Kulti

by Mariana Zapata

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Marc’s voice came from somewhere in my peripheral vision before he appeared. Close enough, he shoved a hand between our bodies and moved the stranger back a foot. “Dude, we don’t do that shit. You especially don’t do that shit to her, so watch it or your ass is out of here. That goes for all of you.”

  The tension was like a thick mist over the field, as the guy finally took another two steps back and nodded. Anger buzzed through my ears as I watched his stupid head retreat.

  A hand whacked me in the stomach hard, and I didn’t have to look down to see that it was Marc, leaning over to get in my face. “I thought we talked about you taking risks,” he hissed.

  I blinked and felt my nostrils flare. “His friend stomped on me last week and now this ass-wipe went WWE on me. What did you want me to do? Sit here and take it?”

  We both knew he was part of the trio who had taught me as a child that it was acceptable to shove my elbow into the soft spot beneath people’s ribcages and sometimes in their kidneys, if it was needed. It wasn’t until I was a little older playing in a league that my coach had finally explained that it wasn’t right… even if it got the job done.

  With a sigh, Marc’s dark eyes stared into mine. “Of course not, but you know the last thing I want is for you to get hurt because these pussies get their panties in a wad.”

  “I know, but that was bullshit.”

  A strained smile stretched wide across his mouth. “It is bullshit, but sometimes I want to push you to the ground, Sal, and I love you. Chill out. We’ll let the air out of his tires in a couple of weeks, when he isn’t expecting it.”

  Bah.

  I snorted, and then I snorted again. He was such a great person in my life, more like an illegitimate bastard brother than a friend, really. I kissed the tips of my fingers and followed up by smacking his cheek with them in a light slap. “I love you too, but I don’t know if I can wait a few weeks.”

  With a roll of his eyes, he straightened up and scowled. “Try. Keep the anger in check, mini-Hulk.”

  I rolled my eyes right back at him, took another breath for control, collected what remained of my patience and held it close to my heart. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kulti at the sideline, one foot forward, his hands down at his sides, those muscular forearms flexed. I noticed even his calves were taut. His jaw was locked as he stood there, ready for who knows what. But he didn’t move. He didn’t say a word, and I was still too pissed to put together his body language.

  Was it an accident? I highly doubted it, but I’d played with rough people in the past, and I’d let them get away with maybe an elbow or a shoulder if it let them sleep better.

  But still, he was a fucking asshole.

  Then it happened again.

  A few minutes later, once the teams had switched positions, I was running—not full speed—toward third base after stealing second. Just as I was coming up to the base, someone from behind me sped up, and completely unnecessarily, shoved me forward as he attempted to tag me out.

  I went flying, straight on a mission to eat a whole bunch of dirt.

  Under normal circumstances, I would have been able to stop myself, but with the added push, I had too much momentum going. The image of falling awkwardly on my knee or ankle, and the possibility of tearing something flashed through my brain. There was no graceful way to stop without really hurting myself. So I went forward, hands up in the sloppiest slide that wouldn’t break a wrist, and I belly-flopped. I mean, belly-flopped and still skidded a bit. The fall was hard and painful. It reminded me of that time I dove off the platform when I was a kid and knocked the wind out of myself, almost feeling like I might have cracked a rib.

  But the point was, I fell, I slid. I’d been shoved. And I was not okay with it, especially not when the silly, stupid man decided to stand over me, six feet of douche-bag supreme.

  My stomach burned, and my lower ribs ached as I tried to push up to my hands and knees.

  Holy shit.

  I sucked in a breath and hissed it right back out, one hand going under my shirt to palm the skin that I knew was scraped to hell.

  Before I could even successfully sit up on my knees, the culprit had been shoved to ground. I mean he was shoved hard. It wasn’t Marc, and it wasn’t Simon. It was Kulti standing with his back to me. Kulti had pushed the full-grown man to the ground.

  Reiner ‘The King’ Kulti stood over the fucking weasel, straddling his body in a squat. “You coward,” he spat.

  Literally, I saw saliva coming out of the German’s mouth as he said words in his native language, which I didn’t understand but got the gist of. They weren’t friendly, not at all.

  “You’re pathetic.” Honestly, I thought he was going to slap him and was only slightly disappointed when he didn’t. His face kept moving lower and lower until I was sure the blood rushed to his head.

