Kulti

“The meeting is on the fifth floor today, Sal, conference room 3C.” The guard winked at me as he slid my visitor’s pass across the granite desk.

“Thanks. See you later.” I flashed him a big grin and nodded, eyeing the huge mural on the wall behind him. It was a mixed media piece, multicolored and vibrant, with dozens of snapshots of Pipers players and Wreckers, the Houston men’s professional club. We were their expansion team, created and managed by the same ownership group. Or as I fondly thought of it, we were the adopted kids, the ones that had come years after a successful track record for the men while the owners had hopes and dreams in their eyes for our potential. Why they named the team the Pipers, I had no idea. It was probably the worst name I’d ever heard, all it made me think of was a boner for some reason.

One of the players in the piece was me, right in the middle, my arms thrown over my head after I’d scored a goal two seasons ago. I’d have to tell my dad about the mural, I told myself, taking in the new artwork they’d added to the lobby since I hadn’t really been paying attention when I’d come to see Coach Gardner days before. Headquarters for the Wreckers and Pipers was an impressive building, only a couple years old and located in a developing neighborhood just outside of the downtown area.

It’d been three days since the press conference, and so far I hadn’t heard anything from a single person regarding the huge idiot I made of myself. Nothing. Not a phone call or a text or an email from anyone telling me they saw what happened. I was used to being the butt end of a joke, or being teased for the things I liked or the way I dressed, so I was prepared for it.

But still.

I dreaded the day the video would leak, but I shoved the worry to the back of my head for another time. Priorities. I had priorities, like today.

The staff and the team were scheduled for an introductory meeting before practices began. It was mainly to get the new people acquainted with schedules, rules and a whole bunch of other details that usually went in one ear and out the other.

The conference room was easy to find. There were only a few people already waiting, and I took a seat halfway into the room after waving to and greeting the girls closest to me. I watched a couple of the other assistant coaches and Coach Gardner, who had given me a hug after the press conference as he tried hard not to laugh, talked in one corner of the room.

Someone squealed.

“Sal!” It was Jenny, my favorite goalkeeper in the world. She was half-Japanese, half a bunch of other European nationalities, had the best skin I’d ever seen, was tall, pretty and had a great attitude. I used to hate her guts—in a friendly way—because she’d blocked way too many of my shots when we were on opposing teams. It was sort of horseshit in the world of fairness when someone was good at everything, and then smart and pretty on top of it. But she was such a nice, kind person that my hatred had lasted about twenty seconds.

“Jen-Jen.” I waved at her. She pointed at the chair right next to her and urged me forward. I waved at a few of the other players nearby that I knew, most were looking around suspiciously. Oh lord. I took another quick glance at the coaches to make sure Kulti wasn’t hiding between them.

He wasn’t.

Stop it, Sal. Focus.

Jenny sat up straight to give me a hug. “I’m so happy to see you,” she said. Most of the players didn’t live in Houston year-round and she was one of them, heading back to her home state of Iowa when the season was over. This would be our third year on the team together. Though I wasn’t exactly far from my parents—it was only a three-hour drive more or less to San Antonio—I didn’t mind living in Houston, despite the humidity.

Everyone in the conference room seemed to be buzzing around. The players were all keeping an eye out, an air of expectancy saturating everything. I had to remind myself a couple more times to quit doing it too. I caught Jenny glancing around as she dug in her purse for a tube of lipstick, and she blushed when she noticed that I saw what she was doing.

“I really don’t think this is that big of a deal,” she said, and I believed her. “But… you know, I’m half-expecting him to come here with Hermes wings on his shoes and a halo over his head since everyone thinks he’s some kind of god.” Jenny paused for a moment before quickly adding, “On the soccer field, I mean.”

I winked and nodded. Adding, “Uh-huh, whatever you say,” just to mess with her. I was familiar with her type and it wasn’t brown-haired men who played soccer. Her boyfriend of two years was a six-foot-two beast, a sprinter who had won a bronze and a silver medal at the last Olympics and had quads the size of my ribcage. Show-off.

