Kulti (38 page)

I had to save that for later. I wasn’t surprised he admitted he had to do research on women’s soccer. Of course he wasn’t familiar with it.

“—and the U.S. women kept coming up as consistently the best,” he finished, but something nagged at me.

Something didn’t add up.

“Why didn’t you just join the national team staff?” I asked even as his thumbs really dug deep into my shoulders and holyfreakingcrap, it felt great. It’d been months since the last time I’d gotten a massage.

The German let out a sigh that reached all the way to my toes. “Is anything ever enough for you?” His voice was resigned.

He knew the answer. “No.” Then I thought about it and his reluctance and I gasped. “
They didn’t want you?”

“No, you little idiot.” He called me an idiot even as he gave me a massage that made my knees go weak, so I couldn’t take it to heart. Actually, it was sort of his own affectionate way of talking to me. “Of course they would have wanted me if I had asked.”

How the hell I fit in the same room as his ego, I had no idea.

“I won’t involve myself in anything if I believe I won’t win,” he stated.

I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me. “Who likes to lose? I get it.”

Those magical thumbs slid deep around my shoulder blade. “I know you do.”

“Right... so….”

He stopped all movements with his long fingers; the heat from his rough palms radiated through my skin and somehow into my bones. “You’re the best striker in America,
schnecke
. Look up ‘best goals in women’s soccer’ and four of the top ten are yours. I wasn’t going to waste my time on anything or anyone but the best. With more training, better coaching, you could be the top striker in the world.”

He wasn’t going to…

It’s like my brain stopped working.

I opened my mouth and closed it, at a complete loss for words.

“I came to the Pipers for you.”

What the fuck do you even say to that?

Is there anything to say?

It seemed like the world came out from under my feet. My lungs felt punctured and bereft. Shaken up didn’t even begin to explain how I felt.

Get it together, Sal
.

Breathless and unsteady, I released the oven handle and turned around slowly to face Kulti.
Focus. Don’t make a big deal out of this.
Damn it, it was so much easier said than done. This had been my lifelong dream when I was a kid. To be singled out by The King… remnants of a younger Sal were still in me, rejoicing and throwing Mardi Gras beads in the air at what he said. I couldn’t think about it, not then and possibly not ever.

I came to the Pipers for you.

Jesus Christ. I needed to keep it together.
Focus
. “I’m not the best but that’s beside the point. You didn’t recognize my last name when you saw the video?”

He gave a smile that could have been sheepish if he was capable of being sheepish. He wasn’t. It was more of a smirk. “I can’t remember every player I’ve ever injured, Sal, and I wouldn’t care to.”

Not surprising at all, but it still made me shake my head. “You’re something else, pumpernickel.” My shoulders relaxed as I took in the very serious face several inches above mine. “So, you came to the Pipers even though you knew you didn’t like coaching.” I purposely skipped the part about how he’d chosen our team.

“
Ja.
”

“And you still hate us.”

The German lifted a shoulder in the least apologetic shrug ever. “There’s a few of you who should have stopped playing soccer a long time ago.” He blinked. “And one of you I would love to shake on a regular basis.”

I grinned at him before reaching forward to thump him on the shoulder. “Trust me; I’ve had the urge to punch you in the face a time or five.”

“There’s that temper again. A nice girl would never think about punching someone,” he said with that stupid smirk. “How many people have you punched before?”

“No one,” Jeez Louise, “in at least ten years. I’ve thought about it a hundred times but I haven’t actually gone through with it. Come on.”

He gave me a look that easily replaced a raised eyebrow, making a point about me
thinking
about doing things again.

Asshole. “It’s too obvious and you know it. There’s no way to get away with it.”

The German nodded in agreement. “True. How many players have you elbowed before?”

“Enough,” I answered truthfully, knowing that my number would still and forever be a fraction of his.

“You have the most fouls on the team,” Kulti noted, which surprised the shit out of me. “More than Harlow.”

It was my turn to shrug. “Yeah, but it’s not because I elbow people left and right. I haven’t done that since I was a kid and got kicked off a league for it,” I explained to him with a grin.

“Such a great deal of anger for such a small body.” A small smile cracked his lips. “Your parents? What did they think?”

“My mom chewed me out about it. My dad did too, but only when she was around. When she wasn’t, he’d high-five me and tell me the other girl had it coming.” We both laughed. “I love that man.”

