Kulti (5 page)

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.

T
he next few
days went by uneventfully and yet as eventful as they normally were. We had to get our physicals for the team one day and the next day we got measured for our uniforms. After each small chunk of a morning, I’d go to work afterward where I’d be harassed by Marc about whether I’d gotten Kulti’s autograph for him yet. Then each evening, I’d practice yoga or go swimming or do some weight training, depending on how tired I was. Then I’d get home and talk to my dad or watch television.

Everyone wanted to know what Reiner Kulti was like, and I had nothing to give them. He showed up to whatever we were doing and stood in whatever corner was available, and watched. He didn’t really talk or interact with anyone. He didn’t do
anything
.

So… that was kind of disappointing for everyone who asked.

A small part of me was surprised the vultures hadn’t descended on his unmoving ass. If he ever needed the money, he could work as one of those living statues that painted their bodies in metallic colors and hung out in Times Square, letting people pay them tips to take pictures with them. His apathy was that bad.

But no one said anything about the press conference from hell, or brought up stuff about Eric and Kulti, and there weren’t any more questions about me rejoining the national team. Overall, there was nothing really for me to complain about. I could act like a normal human being with some dignity, not a stuttering idiot that a decade ago had a crush on the man that everyone was talking about.

So really, what was there to complain about?

O
n the morning
of our individual photo shoots, I should have known how the interview was going to go when the first thing out of the journalist’s mouth was a mispronounced “Salome!” Suh-lome. Then even after I corrected him he still said it the wrong way. Which wasn’t a big deal; I was used to having someone butcher it. It happened all the time.

Suh-lome. Saah-lome. Sah-lowmee. Salami. Salamander. Salmon. Sal-men. Saul. Sally. Samantha.

Or, in the case of my brother: Stupid.

In the case of my little sister: Bitch.

Regardless, when someone continuously messes up your name even after you correct them… it’s a sign. In this case, it was a sign that I should have known this guy was a moron.

I had tried to get away from him. Usually I tried to sneak away, but lately there were so many of them, it was impossible. The minute I spotted the group of television reporters and journalists by the field where the photographs were set to be taken, my gut churned. I didn’t have a problem walking around in my sports bra in front of everyone and anyone. I could play games just fine in front of thousands of people, but the instant a camera came around when I wasn’t doing those things…

No. No, no, no.

So as soon as I spotted them, I started to circle my way as far from their location as possible. Let them get the other girls first. The furthest group from the entrance stopped Grace, the captain and veteran on the team. Thank you, Jesus. Then I saw another group swoop in on Harlow, and I felt a bolt of relief go through my stomach.

Fifteen more feet to go. Fifteen more feet and I’d be clear. My heart started beating that much faster and I made sure to keep my eyes forward. No eye contact.

Ten feet. Baby Jesus, please—

“Salome!”

Fuck.

I looked over and breathed a sigh of relief when the reporter shouting didn’t have a camera or a cameraman with him. He was a blogger. I could have kissed him.

The first few questions were normal. How my off-season had gone. How training was going. Who I thought were going to be our biggest competitors.

It was right around the time that I was finishing his last question, preparing myself to tell him that I needed to go, when I heard the reporters I’d bypassed start chattering loudly. Again it was no big deal. The journalist’s eyes started darting to the area behind me even as I spoke, watching and waiting for his next victim. There weren’t usually reporters or journalists waiting around before practice unless it was playoff time. At least that’s what it had been like before the former German superstar showed up.

Now apparently, they all had bottle vision whenever he was nearby. And from the look on the journalist’s face when he saw his next subject, I knew who had caught his attention.

Two eyes swung from whatever the journalist was looking at behind me… to me and then back again.

A strain of dread-like anger saturated my belly when Kulti walked by, waving off the three media people that were trying to get his attention by asking questions and shoving their cameras and recording devices in his face.

He could get away with being antisocial, but I couldn’t?

“Isn’t your brother a pro too?” the journalist asked slowly.

