“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.
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