Kulti smiled gently, taking a step back only to grab two bowls out of the cabinet. I shot him a look as I poured half of the popcorn into each one and followed him around to the couch, where we took the same seats we’d left. Knowing that I was pushing my luck, I went for it anyway. “What about your parents? Did they go to your games?” I remembered when I was younger at the height of his career, cameras would zoom in on an older couple in the stands, pointing out that they were Reiner Kulti’s parents.

“My father worked quite a bit, and once I went away to the academy, it was too far from home. They went to as many games as they could, watched more on television,” he said around a mouthful of popcorn.

Well that was more than enough information to press for the day. What he didn’t say was that his parents didn’t go to a lot of his games when he was younger, but once he was older, they went whenever he paid. At least that’s what I assumed from the way he worded it. “It worked for all of us.”

I’m positive I didn’t imagine the bite in his words. Obviously, I needed to steer the topic into safer territory.

“One more question and I’ll quit being nosey.” He might have nodded, but I was too busy eating popcorn to be sure. There was no way I could ask him with a straight face. “Did you blow that game against Portugal before you retired or were you really sick?”

His response was exactly what I expected: he threw a pillow at my face.

T
he next two
weeks went by normally. Practices went well, Harlow and Jenny finally came back from their national team obligation, and the Pipers won the next two games in the season. I worked, exercised and Kulti came over nearly every night. We’d watch television, or get pissed off at each other playing Uno or poker, which he taught me to play. A couple of nights he showed up when I was about to start yoga. He’d help me move the couch and did it with me.

It was all fine, fun and easy.

I loved routines and knowing what to expect most of the time.

There were only two downsides, and they both revolved around females.

The girls on the Pipers gave me weird looks and said things when they thought I wasn’t listening. It took everything inside of me some days to ignore them, and other days I’d just smile at them and remind myself that I could go to sleep easily at night knowing that I hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of. Some days were easier than others, but as long as we kept playing well as a team, I’d suck it up and keep my big mouth closed. Harlow on the other hand, didn’t have any problem telling the younger girls to mind their own businesses and focus on soccer and not spreading gossip. She did it without once asking me anything about what was happening with Kulti.

The emails had picked up again. It had started as only a message or two from the German’s female fans, but in no time picked up to three or four. By the time the picture my dad had taken of all us at dinner began being circulated, they were so frequent that I stopped reading emails from people I didn’t recognize. I didn’t say anything to anyone. I didn’t want to. The less attention I brought to myself and Kulti, the better, I figured.

“
H
oly shit
.”

I turned around to see what the sixth grade teacher was ‘holy shitting’ over, and I froze.

Seriously, I froze.

“Holy shit,” I repeated the exact same words that had just come out of the other woman’s mouth.

It was the German walking across the middle school field, which would have been a ‘holy shit’ moment to begin with if I wasn’t already used to seeing him all the time. But there were the two men walking alongside him. One was another German who I’d seen play plenty of times growing up, and the other a Spaniard who I’d met before and happened to have a cologne commercial running on television.

They pooped. They all pooped. Every single one of them.

I took a deep breath and looked around the field at the four teachers who had volunteered to help out with the soccer camp that Saturday morning. Four small goals had been set up about half an hour ago in preparation for the twenty kids who had pre-registered.

Dear God, he’d brought these men and he hadn’t said a word about it the last time we’d seen each other. Then again, neither of us had brought up him helping since we had originally talked about it two weeks ago. I didn’t want him to feel obligated to do anything.

Yet here he was with friends. Not just any friends, but
them
.

There was no way in hell I was being totally cool about this. No way Kulti couldn’t tell I was thrilled. From the way his mouth tightened when he stopped just a few feet away, ignoring the two teachers standing right by me, he knew everything.

I grabbed his forearm as soon as he was close enough and squeezed hard, hoping he could understand everything I was feeling, everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. At least nothing I was able to get out in that instant.

“Hello,” I managed to say in a voice that sounded just like my own and not like I was on the brink of shitting a small pony. “Thanks for coming.”

The German tipped his head down in acknowledgment.

Turning my attention to the other men, I thought to myself once more:
poop, poop, poop
. Fortunately, I got through it.

“Hi, Alejandro,” I said, almost shyly.

