Kulti

The first sign that something was off was when I spotted the three people on the edge of the field halfway through Pipers practice two days later. Two of them I recognized from the team’s office staff, and the other person, carrying a kit, was a stranger. It was only on rare occasions that management showed up during training, if there were photographers on the field or if there was an exhibition game going on, but never without a reason.

The second sign that something was up was when they approached Gardner. It was the way he reacted to whatever they were telling him that had me a little worried. He looked annoyed and possibly outraged. Easygoing and calm ninety-nine-percent-of-the-time-Gardner, angered?

Yeah. No.

Then the clapping started. The meeting of palm on palm that paused our warm-up. “Ladies, we’re taking it easy today.”

Easy?

Apprehension rippled down my spine.

“Apparently, we’re doing a round of drug testing today. It’s nothing to worry about. As most of you know, you are subject to random drug testing throughout the season. If we can have your cooperation we can get through this quickly, and after your sample is received you’re free for the rest of the morning,” Gardner explained, frustration tracing his words.

Random drug testing? The last time I’d been randomly drug tested had been back in college. The stipulation included in everyone’s contract was more of a blue moon-type occurrence. If they wanted to they could test you, but apart from the health exams and blood tests we took at the beginning of every season, I’d never heard of it happening.

So, yeah, that was freaking weird.

I had nothing to hide. The hardest drug I took was an over-the-counter painkiller and that was only in a dire situation like with my foot.

There was no reason for me to think the testing had anything to do with me.

Then Gardner called me into his office that afternoon.

“Sal, take a seat,” Gardner said from his spot behind his desk.

I gave him an uncomfortable smile and sat down.

Coaches just didn’t call you after practice was over, the day a random drug testing went on, and ask you to come in for a chat. They didn’t. I’d been in the middle of a nursery with Marc choosing some annuals for a project, when the call came through. I’d been shitting bricks since.

There were only a few reasons why Gardner wouldn’t just tell me over the phone what he wanted: they were trading me, dropping me or some super-fast test had come back and found something in my urine that said I was doping.

Me, doping. Jesus Christ.

I wasn’t so badass or indestructible that I wasn’t on the verge of losing it. First, I didn’t want to get traded. Second, I sure as shit didn’t want to get dropped from the team; even though my contract was good for another year, you still never knew. Third, I sure as hell wasn’t ingesting anything that was remotely illegal.

But still.

I managed to tell Marc what was going on, and the ‘oh shit’ look he’d given me was enough.

Taking a deep breath, I gripped my thighs and steeled myself. I might as well bite the bullet. “So, what’s going on, G?”

He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and smiled. “Always to the point, that’s why I like you, Sal.”

Gardner might like me, but he wasn’t telling me what was going on. “Are you letting me go?” To my credit, I sounded calm, not at all like I was on the verge of taking a bat to his office furniture.

A bat to his office? Dear God. I needed to tone it down.

“No.” He reeled back. “Where the hell would you get that from?”

“You asked me to come to your office to talk to me privately, and we had a drug test this afternoon.” I just barely kept the hello to myself.

His eyes rolled up to the ceiling, a hand going to the back of his neck. “Damn. I didn’t think about that. I’m sorry. That’s not why I want to talk to you.”

Yeah, that wasn’t entirely convincing.

“I’m not worried about the results. I’m sure they’re fine, but I did ask you to come in because of the drug test. I had an interesting conversation with Sheena earlier.”

“Okay.”

“She told me that an email came in this weekend with your name and some pretty wild accusations on it.”

That bitch. That fucking bitch. It didn’t take a genius to know where the email had come from. I squeezed my thighs a little tighter, controlling the rage bubbling up inside of me.

First it was someone on the team tattling on me to Cordero, and now Amber was making crap up? I didn’t think I was a bad person. I did community service work from time to time, I mowed my elderly neighbors’ lawn for free, and I smiled at strangers. Sure sometimes I had bad thoughts about people, but it was never for any reason, though that didn’t make it any better. There were better people in the world than me, and there were sure as hell people a lot worse too. So I couldn’t help but take it a little personally that these miserable hags were taking their crap out on me.

“Any idea where something like that would come from?”

“Amber.” I gritted my teeth. “It was Amber. No one else would do something like this.”

Gardner wasn’t surprised. I’d told him what happened years ago, when I’d gotten back from the last national team tournament and burst into tears in front of him. “Christ. She’s still not over that mess?”

I couldn’t say that if I were in her shoes, I would have gotten over it either, but I liked to think that I wouldn’t go as far as she had. Actually, I knew that I wouldn’t. Only a total ass-wipe would call and make bogus allegations that could jeopardize someone’s lifetime of hard work.