Jenny frowned. “Don’t make me bring up those pictures I saw.”

Damn it. She had me, and from the smirk on her face, she knew it. My mom had busted out the pictures of me in my younger days during a visit Jenny had taken back home with me. In several of them, my Kulti obsession was well-documented. I think it was the three birthday cakes in a row with his face on them that really sealed the deal.

“Hi, Jenny,” a familiar voice said from above my head. Almost immediately, two hands grabbed my face from behind and squished my cheeks together. Then two brown eyes appeared over the top of my head. “Hi, Sally.”

I poked at the space between the two brown eyes. Her dark blonde hair was trimmed short like always, in a style that would be called a pixie-cut on any other person in the world but her. “Harlow, I missed you,” I told the best defender in the country.

Harlow Williams really was the best and for good reason. She was a little scary. Incredibly nice off the field, but on it, those ancient survival instincts every being is born with begged you to run the other away when she was barreling toward you.

We called her The Beast for a reason.

Her reply was in the form of pinching my nostrils together with one hand, cutting off my air supply. “I missed your face too. You got any food on you?” she asked, still peeping over the top of my head.

Of course I had food on me. I pulled three Kind bars out of my purse and handed her the peanut butter one, her favorite.

“That’s why I always have your back,” she said with a satisfied sigh. “Thanks, Sal. I’ll harass you later so you can tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“You got it.”

Harlow patted the top of my head a little too hard before taking her seat down the side of the table. She leaned over the edge and waggled her fingers at us as she bit into the bar. Jenny and I made faces at each other. The three of us had played on the national team together back when I was still on it, so more than anyone else we knew each other the best.

“She’s a nut.”

Jenny nodded. “Yeah, she is. Remember that time she clotheslined you during practice?”

My shoulder throbbed thinking about it. It was Harlow’s fault I had chronic pain in it. “I couldn’t play for three weeks afterward. Of course I remember.” She’d dislocated it when I tried to sneak a ball around her. Never again. While I didn’t usually run from an aggressive player, Harlow was in a league of her own.

Coach Gardner clapped his hands once everyone had shown up and welcomed us all to preparation for this season’s training. Nearly everyone in the room looked around, surprised that he was starting when someone was so obviously missing. Either Coach Gardner didn’t realize no one was really paying attention or he didn’t care, because he jumped right into it.

If anyone else thought it was strange that the man who had played through games with the flu and fractured bones wasn’t around for our first team meeting, no one said a thing. His attendance record had always been impeccable. It would have taken a force of nature to keep him off the field.

“Coach Marcy took a position with the University of Mobile this summer, so upper management reached out to a few different people to fill in the assistant position she left us open with. We were lucky enough to get a commitment a few days ago. Reiner Kulti—who we all know needs no introduction—will be taking over assistant coach duties.”

There was a small collective of sucked-in breaths before Gardner continued. Were these people not checking their emails or at least watching some television? “Although I know you ladies are all professionals, I’m going to say it anyway: this is Coach Kulti. Not Reiner, not King, and if I hear any of you calling him Führer, you’re out of here. Understood? Sheena from PR will be in here to talk about what you can and can’t post on social media a little later, but please exercise sound judgment.”

I’d never call Kulti Führer to begin with, but with that threat, I didn’t even want to think about him just to be on the safe side. From the awkward silence that came over the group for the remaining speech, it was obvious everyone felt the same way. We were professionals. I’d never met a group of more competitive people in my life other than when I’d played on the national team.

It was like we were a class of kindergarteners, all sitting there staring absently and nodding as Gardner warned us of our possible demise.

Getting benched? For the season? Or even traded? Yeah, no. That sure as hell wasn’t happening.

I caught the tail end of his spiel as he pointed out the six newest additions to the team and then stated his expectations for what he hoped to accomplish—to find a winning combination of talent to take the team to the top for another year in a row. Something about access to the local college’s gym and a list of expectations when we were off the field were passed around. It was the same talk I’d heard every other time a new season started.

