands together had us all yelling and cheering. Shortly afterward the game started in a one-third packed stadium.

Within the first five minutes, someone shouldered me hard with a nicely added “slut” thrown in. I made sure to shoulder her back, just as hard, the first chance I could without getting caught. A few minutes later, the big broad that had been eyeing me from the moment I got on the field, slipped her leg out to trip me when I ran by her. She got a yellow card, only a warning, and I let it go.

I made it through about half the game before my shoe started to feel too tight over the bruised area of my foot. Our halftime break was a blessing because I had the chance to take off my shoe for a bit. Another fifteen minutes in the second half passed before I made myself retie it a little looser. Eighteen minutes after that, I was praising the lord the game was over, and that we’d scraped by a two-to-one win—one point I helped score when I managed to pull several opponents away from the goal and kicked the ball to the closest open player.

The little snickers I’d heard from a few of the New York players the rest of the game had just gone in one ear and out the other.

Was I going to be able to walk the next day? That was debatable, but I’d worry about it when I woke up in bed with a foot that thought it would never be the same again.

That freaking jackass at the park. I really, really hoped he fell into an ant pile. Fucker.

While Coach talked in the locker room, I snagged an ice pack from a nearby fridge and let it sit. I showered, changed and waved goodbye to everyone, counting down the steps until I was at my car. There was a small strip between where the locker rooms ended and the parking lot began, so I knew to expect a few fans hanging around who wanted autographs. My parents hadn’t made it to this game since it was on a Thursday and they had to work the next day, but Dad had texted me good luck before the start. Sure enough, a group of about twenty fans were waiting, and I started signing a few of the posters that had been given away at the entrance, as well as taking pictures with a few little girls that had me smiling big time.

“Goodnight, thanks for coming!” I gave the last kid a side hug, before she waved at me once more and followed along with her mom.

It was kids like that and moments like those that made playing in pain totally worth it.

And then I heard the chorus of several loud voices talking at once, moving closer and closer. I sighed, knowing there was no way to escape and feeling a little cowardly for wanting to avoid hearing crap come out of people’s mouths who shouldn’t matter. Nothing they said should have bothered me; mostly, it didn’t.

By the time I managed to turn around and start making my way slowly toward my car, several of the players for the New York Arrows walked by me. I exchanged greetings and handshakes with a few of them, the ones that hadn’t called me a variation of a slut on the field earlier.

“Hey, Sal,” I recognized the person speaking behind me.

I stopped and slowly turned around, plastering a smile on my face. “Hey, Amber.”

But in my head I was really thinking, hey, you freaking bitch. Was it justified? Yeah.

She’d cost me the national team. Her and her stupid-ass estranged husband.

The tall brunette had a sweet smile on her face, but her eyes said it all. They said how much she disliked me and blamed me for something that had been a complete accident. The hate in her gaze called me a whore, in the same way she’d verbally whispered the name, when I’d stolen the ball away from her during the first half.

“Nice seeing you again,” she said in her deceivingly sugar-stained voice. She waited a moment until two other players on her team kept walking, leaving the two of us standing there. I was surprised her two buddies left; they’d called me a bitch and a tramp during the game, too. I just pretended like I hadn’t heard them by that point.

“Messed around with anyone else’s husband lately?” Amber asked the minute we were relatively alone in the parking lot.

Bitterness crept into my throat. Maybe even a little embarrassment too. I hated what had happened but as much as I’d explained the situation to her, it hadn’t mattered. Amber, being a fantastic forward several years older than me, and a star player for the national team, had taken my chance and my position away.

I would never forgive her for it, despite how horrible I felt about her husband, ex-husband, estranged husband, whatever the hell that ass-wipe was now.

I steadied my heart and shook my head. “Grow up.”

Her blue eyes flared with indignation. “Fuck you.”

Oh brother. “Really? Fuck me? That’s the best you can come up with? I’m a whore, a bitch and a slut, and I can also fuck myself. Real nice. I wish everyone could hear how pleasant you are in person.”

“You are a slut, you home wrecker.“

Guilt flashed through my belly, but I beat it back like I had every other time. I wasn’t a home wrecker. I wasn’t. I felt terrible, fucking terrible, but it wasn’t like anything had been intentional. I would never in a million years be interested in a married man, but when you don’t know he’s married… “I’m sorry, all right? I’ve told you I was sorry about a hundred times and you know it. If I could go back in time and mind my own business, I would. So, stop. You got what you wanted and you should be happy and let it go. It’s been three years; it’s about time you quit with your shit.”