I swallowed the bitterness back, reminding myself of all the good things in my life. “Nope.”

With a sigh, he shook his head and scratched at his neck. “In that case, I’m sorry for asking you over. I kept my eye on her during the game, but it didn’t seem like she was doing anything unusual.”

Of course he hadn’t heard all the names she’d been calling me during the game, but whatever.

“I’m going to give her coach a call and tell him he needs to get her under control.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s fine. If she does something like this again we’ll figure it out, but really, don’t worry about it.” She was a crappy person who had to live with the effects of her awful personality for the rest of her life. That was bad enough.

Gardner’s eyebrows went up in disbelief, but he didn’t argue. “You let me know if you change your mind.”

I nodded and stood up, ready to get out of there so that I could think of as many bad names for Amber as I could in private. “I will. Thanks for letting me know though, G. I appreciate it.”

“Anytime.” He watched me for a second before saying, “Sal, you know you can come to me with anything, right?”

“I know.” It was the truth. “You’re a good guy, Coach.”

Gardner smiled as I made my way out of his office with a wave. “Rest up tonight. I need your head in the game tomorrow.”

“You got it,” I said, closing the door behind me.

I made it about ten feet down the hallway before an amount of anger I didn’t think I was capable of, filled my entire soul. Amber had taken away the national team from me, fine. But now she was stooping low enough to try and jeopardize my career in the WPL?

That bitch.

I went home and took my anger out on the bathtub with a sponge and cleaner.

A little more than halfway through the game the next day, I accepted the fact that I was playing like complete and total crap.

All right, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but the point was I was playing pretty terrible. I was distracted and angry. For once in my life, I couldn’t push everything else down to focus. The maliciousness in Amber’s actions made my head want to explode. It wasn’t like she hadn’t done enough in the past to begin with either. Talking to her after the last game ended up stirring up some real resentment from me that not even my dirty bathroom could make go away. My head and my heart weren’t in it, and I was too pissed off to give a shit.

So when my number went up on the board in red, and another girl’s number went up in green, I wasn’t totally surprised they were taking me out. I couldn’t get angry about it either. Embarrassed and resigned, yes. I’d only gotten substituted a handful of times, and it had always been for a good reason: unavoidable cramps and torn muscles. There was also that one time I got too aggressive after a player elbowed me in the kidney and hadn’t gotten caught, but Gardner took me out before I did something I might regret. But this time there was no valid excuse for how sloppy I was playing, or how absent-minded I was today.

It was pathetic. I knew better. I did better. I could handle more than this without blinking an eye, and I failed spectacularly.

I slowly jogged off the field, avoiding everyone and anyone’s eyes, as I stared straight forward. Just as I was heading to the bench, the only route available was a sliver between Kulti and Gardner, a hand grabbed my wrist. Gardner wasn’t the grabbing type, so I knew before even looking over my shoulder who it was.

Those crazy-colored eyes stared down at me from their position eight inches above mine. A furrow creased the space in the middle of his auburn eyebrows. “What the hell is going on with you?” he snapped.

I took a sharp inhale and met his gaze directly with a single shrug. “I’m sorry.” I wasn’t going to make any excuses. There weren’t any.

That must have pissed him off because his nostrils flared. “That’s it? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“There’s nothing else to say. I’m playing like shit, and you’re taking me out. I get it.”

Honest to God, if Kulti was the type of person that smacked himself in the forehead, he had the expression on his face that said he’d be doing it right then. “Get out of my face right now; I’ll deal with you later.”

Even though I was sort of expecting his response to be similar, I still recoiled. But even as I did I bit my words back, swallowed my pride, accepted my fault and marched over to the bench. Elbows to my knees, I sat forward and watched the rest of the game, mentally kicking myself in the ass for being such an idiot.

An hour later, our team had barely squeaked by with a 1-0 win in thanks to a ball that hit the tip of Grace’s foot just perfectly. We headed to the locker rooms and listened to the coaching staff drone on about what we did wrong, and what we really did wrong. Kulti didn’t even bother looking at me when he decided to speak, but it was obvious to me that he was referring to all my screw-ups. Normally that would have put me on edge, but I had already accepted reality. As a wrap, Gardner gave his bit of motivational advice for the next week, and we were released to get out of the locker room.

Showering, getting dressed and heading toward the bus for a ten-hour drive back to

Houston, I managed to avoid talking to anyone. I was too angry with myself for slacking off to be good company, and everyone gave me space. Sternum burning with embarrassment for playing like such an asshole, I managed to make it halfway to the bus before I caught Kulti standing off to the side as he spoke to… a woman. Was that a woman? I squinted.

“Casillas!”

