Kulti

by Mariana Zapata

  With a startled jump, he turned around and flashed a toothy smile at me. He’d had a receding hairline for as long as I could remember, his facial hair cut short and his green eyes—inherited from a Spanish grandmother—were bright. “I was looking for you!”

  “Oh, whatever, liar,” I laughed. We gave each other a big hug as he gave me some commentary on the scissor kicks I’d done during the practice. It was a move that required you to throw yourself in the air and kick the ball over your head or to the side, whatever worked.

  “I’m so proud of you,” he said, still hugging me. “You get better every time I see you.”

  “I think your vision might be getting worse.”

  He shook his head and finally pulled away, keeping his hands on my shoulders. He wasn’t very tall, only about five-nine according to his license, though I thought he was more five-seven. “Alomejor.”

  There was a tapping at the side of my leg and when I looked down, I found a little girl and boy standing there with my player profile photograph from last season in their hands.

  I talked to them for a little while, signed their pictures and then posed for a few with them when their mom asked. Immediately following them, another three sets of families—most of the time it was little girls with their moms—came over and we did the same. Between the photographs, I asked them questions and passed out hugs because they were the world’s cheapest and most effective currency. I hated talking to the press because it made me nervous and uncomfortable, these strangers, these people made me incredibly happy, especially when the kids were excited. I lost track of my parents but didn’t worry about it too much; they knew how these types of things worked.

  What must have been thirty minutes later, once I was done signing a teenage girl’s ball and telling her she wasn’t too old if she wanted to play professionally one day, I looked around, trying to find my family. Off by one of the goals we’d used during practice, I spotted my dad and mom speaking to Gardner and Grace, the veteran. They’d met both repeatedly throughout the years.

  By the time I made it over to them, I flung an arm around my dad’s side and smiled up at him. But what faced me was a borderline grim faintly sad smile that tried its best to not look that way. It immediately put me on alert. “Que tienes?” I whispered.

  “Estoy bien,” he whispered back, kissing my cheek. He didn’t seem fine to me. “Coach was telling us how good you’ve all been playing together.”

  I watched his face really carefully, taking in the sun and age lines from years of working outside, most of the time with a hat and sometimes without it, and I knew that there was something bothering him. He was just being stubborn, which was where I’d gotten it from—him. But if he didn’t want to say anything in that instant I wasn’t going to force him to. I cleared my throat and tried to catch my mom’s eye, but she seemed fine. “I hope we do. I don’t see why not, right, Grace?”

  The slightly older woman, turning thirty-five this year, smiled cheerfully back. Completely unlike the look on her face when she’d said who-knew-what to Kulti. “Definitely.”

  When Gardner and Grace were gone and it was just the three of us—Ceci was over talking to Harlow about God knows what—I elbowed my dad in the arm and asked, “What’s wrong? Really.”

  He shook his head like I knew he would. “I’m okay, Sal. What’s wrong with you?”

  Deflection was a talent in the Casillas family. “What happened?” I insisted, because that was another Casillas family trait.

  “Nada.”

  This man. I could shake him sometimes. “Will you tell me later? Please?”

  With two pats to the top of my head, he shook his head once more. “Everything is okay. I’m happy to see you, and I’m happy we’ll get to see the season opener in a couple of weeks.”

  He was so full of shit, but I knew it was pointless to argue with him, so I let it go.

  A few minutes later, my family left and promised to see me in the evening. My mom and Ceci wanted to go shopping while they were in town, and we made plans to meet up once I was done working. There were still a few fans around; all the players were still on the field getting their stuff together if they weren’t busy. I had just grabbed my water bottle to take a swig when Harlow came over and gave me a grave look. Two looks like that in one day were way too much.

  “What’s going on?” I asked her, stuffing the bottle under my armpit.

  Her lower jaw moved a little. “I didn’t say anything because I know you would want to do the honors.”

  I blinked. “Of doing what?”

  Harlow planted her hands behind her back, the faintest trait of irritation crossing the plains in her cheeks. This was a facial feature of hers I was familiar with. She was trying to rein in that explosive temper. “Mr. Casillas didn’t say anything to you?”

  I blinked, suspicious. “No. About what?”

  Har cleared her throat, another giveaway that something had made her angry—which wasn’t saying much. She wasn’t known for her patience. “I think he went up to you-know-who and asked him for an autograph.” She cleared her throat once more. “I’m not sure, Sally. All I know is that your dad walked away and it looked like he’d gotten nut-punched.”

  Patience, Sal.

  I took a deep breath. “You think…” I was speaking about a word a minute so that I wouldn’t burst a capillary in my eye from how strained I felt on the inside. “He was mean to my dad?” My dad?

  “I think that he was,” she responded nearly as slowly. “I’ve never seen your dad look like that. Especially not after he had Valentine’s Day in his eyes right before, and then didn’t afterward.”

  P-a-t-i-e-n-c-e. Be calm. Count to ten.

  I opened and closed my mouth to try and release the tension in my jaw, and nothing happened. The next thing I knew, my arms were shaking as I remembered the look on my dad’s face.

  Fuck it.