I swallowed and forced myself to hope that this wasn’t going the way it seemed to be. And yet, I knew it was. “Yeah. He’s a center back,” or as I called him, a center bitch. “He plays for Sacramento normally, but he’s on loan to a team in Europe right now.” This was the only reason I was sure he hadn’t called me to complain about Kulti yet. Did he know? He had to. But he was cheap and wasn’t going to call until our standing phone-date every other Sunday.

The man’s eyes swung back over to me, so low-lidded I knew I was screwed. “Wasn’t his leg broken years ago?”

It was his left tibia and fibula to be exact. Just thinking about it made my own shins hurt, but I settled for a nod in reply. The less I spoke, the smaller my chances were of incriminating myself by saying something stupid. “Ten years ago.”

“Did it happen during a game?” he was asking, but we both well aware he knew the answer.

Asshole.

Did I look that dumb? I wasn’t about to let him steer me into looking like an idiot. When I was in college, they made athletes for every sport take a class in public speaking. Sure I’d barely passed, but they had taught me one thing I hadn’t forgotten: how important it was for you to keep the interview under control. “Yep. Ten years ago, he went in for a loose ball during a game against the Tigers and was hit in the leg by an opposing player.” The journalist’s eyes twitched. “He was out for six months.”

“The player got yellow-carded, didn’t he?”

And… there it was. Since when were sports bloggers sneaky little shits looking for drama when it was uncalled for?

I plastered a smile on my face, giving him this look that said
yeah, I know exactly what you’re doing, dingle-berry.
“Yes, but he’s perfectly fine now. It wasn’t a big deal.” Well that was a lie, but whatever. My smile grew even wider and I took a step back. Being an asshole didn’t come naturally to me. I didn’t like it, but I wasn’t about to roll onto my back and show someone my belly. Coach Gardner had already made it painfully clear to me that I needed to keep attention on the team and not Kulti, especially not Eric and Kulti. “I need to get going. You have anything else you need to ask about training, though?”

The reporter’s eyes slid over in the direction Kulti and his followers had gone. “We’re all done. Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Not.

I took another step back, snatched my bag off the ground and started walking in the direction of the field. I still had to collect the uniform they wanted us to wear for our profile shots and put it on. Someone with the organization had set up two tents on the outskirt of the field, one with long flaps to provide some modesty for changing, and the other more basic, without flaps, where the uniforms could be found.

“Sal! Come get your stuff!” someone yelled from beneath the smaller tent.

I made my way over there, looking around to see who had survived the gauntlet, aka the media, and waved at the players and staff members who made eye contact with me. There were only a few people under the uniform tent where we needed to go before our player photos—two management employees handing out uniforms, two players and three staff members.

One of the staff members was Kulti.

Poop
.

Okay, I was fine.

“Good morning,” I said as I came up to the group in the tent, rubbing my hands down the front of my pants.

Poop, poop, poop, poop, poop.

A chorus of “good morning” greetings came back to me, even from the ancient demoness known as our fitness coach who was yet again standing by the former German superstar.

It was the same German super-athlete who was now only about five feet away.

I went to the Louvre once years ago, and I remember looking at the Mona Lisa after standing outside of the famous museum for hours trying to get in and being disappointed. The painting was smaller than I’d thought it would be. Honestly, it was just a painting. There was nothing about it that made it so much better than any other painting ever at least to my untrained eye. It was famous and it was old, and that was it.

Simply standing mere feet away from the man that had led his teams to championship after championship… seemed weird. It was like this was a dream, a very weird dream.

It was a dream with a man who looked better than any thirty-nine-year-old ever should.

“Casillas? It’s your turn, honey. I got your uniform right here,” one of the women working behind the tables called out to me with a smile.

I blinked and then smiled back at her, embarrassed that she caught me daydreaming. “Sorry.” Walking around the coaches, I took the plastic-wrapped bundle she handed me. “Need me to sign anything?”

She handed me a clipboard with a shake of her head. “What size shoe do you wear? I can’t read whether it’s an eight or a nine.”

“Eight,” I said, signing the area to the side of my name.