I hesitated. Did I want to listen to him rip me apart in front of a stranger that might have been a woman or a slim man wearing skinny jeans? No. Definitely not. But it’d be obvious if I ignored him and kept on walking toward the bus.

“Casillas!”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I guess I’d been warned. ‘I’ll deal with you later’ wasn’t exactly a vague threat. If I were a really religious person, I would have done the sign of the cross as I walked over to where the German was standing. Yeah, it was definitely a woman next to him, so I put on my Big Girl Socks during the short trip.

It took me until I was about five feet away to recognize the person he was talking to. An ex. Blah. She was an ex-girlfriend that I was certain was an actress or had been one at some point.

In the blink of an eye I was pissed off, and every step I took closer made me more and more angry. He wanted to do this now, in front of an old girlfriend?

“Are you sure you don’t want to meet up tonight?” the attractive redhead asked, ignoring my approach.

Kulti wasn’t even looking at her; instead he was staring at my face. My-aggravated-as-shit face. His one-word answer sounded as brutal as usual. “No.” So at least he was an asshole with everyone. There was that.

The woman bent a long leg and moved her head over to get into his field of vision. “Positive?”

It was too dark to tell whether his eyes glanced over in her direction or not. “Yes,” he confirmed

“Kulti—“ A hand went to rest on his shoulder, and I didn’t miss the way he shrugged her off.

“It took you long enough,” he grumbled, when I stopped close but not too close to them.

I was looking at him, instead of the woman who was obviously still trying to get his attention.

Could she be any more desperate? Jeez.

I just stared back at him, not exactly wiping off the irritated look on my face. Was he planning on chewing me out? Did he really think this was the right time to do it?

Pulling together an amount of bravery that I really didn’t have in me, I forced a calm look on my face, relaxed my shoulders to not give away how tense I was, and I blinked at my coach, Reiner Kulti.

“Yes, Coach?”

His luminous eyes bore down on me with the power of a strobe light, the biggest strobe light in history. By the shape of his mouth and the tic of his jaw, I was about to get reamed.

He didn’t even bother looking at the woman next to him, hopeful and still attentive to a man who wasn’t giving her the time of day, before he lowered his voice. Unfortunately I recognized that he wasn’t lowering it to be inaudible, he was just that pissed, before laying it down for me. “What the hell was going on with you tonight?”

He was just as to the point as I expected. All righty. I licked my lips and gave him a solid shrug. “My mind wasn’t in it and I’m sorry about that.” It was implied that I wouldn’t let that happen again.

“That’s it?” he spat.

“There’s no excuse,” I told him, watching the woman look back and forth between us. “I know better, and I’m sorry.”

His lids got heavy. If I didn’t know him any better, I would have assumed he was sleepy. He wasn’t anywhere close. “You played like an imbecile.”

Seriously? Did he have to call me that in front of another person?

“Kulti?” The woman waved her hand around in his face.

The German turned his head and stared at her long enough that she scrunched up her face and stepped back.

“God, I forgot how much of an asshole you can be. I don’t even know why I bother,” she hissed at him.

The man who guarded his words like they were gold didn’t let me down. He didn’t say a word. Kulti looked at her for maybe five more seconds and then turned his attention back to me as if she hadn’t spoken.

What an asshole.

“Your team deserves your attention, and I deserve better from you. Do that shit again and I’ll have you coming in as a sub for Thirty-Eight,” he threatened, oblivious to the woman who shook her head as he spoke, before finally turning around to walk off.

That time, I flinched and winced. I probably sucked air in through my nose. Thirty-Eight was one of the younger forwards, Sandy, a rookie on the team who would be a force to be reckoned with in the near future.

“Learn to compartmentalize your life, do you understand me?” he asked in that somber crisp voice I had a feeling he had learned to wield perfectly in the last few weeks.

As much as I hated to admit it, my face went hot, and I knew I was blushing with humiliation. He would try to take starting a game away from me? For playing crappy during one single game? More embarrassment flooded my system, lined carefully with anger.

The idea that I thought we were friends floated right up and center.

But Pipers time wasn’t friend-time. It never had been. The man who called me Taco, and played soccer and softball with me, was a completely different person from the one standing before me in that moment.

Learn to compartmentalize your life, he’d said. Do what he did.

The only thing I could do was nod jerkily and accept the ultimatum he’d given me. I wasn’t going to remind him this was one bad game out of so many. I wasn’t going to promise anything or apologize. It hurt my pride, but I balled it up and tucked it neatly into my sternum. In a voice that I was extremely proud of for how solid it sounded, I said, “Okay. Fine. But maybe next time call me an imbecile when I’m not in front of your girlfriend, would that work for you? ”

When he closed his eyes and began grinding his teeth together, I wondered if I said the wrong thing. It wasn’t until he started scratching at his cheek and then erupted a second later, I figured the answer was: yeah. I had.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he burst out.