  I tried. I could live with the fact that I really did try to not get so pissed. I put in the effort. Then again, there were very few times that I’d ever gotten so mad so fast. I was usually calm, and if I wasn’t, I understood there was a time and a place to be angry.

  Most of the time.

  I took a step forward. “I can’t—“

  Like a good friend, Harlow understood that there was no talking me off of the ledge I’d set myself on. She herself was protective and knew that you didn’t ever hurt a person’s loved ones, so she let me go. Later on, if I ever really thought about it, I’d remember that she’d said she was going to let me do the honors despite the fact she’d had the urge to stand up for my daddy’s pride, too.

  “Just don’t hit him in front of everyone!” Harlow ordered me as I marched toward… well, I didn’t know where exactly. I only knew my destination and that was wherever the hell that German bitch was.

  In the time it took me to find and speed-walk toward him, I calmed down enough to tell myself that I couldn’t punch him. I also couldn’t and shouldn’t call him Führer or anything else that could potentially get me in trouble. Fortunately for me, I thought well on my feet.

  My goal: ripping him a new asshole without getting in trouble.

  I took my mental Big Girl Socks off and threw them on the floor. Fuck this motherfucker. If I would have had earrings on, I’d be taking those off and handing them to Harlow, too.

  My shaking arms and pounding heart egged me on.

  I found him.

  He was just there, minding his own business looking over some notes in a binder. Tall and solemn and completely oblivious to the fact that he’d hurt the most important man in my life’s feelings.

  I didn’t think or bother to look around me to check and see who the potential audience was going to be because I didn’t give a single shit.

  Don’t talk outright crap to him.

  Don’t call him a curse word or Führer.

  In that moment, I didn’t give a crap who this man was or who he had been. He was just some asshole with an attitude problem t
hat had done the unthinkable. It was one thing to be an ass to me or my teammates. But he’d hurt my papi’s feelings, and that shit just didn’t fly.

  “Hey,” I snapped the minute I was close enough.

  He didn’t look up.

  “Hey, you German bratwurst.” Did that just come out of my mouth?

  When the German bratwurst in question looked up, I figured out I’d actually said that out loud. Well I guess I could have said something a lot worse, and it wasn’t like I could back out at that point.

  “You’re talking to me?” he asked.

  I focused on how my forearms were tensed, on the anger that had flamed to life in my chest and I let the words out. “Yes you. Maybe you don’t give a crap about helping the team out and that’s fine. I get it, big man. Want to talk shit to us, when you know you’re in no position to say anything about what people should and shouldn’t be doing?” I shot him a look that said I wanted him to remember what exactly I’d done for him.

  Hypocritical ass.

  “We’ll all get over you being rude with us, trust me. I won’t be losing any sleep over you, but we don’t treat our fans like crap here. I’m not sure what it was like for you back where you played, but here, we’re grateful and we treat everyone kindly. It doesn’t matter if someone asks you for an autograph or to sign their ass cheek, you do it with a smile.

  “And you especially aren’t allowed to be an asshole to my dad. He thought you were the greatest thing since frozen meals. He’s one of your biggest fans, and you’re going to be rude to him? Jesus Christ. Everyone knows you were a terror to play against, but I didn’t think you were mean to people that have been supportive of your career.”

  Someone was panting, and I was pretty sure it was me. “All he wanted to do was meet you and, I don’t know, maybe get a picture so he could brag about it to his friends. He’s the best man I know, and he’s been talking about seeing you for weeks. Now my dad left here upset and probably disillusioned, so thank you for that, you German Chocolate Cake. I hope the next time someone approaches you, you think about how two minutes of your time could make one person’s entire year.”

  You fucking sauerkraut.

  Okay, I didn’t say that, but I thought it.

  I also thought about flicking him off with both my hands, but I didn’t do that either.

  My fingers flexed on their own and my molars started to grind together as we stared at each other in silence. I’d thought I was done, but when he blinked those eyes that reminded me of playing in New Hampshire once in late fall, I felt my inner thirteen-year-old come to life, the girl who had held this man on a pedestal and thought the world of him.

  I felt her come to life and die in a split second. Just that quickly, this version of me who understood that people changed over the years was reborn from the ashes of teenage Sal. The grown up version of me didn’t give a single fuck about Reiner Kulti. He hadn’t been the one who sat through my practices, my games. He wasn’t the one that stressed about my injuries and teased me through my recuperation periods. I had a list of people that I loved and respected, people that had earned their way into my heart and deserved my loyalty.

  Reiner Kulti wasn’t anyone special in the ways that really mattered. He’d been my inspiration a very long time ago, but he hadn’t been the one to help me make it happen.

  “I get that you’re the greatest thing to ever come onto this field, Mister Kulti.” Yeah, I said the ‘mister’ as sarcastically as I could. “But to me, my dad is one of the greatest people in the world. And the next person whose feelings you hurt by not caring to meet them is someone else’s dad or brother or mom or sister or daughter or son. So think about that.”

  Goddamn frankfurter.

  Luckily, I wasn’t really expecting him to reply and, in the end, it was probably a good thing that he didn’t because I seriously doubted something sincere or apologetic could have come out of such an indifferent apathetic mouth.