Except I’d never been threatened with getting kicked off a team for talking badly about a coach who made more money in a year that most of us would make in our entire lives.

I’d worked too hard and too long to let something so dumb ruin my career for me.

No, thank you and fuck that.

Gardner went on for a little while longer about what they would be focusing on during the six weeks between the start of training and the beginning of the season. He introduced the rest of the staff and eventually Sheena, the public relations person who had stood by while I made an ass of myself, took over.

It was all Kulti, Kulti and more Kulti.

“…presence is going to bring more attention to the team. We need to use the momentum of the press and public’s excitement to turn it around and focus in on our organization. It’s positive and it’s a valuable tool to keep the league growing…”

I knew it! I’d known they’d brought him in mainly for the publicity.

“…if you’re approached, turn it around and bring attention to the team or the league. Be excited…”

Be excited?

“…Mr. Kulti should be here tomorrow…”

Jenny kicked me beneath the table.

They weren’t kidding when they said the team would be getting more attention because of the retired German player. What was usually a quiet low-key event with players getting dropped off in minivans, was now an event saturated by rental cars and a few news vans. Freaking news vans. A small group of people were scattered through the lot as I pulled in. I recognized some of the girls as players, but the rest were strangers: journalists, reporters, bloggers and possibly even Kulti fans. At least I hoped it was more fans, but I wasn’t optimistic.

This wasn’t even the start of practice; it was our yearly fitness assessment before real training began just to see how everyone was doing. No big deal, yet there were so many people…

Anxiety seared my stomach, and I took a deep breath to make the feeling go away.

It didn’t really work.

One more deep breath, then another and by the third, I was parked. Thankfully my nerves had settled enough for me to get out of the car without looking like I was battling morning sickness. About five seconds after I got my bag out of the trunk, I heard it. “Casillas!”

Fuck my life.

“Sal Casillas! You got a minute for me?” the masculine voice called out.

I slung the bag over my shoulder and glanced around to find a man breaking away from the group of strangers. He waved, and I felt my stomach sink even as I plastered a smile on my face and waved back. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that I got all awkward and anxious in front of a video camera.

“Sure,” I answered convincingly. Our assessment didn’t start for another twenty minutes, but I still had to get ready.

“How you doin’? Steven Cooper with Sports Daily,” the man greeted me with a handshake. “I just have a few questions if that’s fine.”

I nodded. “Shoot.”

“I’ll be recording this for documentation purposes.” Showing me the recording device in his hand, he hit the button to start. “What are you looking forward to the most this season?” he asked.

“I’m really looking forward to just starting it. We have some new players and staff on the team, and I’m excited to see how well we all do together.” The fact I sounded like a well-adjusted human being instead of one that was about to shit her pants made me proud.

“How do you feel about Reiner Kulti being hired as the Pipers’ assistant coach?”

It was the same exact question I’d answered during the press conference from hell days before. “It’s still pretty surreal. I’m excited. I think it’s great that we’re having someone with so much experience coming in to help us out.”

“He’s an unlikely choice for a coach, don’t you think?”

I shoved my hands in my pockets when I felt them start to get clammy. Most of the time these things were fine, but every once in a while they turned into ticking time bombs. I’d put my foot in my mouth more times than I could count, which didn’t help my fear with doing these interviews.

“It’s different but there’s nothing wrong with it. He’s been named World Player of the Year more times than anyone else for a reason. He knows what it takes to be the best, and that’s something every player strives for. Plus, I think it’s unfair to discredit him before we even give him a chance to prove himself,” I told him.

He gave me a disbelieving look, like he thought I was full of shit, but he didn’t argue with me about it. “All right. What’s your prediction for this season? Are the Pipers going to the finals again?”

“That’s the plan.” I smiled at him. “I need to get going, unless you have one more question?”

“Okay. One more: do you have any plans on joining the national team again soon?”