I took a step back and gave him a crazy look because seriously, what else did he want from me? “No.”

“I’m threatening to bench you, and you’re complaining about who overheard?”

I’d bet a dollar that my hair kind of blew back a little bit at his question, but I wasn’t going to puss out. No fear. “Yeah, I am. If I’m playing bad consistently, then I don’t deserve to start. That sucks, but I understand. I’m not going to argue with you over an obvious fact. What I do have a problem with, is you being rude to me in front of other people, and you were a dick to her. Jesus F. Christ. Manners, Germany, ever heard of them?”

Kulti didn’t hesitate to throw his hands up behind his head. The short brown strands crept through his fingers. “I want to shake you right now.”

“Why? I’m only telling you the truth.”

“Because—“ he snapped something in German I thought was the equivalent of ‘fuck’, “—you’re going to sit there and let me take this away from you? Just like that?” he growled.

“Yeah, I am. What do you want me to tell you? Do you want me to beg you? Get mad? Throw a fit and stomp off? I understand. I get it. I played one bad game; I’m not going to play two. That’s fine. It’s your tone and choice of where we’re having this conversation that I have a problem with.”

He might have started pulling on the shortest of short ends of his hair in what was a mix of annoyance and frustration. “Yes, goddamnit, get mad! If my coach had ever even hinted at taking me out of a game, I would have lost it. You’re the best player on the team—“

I’d swear on my life that my heart stopped beating. Had he just said what I think he said?

“You’re one of the best I’ve ever seen, period, man or woman. What kills me is that you are a complete fucking pushover who’s hung up on worthless words in front of a person that doesn’t matter.” His cheeks were flushed. “Grow some balls, Casillas. Fight me for this. Fight anyone that tries to take this away from you,” he urged.

His words went through my brain like molasses, clinging and slow. Yet I still didn’t understand. Then again, maybe I did. This was the same man that owned the field each time he went on. Most of the time, each of his plays had begun with him and ended with him. He was a greedy asshole with the ball.

And we were arguing over two completely different things. Dear God.

I took a deep breath and gave him a steady look. “Of course I freaking care about getting benched, but I also care about who you call me an imbecile in front of. Do you think I want a complete stranger thinking I’m some kind of doormat that lets you talk to me like that? I might be when we’re on the field, but I’m sure as hell not going to let you treat me half as bad as you just treated her, buddy.”

Kulti looked like I was speaking a completely different language, so I took advantage of it.

“This is a team sport. If I’m not playing my best, isn’t it better for someone who is playing better to take my spot?” Not that I wouldn’t fight for it, tooth and nail. I was going to get my shit together and get back into the game, so that no one would take me out. On the other hand, I didn’t feel the need to promise him that. I’d show him. Yet everything that he was telling me went against my natural instinct. This was a team sport, there definitely wasn’t an ‘I’ in soccer.

Obviously my response went completely against his natural instinct, because his eyes bugged nearly out of their sockets.

I held out my arms and shrugged.

It wasn’t until he started shaking his head that he finally spoke again. “You have to watch out for you. Not for anyone else, do you understand me?”

I blinked. Apparently he was going to ignore me complaining about the girlfriend thing. Okay.

“No one else is going to watch out for your best interests but you. Just for agreeing with me that you played like you’ve never seen a soccer ball before, I should make sure you sit out the next game.”

What? I never agreed that I played that bad.

“But—“

“No buts. You play like shit and I’m going to give you hell for it, but you should never let anyone take this away from you.”

Amber’s actions seared through my belly, a painful reminder of what I’d already had taken away from me.

Then again I guess I had let her take it away from me. I didn’t fight when she’d said, “It’s her or me.” I’d felt so consumed with guilt for going on two dates with a man who was separated from my teammate, I’d willingly stepped aside and given up my position. I was a serial monogamist and possessive as hell. If I’d been her, who knows how I would have felt.

Maybe I could have fought for it. I could have told Amber she was being an idiot because it wasn’t like I had known that jackass was married, much less married to her. Even then, I hadn’t slept with him. I had kissed someone who I thought was single and seemed like a nice guy. That was absolutely it. The second man I’d kissed since breaking up with my college boyfriend had been a cheating, lying piece of donkey shit and been married to my teammate. I hadn’t just backed up the toilet; I’d made the septic tank flood the house.

Two stupid dates had taken away my lifelong aspiration.