  Hours later when I was hauling rocks around on a wheelbarrow and my shoulders were on the verge of sprouting tear ducts because they hurt so much, I couldn’t help but still feel rattled, pissed. If I hadn’t already taken them down almost ten years ago, I would have ripped the Kulti posters off my wall with a scream that would have made Xena proud. No one had stopped me as I grabbed my shit and left. Gardner had just stood there as I passed by him with what I recognized as an impressed look on his face.

  So there was that, at least. I couldn’t get kicked off the team if Gardner looked pleased with what I’d said.

  At least that’s what I hoped, but either way, I couldn’t find it in me to regret what I had done. If I couldn’t stand up for what I believed in, then I wasn’t the person I strived to be.

  * * *

  I got three voicemails that evening while I snuck in a run before meeting up with my parents.

  The first was from Jenny, who said, “Sal, I can’t believe you said that to him, but I think it was the nicest things I’ve ever heard come out of anyone’s mouth. I’m proud of you, and I love you.”

  The second was from one of the defenders on the team that I wasn’t particularly close to, who laughed so hard she sounded like she was dying. “German Chocolate Cake! Oh my god, I thought I pissed my pants.”

  The third was from Harlow. “Sal, I always knew you had balls of steel in that puny little body, but goddamn, I almost cried. You let me know when you wanna go out to celebrate you giving Kulti the reaming of a lifetime.”

  Overall, I was pretty pleased with myself.

  I didn’t say anything to my dad that night when we all went out to eat, but I gave him a hug twice as hard as usual that left him gasping for breath.

  * * *

  If I was worried that the staff would be pissed about what I’d said the day before, it had been a waste of mental and emotional effort. A couple of the newer girls gave me discreet low-fives when I showed up, but it was the hard pat on my back that Gardner gave me that finally relaxed me. Nothing would come of it.

  I held my head up high and didn’t put in any extra effort to pretend not to look at Kulti. If I glanced in his direction, I kept on looking. The one time our gazes met, I let my eyes linger for a second before looking elsewhere. They say not to make eye contact with dangerous animals so that they don’t perceive you as a threat, but I said screw it; I was no one’s bitch, especially not Kulti’s.

  I hadn’t done anything wrong, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to stand by and let this German tank make the best dad in the world feel dejected. He’d been acting normal when we had dinner at the restaurant by their hotel but… still. My gut knew that his feelings had been hurt and that was not going to fly on my radar, ever.

  When I happened to get knocked to the ground during a particularly competitive game of three-on-three, right at Kulti’s feet, I hopped back up, brushed my thighs off as I looked him right in the eye, and then went right back to what I was doing.

  Was it the smartest thing to do?

  Maybe not, but all I had to do was think of my dad and I knew I’d done the right thing, the only thing, really. Though Grace and I never talked about what had gone down between her and Kulti, the look she gave me after that fateful day had me convinced she’d said something about how he’d talked to the other Pipers. While I hadn’t found the balls to say anything to defend the girls he’d chastised, I’d stood up for my dad and also, maybe in a way, for every person he brushed off.

  Which was all of us—sort of. Only it’d taken me a lot longer than it had Grace. Maybe if it had been Jenny or Harlow, I would have handled it differently. The point was no one deserved that treatment.

  Nothing in his actions had changed at all. We were all tiptoeing, watching our backs and our words. Did it suck? Absolutely. There was only so much you could think about it, though.

  With our first preseason game coming up—and five others following within a two-week span—I had to settle for keeping my thoughts on the game and not on the dumb man people had called ‘T
he King’. Sure. He was ‘The King’ of every full-of-shit bastard on the planet.

  Chapter Eight

  “….Does anyone have any other questions?”

  You could take a bite out of the tension in the room. No one except Grace had said a word over the last two hours. We all just sat there, listening to the coaching staff go over last-minute details regarding the upcoming season. Awkward and uncertain, every player sitting around the conference room simply watched and nodded. Spending so much time listening to others talk instead of actually playing was painful enough.

  The culprit behind the team’s weird behavior was the assistant coach standing in the corner of the room by the projection screen with his arms at his sides. No one had to confirm it, but we knew. We all definitely knew.

  It was his fault.

  When no one else responded to Gardner’s question, I shook my head and answered. “Nope.”

  A frown indented the crease between the head coach’s eyebrows as he looked around the room, waiting for someone to say something else.

  Fresh words never came, and I could tell by the way his cheeks tightened that he didn’t understand why, either. For one thing, no one exactly lacked confidence. Secondly, if anyone had an issue, they usually didn’t have a problem voicing it.

  Except this time, the main problem had two arms and legs.

  Dun, dun, dun.

  No one was about to give anything away.

  “No one?” Gardner asked again, his tone disbelieving.

  Nothing.

  “Okay. If no one has anything to say, I guess you’re all free to go. We’re meeting up here tomorrow at eight, and we’ll all ride to the field together,” he announced to a collective of nods before the team got up.

  I stayed a few minutes longer talking to Genevieve about running trails nearby and had just grabbed my stuff when I heard, “Sal, you got time to come to my office?”