I opened my mouth and left it open for a second before closing it. I rocked forward on my heels as I rubbed my palms down the front of my shorts. “I’m not planning on it anytime soon. I want to focus on our regular season for now.” I swallowed hard and thrust my hand out for him. A second later, I was marching toward the field, watching a few of the other girls get corralled into conversations with other reporters. Two other journalists called out for me, but I declined with an apology. I had to warm up before our assessment began.

Today pretty much consisted of running sprints for an hour, upper body endurance in the form of a push-up-palooza, and endless squats from the third circle of hell, among other forms of torture that the old biddy fitness coach developed recently. Some people really dreaded it, but I wasn’t totally opposed to our fitness stuff. Was it fun? No. But I worked out a lot, hard, all year so that I wouldn’t be the one huffing and puffing during the first half of a game, and I liked being the fastest. So sue me.

I worked harder than just about anyone for a reason. I was fast, but I wasn’t getting any younger, and my bad ankle wasn’t getting any better either. Then there was my knee, which had been a problem for the last decade. You had to make up for stuff like that by never getting soft, putting your well-being first, and not taking things for granted.

I’d just finished dropping my things on the side of the field when it finally happened.

It was the “Oh. My. Godddd” out of one of the girls I wasn’t familiar with that suddenly snapped me into paying attention.

I spotted him. He was there. There.

Oh hell. I was dead.

All six-feet-arguably-two inches of brown hair, five-time World Player of the Year, was right there talking to the team’s fitness coach, a mean old woman who had no pity on anyone.

Oh snap. I reached up to make sure my hair hadn’t frizzed up in the five minutes I’d been out of my car and then stopped. What the hell was I doing? I dropped my hands immediately. I’d never cared what I looked like when I was playing. Well, I rarely cared what I looked like period. As long as my hair wasn’t in my face and my armpits and legs were shaved, I was good. I plucked my eyebrows a couple times a week and I had an addiction to homemade face masks, but that was usually as much effort as I put into myself. People asked me why I was dressing up if I wore jeans, it was that bad.

I’d worn lip balm and a headband on my last date, and here I was fixing my hair. Sheesh.

For the record and for the sake of my pride, I don’t think I’d ever fan-girled outwardly in my life. There were a few soccer players I think I’d gotten a little red-faced over and there was that one time when I was fourteen at a JT concert, he’d touched my hand and I’d swooned a little bit… but that was the extent of it. But seeing the master of ball control standing out on the side of the soccer field in a blue and white soccer training jersey and track pants was just… too much.

Way. Too. Much.

Reiner Kulti nodded at something the old, sadistic demon said, and I felt… weird.

To my absolute horror, my inner thirteen-year-old, the one that had planned on marrying this guy and having soccer-playing super-babies with him, peeked in and reminded me she’d been around once. I’d swear on my life that my heart clenched up and my armpits started sweating simultaneously. The best term to describe what was going on with me: star struck. Totally star struck.

Because… Reiner Kulti.

The King.

The best player to come out of Europe in…

All right. This wasn’t going to work, not at all, not even a little bit. Rationally, I knew that mooning over him was stupid. I was too old for this crap, and I’d gotten over my crush on him a decade ago when I said ‘screw you’ to the man who had married someone else, and then nearly ended my brother’s career right after it started. Kulti was just a man. I closed my eyes and thought of the first thing that could get me out of my holyshitit’sKultistandingrightthere.

Poop.

He poops.

He poops.

Right. That was all I needed to snap out of it. I pictured an image of him sitting on the porcelain throne to remind me he was just a normal man with needs like everyone. I knew this—I’d known this for the longest. He was just a man with parents that pooped and peed and slept like the rest of us. Poop, poop, poop, poop, poop.

Right.

I was good. I was really fine.

Until Jenny tapped her elbow against my lower ribs unexpectedly, her face getting up in mine while she did these huge goofy eyes, barely tipping her head in Kulti’s direction. It was the universal friend sign for there’s that guy you like. Do you see him?