I felt my eyes get watery with disappointment in the team and the coaches who hadn’t fought to keep me on. More than anything, I was disappointed with myself. I sniffled, then sniffled again, trying to control the water works creeping up in my eyes. It had been years since I cried over leaving the national team. One month was all I’d given myself to be upset over it. Since then I’d locked it up, accepted reality and moved on with the rest of my life. When something is broken into too many pieces, you can’t stare at them and try to glue them back together; sometimes you just have to sweep up the pieces and buy something else.

“Are you crying?”

Clearing my throat, I blinked hard twice, lowering my gaze to the small cleft in the German’s chin. “No.”

His fingers went up to push at my shoulder lightly. “Stop it.”

I lifted my chin and pushed his shoulder right back, sniffling while doing it. “You stop it. I’m not crying.”

“I have two eyes,” he replied, looking down at me with a troubled expression on his face.

Just as I was about to sniffle again, I stopped. Those green-brown eyes were way too close and too observant. The last person in the world I would want to show any signs of weakness in front of would be him. Instead, I let my nose get all watery and avoided wiping it as I stared right back at him. “Obviously, I do too, Berlin.”

The ‘Berlin’ did it.

To give him credit, he settled for giving me a scowl instead of an ugly word for how much of a jackass I was for calling him that. “I’m not from Berlin.”

A fact I was well aware of. He didn’t know much I knew about him, and I wasn’t about to tell him. Something about that little secret made me relax.

When I looked right back at him with a clear expression and relaxed shoulders, as innocent as I could possibly make myself out to be, Kulti tilted his head back to look up at the dark sky. “Get on the bus, Sal.”

So we were back to ‘Sal.’

Knowing damn well when it was time to either retreat or answer some question I wouldn’t want to, I took two steps back. “Whatever you say, sir.”

Game?

I flexed my foot inside my boot and typed back: Sure.

Same time? Kulti texted back.

Ja. I smiled at the screen before setting my phone on my lap.

“What the hell are you smiling at?” Marc asked from his spot behind the driver’s seat.

The smile eased itself off my face. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

I rolled my eyes as the phone vibrated from between my legs. Bringing it back out, I made sure Marc’s attention was back on the road.

Go make a quesadilla.

I started laughing hysterically.

“Goddamnit, Sal!” Marc shouted. “You want me to get into a wreck?”

Despite Marc yelling at me for bursting out so suddenly, it didn’t stop me from cracking up.

He was waiting on the bench by the time I pulled my car into the park’s lot, headband on, bat leaning against his thigh and a glove on his lap.

I kept my face even, like he hadn’t sent me the most ridiculous text message earlier in the day. “Hi.”

“Sal,” Kulti said my name like he’d been using it forever, standing up with his things in hand. He had on the same variation of an outfit he usually did: white athletic shorts, a plain black T-shirt and black and green RK signature running shoes.

“Ready?” I asked, eyeing his muscular calves for a split second.

“Ja,” he answered.

I looked up at his face and snickered, but he wasn’t smiling at me, he was just watching like always. We walked toward the field together silently. The awkward conversation we’d had during the Pipers game a few days ago seemed forgotten. I understood what he meant and where he was coming from, so I didn’t take it personally.

Not surprisingly, we were split up into two different teams. Most of the players at the park were people we’d played with the last couple of times. One of them was the douche-bag that played whack-a-mole with my foot, who was standing off with a couple of other guys, all of them staring at me.

Weird.

An open palm smacked me in the shoulder. “Watch it.” Kulti leaned over to meet me eye to eye, his index finger pointing low in the direction of my shoe.

Definitely. I stared up into his murky green eyes and nodded. “I will. Good luck.”

Instead of saying anything, he walked past me, bumping the side of his upper arm against my shoulder, lightly… playfully.

“Come on, you punk. I wanna start the game before I turn forty,” Marc shouted, waving me onto the side of the field. Our team was batting first.

“That’s like next week.”

He shot me the middle finger.

We lined up to bat and only made it through four batters before we got three outs and had to switch positions. Six outs later, I managed to get three of six opposing players out, and my team was back playing defense. It was a fast-moving game with a lot of quick inning changes. It seemed like I was going to be able to go to practice the next day without a limp.

At least that’s what I thought until I realized how competitive and petty some guys could be.

Not even two batters in I had one of the opposing players clothesline me, as he ran to the base while I caught the ball to tag him out.

I landed on my ass and back pretty hard because I hadn’t been expecting it at all—because seriously, who the hell plays like that?? Last week should have been an anomaly. I took a deep breath to control how pissed off I instantly became and how out of breath I was from practically being tackled. Once I was calm, I shoved him off and gave the jerk a dirty look. It was one of the guys the idiot from last week had been standing with, also one of the three people I’d tagged out earlier.

I took another deep breath, fighting back a groan as I watched him get up to standing position from his hands and knees. Patience Sal. Patience.