It took the Spaniard a moment of looking at me before it dawned on him that we knew each other. “Salomé?” he asked hesitantly. Honestly, I was surprised he remembered my name; I had no doubt he’d met a thousand people since we’d last seen each other, and it wasn’t like we’d been best friends. We both had a sponsorship with the same athletic clothing company. About two years ago, we’d had photo shoots scheduled at the same time.

“It’s nice to see you again,” I said, extending my hand out in a greeting.

What I didn’t see were the hazel-colored eyes going back and forth between myself and the Spanish man.

Alejandro quickly took it, allowing himself to smile broadly. “
Como estas?”
He fell into that quick, soft accented Spanish that was a little foreign to me.

“
Muy bien y usted?”
I asked.

Before he could respond, the other newcomer butted in. “
Hablo español tambien
,” he said in a rougher accent, more like the Central American Spanish I was accustomed to.

I smiled at him. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you,” I greeted Franz Koch, one of the star players in the European League a decade ago. In his mid-forties, he’d been the captain of the German National Team years ago.

If I remembered correctly, he’d been a freaking beast.

“Franz,” the man said, taking my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I cleared my throat to keep from croaking and managed to smile. “Oh, I know who you are. I’m a big fan. Thank you so much for coming.” I scratched at my cheek as I took a step away from them. “Thank you all for coming. I don’t know what to say.”

My German was fortunately on top of what needed to be done, because he jumped right in. “Let’s do what you planned, but we’ll split into two groups instead.”

“Okay.” I nodded. “That works. The kids should be showing up pretty soon.” A smile exploded over my face when the two unexpected visitors nodded in agreement. They were here for my camp. “Is that fine with you guys?”

They agreed immediately. Alejandro and Kulti went on one team—I didn’t miss how quickly my German claimed the Spaniard, and Franz and I were on the other.

It turned out to be the most fun I’d ever had at any youth camp, ever.

Franz, who didn’t have an ounce of an ego and understood that this was for fun, was a dream to work with. An excellent team player and leader, he passed the ball freely, teased the kids with his thick accent, even talking like Arnold for a little while. He really just took pleasure mentoring the kids. We laughed, grinned, high-fived each other and the kids throughout the game.

On the other side of the field, where we’d moved the goals over, I could hear Kulti and Alejandro arguing with each other in quick Spanish from time to time. The kids, mostly Hispanic, cracked up over whatever they said to each other.

Most importantly, the kids had been ecstatic.

Everyone knew Kulti and Alejandro. Franz had been the one with the least amount of claps when I’d introduced him, but he’d won over the boys and girls who had been frowning when they got stuck with us and not the two superstars.

It had been amazing. Was I over the moon? Absolutely. By the time the three hours were over, I felt like I’d won a million dollars. The kids left more stoked than ever, the parents were in awe from where they were relegated to standing on the side of the field, and even the coaches were all grinning.

I threw my hand up and Franz’s met mine in a wild shake once all the kids and the volunteer teachers had taken pictures with the four of us. “Thank you so much for coming. It really means the world to me.”

“You are very welcome. I had a great deal of fun,” he said with an honest smile.

I held my hand out to Alejandro. “Thank you, too. Those kids,” I couldn’t help but smile, “you guys made their day. Thank you.”

The Spaniard shook my hand. “You’re welcome, Salomé. I had fun, though next time I would rather be paired up with you,” he said, cocking his head toward the German standing next to him. “He was difficult.”

“He’s a pain every day.” I leaned into Kulti, bumping his arm with my shoulder.

I didn’t miss the mini-step he took away from me or the face he made as he did it. His forehead scrunched, and he gave me a side-look that was almost repulsed.

What the hell? Did he just take a step away from me? O-kay.

My poor heart didn’t miss how crappy his actions made me feel.
All righty, then
. Apparently being playful with him only applied to times when we were alone.

I could feel the smile on my face wither for a second before I plastered a bigger one on top of it.

Well.

That was embarrassing.

I looked back over at Franz and Alejandro, unsure of what to do since Kulti was being weird. “Thank you guys for coming. I appreciate it more than you can imagine. If there’s anything I can ever do for either of you, please let me know.” The bright smile I gave them was genuine. I held my arms out, knowing that at least the Spaniard would give me a hug. He’d given me one before.