This bitch. I made my own eyes go wide and mouthed ‘shut the hell up’ to her, moving my lips the least amount possible.

Like any good friend, she didn’t do what was asked. She kept elbowing me and giving me that crazy, stupid look and strained head-tipping, trying to be inconspicuous and failing miserably. I didn’t look at him for very long, just that first initial glance from more than fifty feet away, and then another quick look right afterward.

Poop. Remember: poop. Right.

The silence on the field said more than enough about what everyone was thinking but couldn’t actually say out loud.

But dumb Jenny knocked her foot against mine while we put on sunscreen, grinning when she caught my eye, which I was purposely trying to ignore because she made me laugh. I knew in my gut that I was never going to hear the end of this. Never. I’d gotten over my crush-slash-infatuation when I was seventeen, when I finally accepted the fact that I didn’t have a single shot of ever playing against him—obviously—and… there was no chance in hell that he’d ever be interested in me, the Argentinian-Mexican-American tomboy thirteen years younger than him. There wouldn’t be a marriage in my future or soccer-playing super-babies.

It was the worst non-break-up ever in the history of imaginary relationships with a man who didn’t even know I existed.

My poor, innocent heart hadn’t been able to handle the only love I’d ever known marrying someone else—Reiner Kulti hadn’t known he was supposed to fall head over heels in love with me one day.

But like every unrequited first love, I got over it. Life moved on. And then all the shit with Eric happened shortly after that, and the posters on my wall had turned into an even bigger betrayal to the guy in my life who had always let me tag along for impromptu soccer games with his friends.

“Keep it up, bitch,” I whispered to Jenny while we she rubbed sunscreen on the parts of my back I couldn’t reach.

She snorted and hip-bumped me as we walked toward our designated stretching area. There was already a small group waiting, their voices still a lot lower than they would be normally. Sure enough, Kulti was standing nearby with Coach Gardner and Grace, our team captain and a veteran defender who had been playing professionally since I was still in middle school. She’d been with the Pipers four years at the beginning of this season, just like me.

“He’s taller than I’d thought he’d be,” Jen muttered just loud enough for me to hear.

I looked out of the corner of my eye at where the coaches and Grace were standing without being completely obvious. With only twenty feet of distance between us, we were closer than I ever could have expected, and I nodded because she was right. He was spectacularly tall compared to a lot of the male forwards—also called strikers by some, or in the way my sister described the position: ‘the people that hung out by the other team’s goal and tried to score.’ The best forwards tended to be a lot shorter, not six-two or six-three depending on what analyst or know-it-all you asked. Considering how unparalleled his footwork was, it was a—

Stop. Stop, Sal.

Right.

Poop.

I could look at him without fan-girling, I could be unbiased. So I tried my best to do just that. He looked bulkier than he’d been a couple of years ago when he’d stepped out of the spotlight. Like most players, he’d been muscular but extra lean and long from all the endless running. Now, he looked a bit heavier, his face was more filled out, his neck looked a little thicker and his arms—

Poop. Fart. Peeing in a urinal. Right.

All right.

The guy was more muscular. A hint of his tattoo peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his shirt and he still had that even flawless skin tone that was somewhere between a creamy white and a perfect light tan.

His hair was that same perfect brown as it’d always been and if it hadn’t been for the touches of gray at his temples, that familiar aspect would have been the same. Basically, it was obvious he’d gotten older and he wasn’t on his feet as much as he’d been for the largest chunk of his life. His build had become more gym-rat than swimmer, and there was not a single thing wrong with that.

But when I zeroed in his face, something just seemed… off. He’d always been good-looking, really good-looking, in his own untraditional way. Kulti didn’t have the symmetrical high-boned features that companies usually looked for when they endorsed athletes. His facial structure was more raw, smart-assedness oozing from the fullness of his mouth and from the bright color of his eyes. He was such a supreme athlete it had never mattered during his career that he didn’t have a patrician face. His confidence was blinding. Clean-shaven for once, the sharp bones of his jaw and cheeks that made his profile so masculine were on all-out display. A few more lines creased out from the corners of his hazel-green eyes than had been there before.