But it wasn’t working.

Rolling up to sit, I bit back the curse words that were molding to my gums.

Patience. Patience.

I swallowed and clung to the tiny bit of patience I found inside myself. “I don’t play like that,” I told him in a careful controlled voice, getting to my feet slowly. I straightened to my full height, still a good five inches shorter than the man who shoved me to the ground. I tipped my head up and looked him right in the eye. He was somewhere around my age and good-looking enough to be an egotistical dick with his gelled hair and trimmed beard. I’d learned early on playing with my brother, Simon, Marc and their friends that as a girl—as a person—you couldn’t back down. Plus, I wasn’t scared of these idiots. Not even a little bit. “Don’t do it again.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Marc’s voice came from somewhere in my peripheral vision before he appeared. Close enough, he shoved a hand between our bodies and moved the stranger back a foot. “Dude, we don’t do that shit. You especially don’t do that shit to her, so watch it or your ass is out of here. That goes for all of you.”

The tension was like a thick mist over the field, as the guy finally took another two steps back and nodded. Anger buzzed through my ears as I watched his stupid head retreat.

A hand whacked me in the stomach hard, and I didn’t have to look down to see that it was Marc, leaning over to get in my face. “I thought we talked about you taking risks,” he hissed.

I blinked and felt my nostrils flare. “His friend stomped on me last week and now this ass-wipe went WWE on me. What did you want me to do? Sit here and take it?”

We both knew he was part of the trio who had taught me as a child that it was acceptable to shove my elbow into the soft spot beneath people’s ribcages and sometimes in their kidneys, if it was needed. It wasn’t until I was a little older playing in a league that my coach had finally explained that it wasn’t right… even if it got the job done.

With a sigh, Marc’s dark eyes stared into mine. “Of course not, but you know the last thing I want is for you to get hurt because these pussies get their panties in a wad.”

“I know, but that was bullshit.”

A strained smile stretched wide across his mouth. “It is bullshit, but sometimes I want to push you to the ground, Sal, and I love you. Chill out. We’ll let the air out of his tires in a couple of weeks, when he isn’t expecting it.”

Bah.

I snorted, and then I snorted again. He was such a great person in my life, more like an illegitimate bastard brother than a friend, really. I kissed the tips of my fingers and followed up by smacking his cheek with them in a light slap. “I love you too, but I don’t know if I can wait a few weeks.”

With a roll of his eyes, he straightened up and scowled. “Try. Keep the anger in check, mini-Hulk.”

I rolled my eyes right back at him, took another breath for control, collected what remained of my patience and held it close to my heart. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kulti at the sideline, one foot forward, his hands down at his sides, those muscular forearms flexed. I noticed even his calves were taut. His jaw was locked as he stood there, ready for who knows what. But he didn’t move. He didn’t say a word, and I was still too pissed to put together his body language.

Was it an accident? I highly doubted it, but I’d played with rough people in the past, and I’d let them get away with maybe an elbow or a shoulder if it let them sleep better.

But still, he was a fucking asshole.

Then it happened again.

A few minutes later, once the teams had switched positions, I was running—not full speed—toward third base after stealing second. Just as I was coming up to the base, someone from behind me sped up, and completely unnecessarily, shoved me forward as he attempted to tag me out.

I went flying, straight on a mission to eat a whole bunch of dirt.

Under normal circumstances, I would have been able to stop myself, but with the added push, I had too much momentum going. The image of falling awkwardly on my knee or ankle, and the possibility of tearing something flashed through my brain. There was no graceful way to stop without really hurting myself. So I went forward, hands up in the sloppiest slide that wouldn’t break a wrist, and I belly-flopped. I mean, belly-flopped and still skidded a bit. The fall was hard and painful. It reminded me of that time I dove off the platform when I was a kid and knocked the wind out of myself, almost feeling like I might have cracked a rib.

But the point was, I fell, I slid. I’d been shoved. And I was not okay with it, especially not when the silly, stupid man decided to stand over me, six feet of douche-bag supreme.

My stomach burned, and my lower ribs ached as I tried to push up to my hands and knees.

Holy shit.

I sucked in a breath and hissed it right back out, one hand going under my shirt to palm the skin that I knew was scraped to hell.

Before I could even successfully sit up on my knees, the culprit had been shoved to ground. I mean he was shoved hard. It wasn’t Marc, and it wasn’t Simon. It was Kulti standing with his back to me. Kulti had pushed the full-grown man to the ground.

Reiner ‘The King’ Kulti stood over the fucking weasel, straddling his body in a squat. “You coward,” he spat.

Literally, I saw saliva coming out of the German’s mouth as he said words in his native language, which I didn’t understand but got the gist of. They weren’t friendly, not at all.