He didn’t leave me hanging. A little damp and sweaty, Alejandro stepped forward and wrapped his arms around my shoulders in a gentle hug. “
Fue un placer ver te otra vez, linda.
”

I looked up at him when he started to pull away and smiled. “Always,” I replied in Spanish. “Thank you again.”

We had barely pulled away from each other when Franz stepped forward and grabbed me for a big hug, lifting me off the ground. “Thank you for having me.” He set me back down, his hands splayed wide on my shoulders as he took a step back. “I’ll be at your game this evening. I’m looking forward to seeing you play.”

My eyes went wide, but I nodded. “That’s great and a little nerve-wracking. Thanks.” Glancing down at my watch, I made a face. “Speaking of which, I should really get going so I can get ready.” I took another step back and grinned at the two men before returning my attention to Kulti.

Kulti, who was standing there with his tongue in his cheek, had his arms crossed over his chest. He was pissed. I could recognize it by the way his eyes were narrowed.

What the hell did he have to be mad at? Was he mad because I tried to play around with him in front of his friends? It was fine in front of my family, but not in front of people he knew? I brushed it off and ignored his expression, saying, “Thank you for everything, Rey.” Because I was thankful, that much was true. I just wished he wasn’t acting strange in front of his friends.

A
hand touched
my arm as I made my way toward the locker rooms following our Pipers’ game that night.

I blinked and then grinned, still on a high from our win. “Hey, Franz.”

The older German stood on the other side of the railing that separated the stands from the players making their way down the ramp to the locker rooms. “Salomé,” he shook his head, smiling a gentle smile that made me feel so at ease. “Your videos don’t do you justice. Your footwork and your speed are fantastic.”

What was it with all these compliments lately?

Before I could digest it, Franz kept right on going. “You favor your right foot too much. I do as well. I know some tricks I could show you. Are you free tomorrow?”

Franz Koch wanted to show me some tips.
I would never say no to someone offering to give me pointers. “Yeah, definitely. I’m free all day tomorrow.”

“Excellent. I’m not familiar with this city. Do you know where we can meet?”

“Yes, yes.” If I sounded too enthusiastic, I didn’t give a single shit. Not a single itty bitty one. I rattled off the name of the park and after repeating it twice, I typed it onto the smart phone he handed me.

The second German man to come into my life smiled as he took his phone back with a nod. “Tomorrow at nine if that’s agreeable with you.”

Oh. Boy.

On the inside, I was squealing with excitement; on the outside, I hoped I only resembled a little bit of an idiot. “That definitely works for me. Thank you.”

When I caught Kulti’s attention in the locker room, I almost opened my mouth to tell him that I was meeting up with Franz the next day, but from the look on his face, I decided to keep my mouth shut. He’d looked consistently angry since we’d said goodbye at the youth soccer camp, and I had no idea what the hell had crawled up his butt and died.

Needless to say, I decided when I was back at home that I wasn’t going to bother trying to figure it out.

I had tried to be playful with him and he’d been a bratwurst, so whatever.
Whatever
.

I
was dying
.

Oh my God, I was dying. Nearly three hours of doing various drills with and against Franz had almost killed me. Death was on the cusp, I could feel it.

“How old are you again?” I asked as we both sat cross-legged across from each other at the park closest to my house.

“Forty-four.”

“Jesus Christ.” I laughed and put my hands behind my back to recline. “You’re amazing, seriously.”

“No.” He mirrored my movement. “You are. With time and better coaching…” He shook his head. “Reiner said you don’t play for the American team. Why?”

I crossed my legs close to my chest and looked at the nice older man. And for some reason I didn’t completely understand, I told him. “I had a problem with one of the other girls on the team, and I left.”

“They let you leave because of a problem with another player?” He reeled back, his accent becoming stronger.

“Yes. She was one of the team’s starting players, and I was pretty young back then. She said it was either her or me, and it was me.” Yeah, it hurt a little being so frank about it.

“That is possibly the dumbest thing I have ever heard.” Franz stared at me like a part of him was expecting me to say, ‘just kidding!’ But I wasn’t, and after a minute he finally realized it. He genuinely looked astonished. The older German sat up straight, giving me his total attention. “Why are you still here then?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why are you playing in this league if you can’t play for the U.S. team?”

I blinked at him. “I have a contract with the Pipers.”

“When does it end?” he asked, completely serious.