I forgot he was turning forty this year.

The puzzle pieces were all there, but it was like they weren’t put together properly. I knew it wasn’t anything different outward about him. Being in stealth mode, I couldn’t figure out what it was, and it bothered me. My gut recognized a difference in him, but my eyes couldn’t. What was it?

“Will someone pass me a band?” a girl nearby asked, snapping me out of the human Rubik’s cube I was playing.

Realizing I was the closest person to the mini-bands we used for stretching, I grabbed one and passed it to my teammate.

“Everyone circle around!” Gardner called us, like a shepherd calling his sheep.

Which I don’t think any of us really appreciated but all right. Like zombies, the group flocked to him silently, hesitantly. We were bugs being called to the bug zapper, the shiny bright thing that could potentially kill us, only with a man as the attraction. Gardner and Kulti stood together along with the fitness coach and a few other staff members shaking hands and greeting each other.

I fought the urge to swallow because I knew one of the idiots around me would see, and I didn’t need to give Jenny any more room to give me shit about my former Kulti obsession.

“Ladies, I’m pleased to introduce your new assistant coach for the season, Reiner Kulti. Let’s break the ice real quick before we start. If you could go around and introduce yourselves and tell him what position you’re playing…” Gardner trailed off with an eyebrow that dared us all to tell him how stupid and elementary school this was. I hated it then and I wasn’t a fan now.

Without missing a beat, one of the girls closest to Gardner started off the circle of introductions.

I watched him, his face and his reactions. He blinked and tipped his head down each time a player finished talking. One after another, half the group went, and I realized I was near the middle of the semi-circle when Jenny piped in.

“I’m Jenny Milton,” she grinned in that way that always had me grinning back no matter what kind of mood I was in. “Goalkeeper. Nice to meet you.”

I didn’t miss the way his cheek hiked up a millimeter more in reaction to her greeting. You’d have to be the freaking Grinch to not appreciate Jenny. She was one of those people who woke up in an excellent mood and went to sleep with a smile on her face. But when she was mad, I wouldn’t hold murder past her.

Then it was my turn and when those light-colored eyes landed on my face expectantly, I thought poop. Lots of poop. Clog-the-toilet amount of poop.

Like a pro, I amazed myself by not squeaking or stuttering. Those green-brown orbs that were said to be the windows of a person’s soul were right on me. “Hi, I’m Sal Casillas. I’m a forward.” More like a winger, but what was the point in being specific?

“Sal did your press conference,” Sheena, the public relations employee, commented.

I cringed on the inside, and I didn’t miss the tiny snort that escaped Jenny. I ignored it. Bitch.

By the time I looked back at where he was I’d been dismissed. His attention had gone right on to the girl next to me without a moment to spare.

Well. Okay.

I guess I should have been glad I cancelled our wedding preparations years ago.

I gave Jenny a look out of the corner of my eye. “Shut up.”

She waited until the next player stopped talking before replying. “I didn’t say a word.”

“You were thinking about it.”

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” she admitted in a whisper that was way too close to a laugh.

My eye twitched on its own. Neither had I.

I had just laid down on my bed after dinner when my phone rang. My legs ached after my morning run, our fitness test and then the landscaping job I helped Marc with most of the afternoon. Considering it was eight at night and I had a tiny number of friends that actually called me occasionally, I had a pretty good idea of who it was. Sure enough, a foreign area code and number showed up on the screen.

“Hi, Dad,” I answered, sliding my cell into the crook between my shoulder and ear.

The man didn’t even beat around the bush. In a quick rush he blurted out, “How was it?”

How was it?

How could I tell my dad, a die-hard Kulti fan despite the fact that he had no business still calling himself a fan, that the day had been one big whooping disappointment?