Beautiful Amber, with her great legs and competitive spirit, bristled. “Don’t tell me what to do. I hate your fucking guts, Sal.”

Acid stirred my chest. “I know you do, and trust me, I’m not your fan club president either. I just don’t feel the need to remind you of it every time I see you.”

She wanted to fight. I could tell. She had the same look on her face that she’d had three years ago when she approached me during practice one day, three days after I’d gone on a second date with her husband. “That’s why I hate you. You always think you’re so much better than everyone, but you’re not. You’re even more of a bitch because you fool everybody with that angel act. I know the truth—I know you’re a fucking whore.”

Getting called a whore? Especially when you weren’t one? Yeah, it wasn’t exactly fun and games. I would definitely never admit that out loud or show it to someone like her, but it was the truth. Sticks and stones and all that crap.

“You,” the voice from behind me said. “Run along before I call Mike Walton and repeat what you said to him.”

Who Mike Walton was, I had no idea.

But the person behind me? I definitely knew him.

The bratwurst.

From the look on Amber’s face, as the steps behind me got louder with Kulti’s approach, she knew exactly who both Kulti and Mike Walton were. Her face might have paled, but it was too dark to know for sure. What I did know was that she was pissed. Real pissed.

“Today,” Kulti snapped.

The rate at which she moved said exactly what words didn’t. Amber was one of the stars of the national team and had been for years. A few months ago, I’d seen a lotion commercial with her in it. She wasn’t used to having someone tell her what to do.

He didn’t even wait until she was out of earshot before he asked, “What’s her name?”

“Amber Kramer,” I replied, looking over my shoulder.

His face didn’t register the name. “Never heard of her.” He turned his head to look at me. “Do you want to tell me what that was about?”

I said exactly what I meant. “Not really.” I’d gone this long with keeping what happened between me and a select group of people, mainly members of the national team back when I’d been on it. It was how Jenny and Harlow knew. Having more people know about one of the dumbest things I’d ever done, wasn’t exactly on my list of things to accomplish. And though I’d been assured I wasn’t to blame, I thought I was smarter than to fall for someone’s lies. He hadn’t been wearing a wedding band or even had the tan line for one, damn it.

“She called you a whore.”

Shame filled my belly, and I felt my face get all warm, indignation flaring up in my throat. “I’m not.”

“You don’t have to tell me you’re not.” The expression on my face must have been unsure enough that he stared me right in the eye as he said, “I’ve met a lot of women in my life. I can tell.”

The thought of him and a lot of women was probably an understatement. For some reason I found the idea disgusting. “I’m sure you have.”

I knew how bad some girls were with college soccer players, and I’d seen firsthand how women reacted around my brother. Some of the guys weren’t even attractive, or had particularly nice personalities, but regardless after a game, they were swatting groupies off left and right. And Kulti, well Kulti was on a level of his own. I couldn’t imagine.

And for one brief second, something flared in the pit of my stomach. It was jealousy or something equally stupid, that I could blame on the thirteen-year-old Sal who still lived inside me someplace.

I stomped her back down to her little room under the stairs.

“In that case, I appreciate your slut-radar not going off around me.” I smiled weakly. Still feeling a little weird that I’d run into Amber and that he’d overheard her calling me a whore; I really wanted to get home. Gesturing toward the parking lot, I asked, “Do you need a ride?”

“My driver is here.” He pointed to a corner of the lot furthest away, in the same direction as my car.

I nodded at him and we started walking, looking back to make sure there weren’t any other Kulti fans standing around like there had been at our last home game. Parked a lot closer than he was, I pointed at my car. “If you’re free tomorrow, I can squeeze in a quick game if you promise not to play too rough or long.” I needed the rest.

“Where?”

It took a second for me to think of a field; the one that came to mind was a small one but it worked. I ratted off the name. “Need an address?”

He shook his head. “What time?”

We agreed that the earlier the better.

“Your foot will be fine?” he asked.

“As long as you don’t step on it,” I said, dropping my bag into my trunk. “Goodnight, Coach.”

“Gute nacht,” he responded, tipping his head as an indication for me to get in my car.