“Give me a second to find your socks.” She turned her back to me and started rifling through an organized container behind her.

“Mr. Kulti, I have you down for a medium shirt and large bottoms, does that sound right?” the other employee who wasn’t busy asked, her voice sounding a little high, a little breathless. Her hands were folded and pressed to her chest, her eyes only just barely holding that glint of nervous excitement in them.

“Yes,” was the simple answer that rumbled out deeply; his enunciation was sharp with just the slightest hint of an accent that had been watered down from living in so many different countries over the years.

I felt his tone right between my shoulder blades. I could remember hearing him talk about whatever game he’d just finished playing dozens of times.
Poop, fart, hemorrhoids. Sal. Get it together.

I swallowed hard, unable to get over how different he looked. Back when I’d been a fan, he’d gone through every hair style from dyed tips to a mohawk. Now standing there, his hair was shaved short and his arms were loose at his sides, his spine rigid. A hint of his cross pattée tattoo—a cross with arms that narrowed toward the center—appeared beneath the hem of his T-shirt sleeve. It wasn’t huge from what I remembered, maybe five inches high and five across and he’d had it for a long time. When I was younger, I thought it was kind of neat. Now… meh. I liked tattoos on men, but I liked big pieces, not a collection of random little ones.

But whatever, it wasn’t like anyone was asking me for my opinion.

“Here you go, Sal, I got ‘em,” the staff member said, hanging me another sealed packet out of the corner of my eye. “We’ll have the rest of your gear later.”

“All right. Thanks, Shelly.” Holding the uniform under one arm, I took another glance at Kulti, who was steadfast keeping his attention forward and fought the anticipation that pooled in my chest. My feet wouldn’t move, and my stupid eyes wouldn’t move either. At no point in my childhood had I ever really expected to be so close to this man. Never. Not once.

But after a second of standing there awkwardly, hoping for a look or possibly a word? I realized he wasn’t going to give me either. He was making a point to keep his eyes forward, lost in his own thoughts; maybe he wanted to be left alone, or might have purposely not wanted to waste his time speaking to me.

That thought went like a mortal blow straight to my chest. I felt like a preteen girl that wanted the older guy to pay attention to her when he didn’t even know she existed. The hope, the expectancy and the following disappointment sucked. It just sucked.

He wasn’t going to acknowledge me. That much was clear.

All righty, then. While I wasn’t exactly a Jenny who made friends with everyone, I liked being friendly with people. Obviously this guy wasn’t going to win a Mr. Congeniality award anytime soon, since he wouldn’t even bother looking at me standing there two feet away.

So… that didn’t sting at all. My heart didn’t feel funny either.

Then I remembered the crap with the journalist outside and the effect that kind of attention could have on me. I tried my best to keep under the radar. I just wanted to play soccer, that was it.

With another quick glance at the man who was standing, oblivious to everything around him, I took my crap and went to change. I didn’t need Reiner Kulti to talk to me. I hadn’t needed him before and I wouldn’t need him in the future.

I
f I thought
for a second that things would get less hectic as the days passed and Kulti’s presence slowly became old news, I would have been sorely mistaken.

It didn’t.

Everyday there were at least half a dozen reporters outside of the field or headquarters. Wherever we’d be that day, they would be there. I’d scratched the skin on my neck nearly raw from how much I was scratching at it on my walks toward wherever we were meeting.

I tried to stay as far away from them as I could.

It was just like I tried to stay away from the team’s new coach.

To be fair, he made it easy. The German stayed in the corner of the universe he had dug out for himself—a lonely little corner that included him and him only. Apparently only Gardner, the mean bat known as the fitness coach and Grace got invitations every so often. He stood and watched; then he moved a little to the side and kept right on watching.

“I feel like we’re in the lion exhibit at the zoo,” Jenny whispered to me when we were taking a break during our last meeting. We were in that bathroom alone after having just sat through two hours of scheduling details, and I was on the verge of wanting to stab myself in the eye with my pen. I was restless sitting in the chair doing nothing.