A disappointment. I could only blame myself. No one had ever given me the impression that Reiner Kulti was going to blow our minds with tricks and tips we hadn’t even thought of—especially not during a day set aside for fitness tests—also known as cardio-all-day-until-you-were-on-the-verge-of-puking. Or maybe I’d anticipated that that infamous temper that had gotten him red-carded—ejected out of games—more times than necessary, would come out? There was a reason he’d been called the Führer back when he played, and it was part of the reason why people both liked him and disliked him so much.

Today though, he hadn’t been an asshole or greedy or condescending. All the characteristics I’d ever heard of from people who had played with him were nonexistent. This was the same person that had gotten suspended from ten games for head-butting the hell out of another player during a friendly game—a game that didn’t even count for anything. Then there was the time he’d gotten into an altercation with a player who had blatantly tried to kick him in the back of the knee. He was the train wreck you wanted to watch happen and keep happening… at least he had been.

Instead, he’d just stood there while we introduced ourselves and then afterward, watched us when he wasn’t talking to Coach Gardner. I don’t even think he touched a ball. Not that I was looking that much.

The single thing that I’m pretty sure any of us had heard him say had been “Good morning.” Good morning. This simple greeting from the same man that had gotten in trouble for bellowing “Fuck you!” during an Altus Cup on major television.

What the hell was wrong with me that I’d be complaining about Kulti being so distant? So nice?

Yeah, there was something wrong with me.

I coughed into the phone. “It was fine. He didn’t really talk to us or anything.” And by ‘didn’t really’ I really meant ‘at all’. I wasn’t going to tell Dad that though.

“Oh.” His disappointment was evident in the way he dropped the consonant so harshly.

Well I felt like an asshole.

“I’m sure he’s just trying to warm up to us.” Maybe. Right?

“Alomejor.” Maybe, Dad said in that same sort of tone he used when I was a kid and I’d ask him for something he knew damn well he wasn’t going to give me. “Nothing happened, then?”

I didn’t even need to close my eyes and think back on what had happened that day. Not a single thing. Kulti had just stood back and watched us run around executing a variety of exercises to make sure we were all in shape. He hadn’t even rolled his eyes, much less call us a group of incompetent idiots—another thing he’d been known to call his teammates when they weren’t playing to the level he expected.

“Nothing,” and that was the truth. Maybe he’d gotten shy over the years?

Yeah, not likely, but I could tell myself that. Or at least tell Dad that so that he wouldn’t sound so disheartened after he’d been so over-the-moon when he’d first found out Kulti would be our coach.

“But hey, I had the best times during each sprint,” I added.

His laugh was soft and possibly a little disappointed. “That’s my girl. Running every morning?”

“Every morning and I’ve been swimming more.” I stopped talking when I heard a voice in the background.

All I heard was my dad mumbling, “It’s Sal… you wanna talk to her?… Okay… Sal, your mom says hi.”

“Tell her I said hi back.”

“My daughter says hi… no, she’s mine. The other one is yours… Ha! No!… Sal are you mine or your mom’s?” he asked me.

“I’m the milkman’s.”

“I knew it!” He finally laughed with a deep pleased sigh.

I was smiling like a total fool. “I love you too, old man.”

“I know you do, but I love you more,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, yeah. Call me tomorrow? I’m pretty tired, and I want to ice my foot for a little bit.”

A ragged sigh came out from him, but I knew he wouldn’t say anything. His sigh said it all and more; it was a gentle wordless reminder that I needed to take care of myself. We’d gone over this a hundred times in person. Dad and I understood each other in a different way. If it had been my brother saying something about needing ice, I probably would have asked him if he thought he’d live and Dad would have told him to suck it up. It was the beauty of being my father’s daughter, I guess. Well it was the beauty of being me and not my baby sister, who he constantly fought with.

“Okay, tomorrow. Sleep good, mija.”

“You too, Dad. Night.”

He bid me another goodbye and we hung up. Sitting up on my bed in the garage apartment that I’d been renting for the last two years, I let myself think of Kulti and how he’d just stood there like a golden gargoyle, watching, watching and watching.

It was then that I reminded myself about him pooping again.