I got in and waved at him through the rearview mirror.

9:30?

It was 9:29 the next morning when I was pulling alongside the curb to Kulti’s home.

I was picking him up.

Poop.

I looked at house through my passenger window and took in the big new two-story construction. He’d sent me a message at eight in the morning, asking if I could come by to get him after all. I didn’t ask why he couldn’t have his fancy driver take him to the field, but did I wonder? Of course I did.

I was picking up The King from his house to go play soccer.

At no point in my life had I had any signs that this would ever happen. This was friendship or something like it. Even if it felt like driving to his house was more of a date than hanging out.

I got out and marched up to the door he’d walked up to on all those occasions I dropped him off. The house was big, but not obnoxiously large, despite the fact it was at least twice the size of the home I’d grown up in. But who cared? I’d been in bigger houses before.

Ringing the doorbell, I took two steps back and found myself clasping my hands behind me while I waited. Less than a minute later the door swung open and Kulti stood there, dressed in black athletic shorts and a blue T-shirt, holding a big glass of something green.

“Come in,” he ordered, standing to the side to let me in.

I did, trying to be discreet as I looked around at the bare cream walls. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” He closed the door. “I need ten minutes.”

“Okay.” I eyed both him and his drink as he walked around me and headed down the main hallway of his house.

It was impossible not to notice how empty the walls were, or when we walked by the doorway leading into his living room, how there was only a three-seater couch with a massive television in front of it. No framed jerseys or mounted trophies, no signs of who the owner of the house was. The next doorway led into a stainless steel and granite countertop kitchen, big, open and airy, it looked like a more expensive version of something out of an IKEA catalogue.

“There’s water, milk and juice,” he said going in, already tipping his green glass back to chug down whatever concoction he was drinking without a single flinch.

“I’m fine, thanks,” I answered absently, admiring the view of the backyard from the big window above the sink. There wasn’t much to it besides newly laid grass that could use a good watering. Most of the lots in the neighborhood had been old homes that had been torn down to build these new ones, and the house took up so much space it only left a small rectangular yard that didn’t have much room for anything besides a patio set, if he’d wanted one.

Kulti brushed up against me as he leaned into the sink to rinse out his glass.

I leaned away from the view and him. “Your house is really nice.”

He seemed to absently look around the kitchen, nodding.

“Did you just move in?”

“Two months now, I think,” Kulti answered.

What a freaking talker. I watched as he placed his glass inside the dishwasher. “This is a really nice neighborhood.” I cleared my throat.

He shrugged. “It’s quiet.”

Something about what he said nipped me. “No one knows you live here, huh?”

The German shot me an incredulous look I couldn’t comprehend before answering. “No one.” He kept on giving me that strange look. “I’m ready to go now.”

So he didn’t want anyone to know where he lived. That wasn’t surprising, but I let it drop. “Let’s go.”

Kulti had a bag waiting in his nearly empty living room and followed out after me, setting the alarm and locking the door. The Audi he’d been riding around in was parked in the driveway when I peeked through the wrought-iron fence that sectioned off the back part of his house.

“So none of your neighbors know you live here?” I asked again once we’d gotten inside the car.

“No. I leave the house before they do and get back before.”

“What do you do for groceries?” I was really curious about that. “Order them online?”

“I walk. It’s three blocks away.”

All this walking and riding around in cars he didn’t drive, and all these mentions of a suspended license from people that got paid to investigate things… I gave Kulti a curious look but didn’t dig in too deeply. So what? Maybe the signs were all there, but it wasn’t my business to ask, the same way I didn’t want to talk about Amber and her dumbass husband.

“I guess I don’t understand how no one has recognized you. I mean, your face is on a billboard off the freeway by my house,” I told him, shaking my head. Then again, I’d seen his face hundreds of times on my walls. I could probably do an ink blot test and find him.

“People don’t pay attention. I wear a hat, and the only people that speak to me are the elderly in the motorized scooters who need assistance reaching something.”

Glancing over my shoulder, I shot him a smile. “I don’t know how you do it, honestly. We have fans but it’s different. The only people that wear my jersey are my parents and brother. I don’t like being the center of attention, so it works for me.”

His head moved so that he could look out the window. His voice was so serious, so distant; it made me look at him longer than necessary. “I’ve had enough attention in my life, I don’t miss it.”