“You’re pathetic.” Honestly, I thought he was going to slap him and was only slightly disappointed when he didn’t. His face kept moving lower and lower until I was sure the blood rushed to his head.

What followed was an explosion of German that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Vicious and sharp-edged, I only understood a few words here and there. Something about dying and his investment?

What the hell that meant, I had no idea. What I did know was that it sounded incredibly ugly. It sounded so ugly; I felt a little shiver roll down the length of my spine even as I froze in place on my knees, mere feet away from the action.

“It really is him,” Marc whispered in a reverent voice, scaring the crap out of me because I had no idea he was so close.

“Shh,” I hissed so I could hear if anything else was said to the idiot on the ground.

Sure enough, I wasn’t left hanging. Kulti straightened until he was standing up, legs on both sides of the guy’s body. “Next time, I’ll break your hand.” With that, he turned around. I’d swear on my life he cocked his leg back as if planning to kick the man, but at the last minute changed his mind and kept going… toward me.

What did I do? I just stayed there. I just stayed right there.

Had he, the man who hadn’t even batted an eyelash when a teammate of his had gotten two broken vertebrae after a cheap shot, defended me? Me?

That imposing six-foot-two frame stopped four steps later, eyes down at the hand I had under my shirt; why, I wasn’t sure. I was so wrapped up in Kulti’s actions that I couldn’t have been sure about anything.

His nostrils flared, and I swear his entire upper body seemed to expand as he reached forward, his finger barely grazing my chin. Kulti muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “so lucky,” under his breath, his chin turning to pause just above his collarbone, like he couldn’t bear to look at me. Adam’s apple bobbing, he seemed to struggle for another breath before getting himself under control.

His intense gaze ignored the gaping mouths surrounding us. He said in a crisp tone, hands wrapping around my elbows, “We’re done here. I’ll get your keys.”

All I could do was nod. I might have even forgotten to breathe from the shock and excitement as he continued holding me, helping me up to my feet. My ribs sang a sorrowful song as I stood up with a groan. The skin over my stomach hurt, but I managed to make eye contact with Simon and Marc.

“I’m fine,” I said, for once in my life not caring that all these people I didn’t know well, were staring at the sideshow known as Kulti Kicking Ass.

“You sure?” Marc asked, his face creased with worry. I nodded. “Call me later, okay?”

I swallowed and waved at my two longtime friends, breathing through the pain as I turned to walk off the field. Kulti was ahead of me. He’d already reached down and grabbed my glove, his own tucked under his armpit, one arm extended out in my direction in a gesture for me to come toward him.

I did.

My abs and sides ached with every step, but I managed to keep it together as we walked nearly side by side, the German ending up just slightly behind me. He veered off for a second to grab both of our bags, snatching them up off the floor. The anger coming off of him was suffocating, but I took it all in, okay with it. He’d been about to beat the crap out of that guy in my honor.

I’d seen Kulti lose his shit for much less, but for someone else? Never. Marc was going to scream over the phone later, I just knew it.

I eyed him as we walked toward the parking lot, going through a million different ideas of how to thank him for what he’d done. From the way his body was strung, tight at the shoulders and down through his chest, I figured it’d be best to give him a minute. So I kept my mouth shut and kept walking.

My car was so close I could almost touch it. All I wanted was to get home, maybe throw some Epsom salt into the bathtub and soak for a while as I drowned my pain in over-the-counter painkillers.

“Jesus Christ,” I groaned when my ribs gave a strong throb, as we stopped right by the hood of my car.

The big man dropped both of our bags on the ground, and I couldn’t help but notice the big vein in his neck pulsing. His fingers were curled at his sides. “Let me see.”

“I’m all right,” I insisted, debating whether or not to bend over and grab my bag.

“You are the worst liar I have ever met,” he said. “Pull up your shirt or I’ll do it for you.”

“Uh…”

He wasn’t exaggerating.

When I didn’t immediately pull up my T-shirt, he did it for me. One hand fisted the worn cotton material at the hem, and the next thing I knew, he was jerking it up. Way up. My shirt went high over my breasts, my black sports bra and all.

I tried to smack his hand away. “What the hell are you doing?”

It was useless. He had a death grip on the material, and his eyes were laser-focused on the middle section of my body.

Maybe I should have been self-conscious, but I wasn’t. Not really at least. I ate well, I exercised a lot, and frankly, I just didn’t give a crap if he found me lacking or thought I was too much. Because I was in pain. The skin covering my abs was inflamed and red; right down the middle, tiny beads of blood dotted my poor stomach. Luckily, my ribs weren’t swollen or blue.

But tomorrow… I cringed.