  What followed was an explosion of German that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Vicious and sharp-edged, I only understood a few words here and there. Something about dying and his investment?

  What the hell that meant, I had no idea. What I did know was that it sounded incredibly ugly. It sounded so ugly; I felt a little shiver roll down the length of my spine even as I froze in place on my knees, mere feet away from the action.

  “It really is him,” Marc whispered in a reverent voice, scaring the crap out of me because I had no idea he was so close.

  “Shh,” I hissed so I could hear if anything else was said to the idiot on the ground.

  Sure enough, I wasn’t left hanging. Kulti straightened until he was standing up, legs on both sides of the guy’s body. “Next time, I’ll break your hand.” With that, he turned around. I’d swear on my life he cocked his leg back as if planning to kick the man, but at the last minute changed his mind and kept going… toward me.

  What did I do? I just stayed there. I just stayed right there.

  Had he, the man who hadn’t even batted an eyelash when a teammate of his had gotten two broken vertebrae after a cheap shot, defended me? Me?

  That imposing six-foot-two frame stopped four steps later, eyes down at the hand I had under my shirt; why, I wasn’t sure. I was so wrapped up in Kulti’s actions that I couldn’t have been sure about anything.

  His nostrils flared, and I swear his entire upper body seemed to expand as he reached forward, his finger barely grazing my chin. Kulti muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “so lucky,” under his breath, his chin turning to pause just above his collarbone, like he couldn’t bear to look at me. Adam’s apple bobbing, he seemed to struggle for another breath before getting himself under control.

  His intense gaze ignored the gaping mouths surrounding us. He said in a crisp tone, hands wrapping around my elbows, “We’re done here. I’ll get your keys.”

  All I could do was nod. I might have even forgotten to breathe from the shock and excitement as he continued holding me, helping me up to my feet. My ribs sang a sorrowful song as I stood up with a groan. The skin over my stomach hurt, but I managed to make eye contact with Simon and Marc.

  “I’m fine,” I said, for once in my life not caring that all these people I didn’t know well, were staring at the sideshow known as Kulti Kicking Ass.

  “You sure?” Marc asked, his face creased with worry. I nodded. “Call me later, okay?”

  I swallowed and waved at my two longtime friends, breathing through the pain as I turned to walk off the field. Kulti was ahead of me. He’d already reached down and grabbed my glove, his own tucked under his armpit, one arm extended out in my direction in a gesture for me to come toward him.

  I did.

  My abs and sides ached with every step, but I managed to keep it together as we walked nearly side by side, the German ending up just slightly behind me. He veered off for a second to grab both of our bags, snatching them up off the floor. The anger coming off of him was suffocating, but I took it all in, okay with it. He’d been about to beat the crap out of
that guy in my honor.

  I’d seen Kulti lose his shit for much less, but for someone else? Never. Marc was going to scream over the phone later, I just knew it.

  I eyed him as we walked toward the parking lot, going through a million different ideas of how to thank him for what he’d done. From the way his body was strung, tight at the shoulders and down through his chest, I figured it’d be best to give him a minute. So I kept my mouth shut and kept walking.

  My car was so close I could almost touch it. All I wanted was to get home, maybe throw some Epsom salt into the bathtub and soak for a while as I drowned my pain in over-the-counter painkillers.

  “Jesus Christ,” I groaned when my ribs gave a strong throb, as we stopped right by the hood of my car.

  The big man dropped both of our bags on the ground, and I couldn’t help but notice the big vein in his neck pulsing. His fingers were curled at his sides. “Let me see.”

  “I’m all right,” I insisted, debating whether or not to bend over and grab my bag.

  “You are the worst liar I have ever met,” he said. “Pull up your shirt or I’ll do it for you.”

  “Uh…”

  He wasn’t exaggerating.

  When I didn’t immediately pull up my T-shirt, he did it for me. One hand fisted the worn cotton material at the hem, and the next thing I knew, he was jerking it up. Way up. My shirt went high over my breasts, my black sports bra and all.

  I tried to smack his hand away. “What the hell are you doing?”

  It was useless. He had a death grip on the material, and his eyes were laser-focused on the middle section of my body.