That was why he lived in this neighborhood and wore a hat to the grocery store.

I guess you figure that some people have it all. Why wouldn’t they? Looks, money, fame. What else would they need? A friend? Companionship? Something to take the boredom away?

Personally I knew hundreds of people, yet I was only really close to seven. They were all people that I’d known for a long time, but out of those seven I was confident that five would still be in my life even after soccer.

I eyed Kulti again and repressed a sigh. Feeling bad for him hadn’t been part of the plan.

“Close enough?” I grunted.

Kulti pressed into me even more. “No.”

He was backing me into a corner, defender and striker at the same time, to keep me from stealing the ball from him. Somewhat rough and playing like I was just a smaller man, by not avoiding the full body contact that came so naturally in soccer, he crowded me, he held me back. And I fought for every inch I made it forward, having to tap into my short bursts of speed to try and out-trick him.

It didn’t really work.

With him on me, I only managed to get my feet on the ball about four times during our game, and each time he made me lose it out of bounds or stole it away. It was aggravating and exhilarating at the same time, especially when I ran after him and tried guarding against his big-ass body.

Playing with someone bigger, faster and more talented than you are, isn’t exactly an ideal situation, but I tried and in the end, Kulti won, one to zero, nailing a clean shot right between the two goals we’d made out of sticks and empty water bottles we’d found in my backseat.

Freaking pumpernickel.

“Again?”

Hands on my hips, I took a few deep breaths in through my nose and nodded at the man standing in front of me, breathing just as hard. There weren’t very many people at the park we’d gone to about twenty minutes from Kulti’s house, but there were more than there’d been when we first arrived.

Against my better judgment, I said, “One more.”

We went for it.

We both might have been more tired than we’d been when we started, but it didn’t matter. Kulti was on me from the second I got the ball, constantly less than a foot away. He was definitely slowing down, and I used it to my advantage. I was just as tired as he was, our game the day before had drained me, but he was thirteen years older than me and didn’t train as hard. And I was almost as fast as he was.

“Slowing down?” I panted as I tried to fake him out and make a run to the left.

He grunted, raw and rough. “Quit talking and play.”

Yeah, he was definitely pooped.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a few people sitting along the edge of the small field we were on, watching. But it was right then that Kulti snuck his foot into my path to try and trip me.

“You ass,” I hissed, just barely missing him.

He used me being distracted and pissed, to steal the ball.

In the end I took it back when I summoned the last bit of energy I was willing to spend, and really put in the effort to power toward the goal, scoring. I threw my hands up in the air and stuck my tongue out at The King. “I win.” Yeah, I totally wasn’t being professional or mature about it.

Just to rub it in even more, our audience on the edge of the field began clapping.

Someone wasn’t amused. I’d actually say he looked a little pissed.

I liked it.

“Oye! Muchacha! Es el Aleman?” someone from the field yelled.

“Callate tonto!” someone else replied, telling the guy asking to shut up.

I eyed the sore loser in front of me, not knowing what to do. Now that I got a better look at the people on the sidelines, they were all Latinos, in their late twenties and older. The German didn’t say anything with his eyes or his body language.

“Amiga! Es Kulti?”

There were only about six of them…

I looked at Kulti again but the only thing he did was shrug, damn it.

“Si es,” I admitted. “Pero no le digan a nadie.”

The group erupted. “No chinges!” No shit was right.

The next thing I knew they were on their feet, hands on their heads, losing their minds. The guys went up to the German, speaking quick Spanish and watching him like they had never seen anything like him before.

It wasn’t until I heard the first one who had spoken, say, “No me digas!” that I heard Kulti reply in perfect Spanish, explaining that he was real and not a ghost, “No soy fantasma.”

The guys lost it again. “You speak Spanish!” one of them exclaimed in the same language.

The German shrugged and gave them an easy smile.

For the next couple of minutes, I watched as the strange men blasted off several questions, and they were answered in an accent that rivaled mine.

I’m not going to lie, not even a little bit. Besides a big butt, I had a thing for guys that spoke different languages. While Reiner Kulti was every bit as impressive of a male specimen as you could get physically, the way he spoke Spanish multiplied his attractiveness by about thirty percent.

Okay, thirty percent minimum.

But it wasn’t like I could or would think about that too much. He was my coach.

And I was his friend. Or something like that.