As I shuddered at the thought of how much I’d be hurting tomorrow, Kulti yanked down on the elastic hem of my royal blue running shorts two inches. It was low enough for the elastic band of my pastel blue cotton panties to make an appearance.

“All right,” I muttered and pulled them back up, out of his grip.

Kulti flicked his gaze up, chin still down, my shirt still bunched in his other hand. “I didn’t take you to be shy.”

“I’m not.” Unless it was in front of a camera, that was more along the lines of a complete and total meltdown.

“You’re acting like it.”

A small part of me was well aware that he was just egging me on, challenging me so I’d do what he wanted. I wasn’t shy. I was used to people—okay, physical therapists, chiropractors and masseuses—putting their hands all over me when I was half-dressed. Practicing in sports bras when it got too hot, or when I wanted to work on my tan wasn’t out of the usual either. I didn’t have any real issues with my body except for a few stretch marks in key places along my glutes and quadriceps. At some point, I’d gotten over the idea that beautiful faces and traditional feminine bodies whether they were slender or curvy, were the only standard of beauty in the world. The fact that I wasn’t built slim or voluptuous and would never be anything close to any kind of bombshell, was fine with me now. My body and build were a hard fact.

My arms, stomach and legs were a sign of the craft I’d been working on my entire life. It was my machine: short torso, wide-ish shoulders and muscular thighs. They were mine, and I wasn’t embarrassed of it. I was happy with myself. Sure I’d had people tell me my quads were too big, or that I needed to stop lifting weights before I looked too manly, whatever the fuck that meant. My arms couldn’t be scrawny, I needed my legs to take me to the end of the universe and back, and they did. On the other hand, I’d also had teammates and coaches tell me I should put more muscle on. I could have been more and I could have been less, but I was just me. At some point, you just have to decide to be the best version of yourself, the one you can live with and look at in the mirror day after day.

Eventually, I’d found that person. Not a model and not a physique competitor in a bodybuilding competition. Just me.

Plus, I’d seen Kulti’s ex-wife and his ex-girlfriends. He liked them tall-ish, long-haired with small breasts, just between the line of slim and fit.

Which was not my small C-cups that didn’t shrink no matter how much bench pressing I did, or my hamstrings and butt that only fit into the most stretchy of jeans after ten minutes of wiggling, jumping and tucking. I didn’t even think about my face because that was a whole different matter. It had scars and freckles that I couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything about.

“Fine.” Dropping my hands, I held them up before pulling my shirt over my head. Screw it. What were boobs and some freckles, when he’d seen me without make-up nearly every day for the past two months?

His lids dropped low over his hazel-ish eyes, but he didn’t say a word. Instead he watched me with that heavy gaze as his hands wrapped over my sides just below the smallest part of my ribs. They were cool and firm. I couldn’t help but notice his hands were big. I only just barely managed not to make a sound at his touch. I mean, Marc touched me all the time. It was no big deal.

His hands slid up, his palms so wide and fingers so long, he could almost reach all the way around.

Then he squeezed, and I let out a really unfeminine grunt.

The German didn’t break eye contact with me once, even as his thumbs pressed into the hollow between my ribs, the pads resting on the scraped-up skin above the flat muscle of my abs. My nostrils flared as he squeezed a second time, my heart racing, racing, racing under cover. The hair on my arms prickled in response to him.

Did he need to look at me while he did this? “I’m fine. If anything, they’re just a little bruised,” I said in a controlled voice that didn’t even hint at the fact the big organ right in the center of my chest thought it was heading into Nascar.

One thumb absently stroked a line upward to the elastic band of my bra, which I couldn’t help but remember was literally just a centimeter from the bottom swell of my breast. “You’ll be fine,” he stated confidently like he had x-ray powers that told him everything was all right.

His hands dropped from my stomach.

I swallowed, trying to get myself together. “My, uh, keys are in the side zipper of my bag. Can you grab them for me or pass me the bag so I can get them?”

He shot me a look, reaching for my bag off the ground before unzipping the pocket and fishing my keys out, holding them clasped in his palm. “I would drive you home but…” His lips curled over his teeth, almost as if he were going to smack them.

But.

“Don’t worry about it.” I didn’t ask him if he couldn’t. He couldn’t. It was that simple. I didn’t know why exactly, but the clues were there.

He didn’t even blink or look mildly uncomfortable, I understood that much. He nodded once, his lips still tight. “I’ll follow you.”

Follow me home? “That’s all right. I promise. I can make it home in one piece.”

“I’ll follow you.”

Dear God. “I’m sure you have better things to do. Trust me, it’s fine.”

“I don’t. I’ll follow you home,” he insisted. I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. “Get in.”

That was exactly how I found myself leading an international soccer icon to my garage apartment.