  Maybe I should have been self-conscious, but I wasn’t. Not really at least. I ate well, I exercised a lot, and frankly, I just didn’t give a crap if he found me lacking or thought I was too much. Because I was in pain. The skin covering my abs was inflamed and red; right down the middle, tiny beads of blood dotted my poor stomach. Luckily, my ribs weren’t swollen or blue.

  But tomorrow… I cringed.

  As I shuddered at the thought of how much I’d be hurting tomorrow, Kulti yanked down on the elastic hem of my royal blue running shorts two inches. It was low enough for the elastic band of my pastel blue cotton panties to make an appearance.

  “All right,” I muttered and pulled them back up, out of his grip.

  Kulti flicked his gaze up, chin still down, my shirt still bunched in his other hand. “I didn’t take you to be shy.”

  “I’m not.” Unless it was in front of a camera, that was more along the lines of a complete and total meltdown.

  “You’re acting like it.”

  A small part of me was well aware that he was just egging me on, challenging me so I’d do what he wanted. I wasn’t shy. I was used to people—okay, physical therapists, chiropractors and masseuses—putting their hands all over me when I was half-dressed. Practicing in sports bras when it got too hot, or when I wanted to work on my tan wasn’t out of the usual either. I didn’t have any real issues with my body except for a few stretch marks in key places along my glutes and quadriceps. At some point, I’d gotten over the idea that beautiful faces and traditional feminine bodies whether they were slender or curvy, were the only standard of beauty in the world. The fact that I wasn’t built slim or voluptuous and would never be anything close to any kind of bombshell, was fine with me now. My body and build were a hard fact.

  My arms, stomach and legs were a sign of the craft I’d been working on my entire life. It was my machine: short torso, wide-ish shoulders and muscular thighs. They were mine, and I wasn’t embarrassed of it. I was happy with myself. Sure I’d had people tell me my quads were too big, or that I needed to stop lifting weights before I looked too manly, whatever the fuck that meant. My arms couldn’t be scrawny, I needed my legs to take me to the end of the universe and back, and they did. On the other hand, I’d also had teammates and coaches tell me I should put more muscle on. I could have been more and I could have been less, but I was just me. At some point, you just have to decide to be the best version of yourself, the one you can live with and look at in the mirror day after day.

  Eventually, I’d found that person. Not a model and not a physique competitor in a bodybuilding competition. Just me.

  Plus, I’d seen Kulti’s ex-wife and his ex-girlfriends. He liked them tall-ish, long-haired with small breasts, just between the line of slim and fit.

  Which was not my small C-cups that didn’t shrink no matter how much bench pressing I did, or my hamstrings and butt that only fit into the most stretchy of jeans after ten minutes of wiggling, jumping and tucking. I didn’t even think about my face because that was a whole different matter. It had scars and freckles that I couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything about.

  “Fine.” Dropping my hands, I held them up before pulling my shirt over my head. Screw it. What were boobs and some freckles, when he’d seen me without make-up nearly every day for the past two months?

  His lids dropped low over his hazel-ish eyes, but he didn’t say a word. Instead he watched me with that heavy gaze as his hands wrapped over my sides just below the smallest part of my ribs. They were cool and firm. I couldn’t help but notice his hands were big. I only just barely managed not to make a sound at his touch. I mean, Marc touched me all the time. It was no big deal.

  His hands slid up, his palms so wide and fingers so long, he could almost reach all the way around.

  Then he squeezed, and I let out a really unfeminine grunt.

  The German didn’t break eye contact with me once, even as his thumbs pressed into the hollow between my ribs, the pads resting on the scraped-up skin above the flat muscle of my abs. My nostrils flared as he squeezed a second time, my heart racing, racing, racing under cover. The hair on my arms prickled in response to him.

  Did he need to look at me while he did this? “I’m fine. If anything, they’re just a little bruised,” I said in a controlled voice that didn’t even hint at the fact the big organ right in the center of my chest thought it was heading into Nascar.

  One thumb absently stroked a line upward to the elastic band of my bra, which I couldn’t help but remember was literally just a centimeter from the bottom swell of my breast. “You’ll be fine,” he stated confidently like he had x-ray powers that told him everything was all right.

  His hands dropped from my stomach.

  I swallowed, trying to get myself together. “My, uh, keys are in the side zipper of my bag. Can you grab them for me or pass me the bag so I can get them?”

  He shot me a look, reaching for my bag off the ground before unzipping the pocket and fishing my keys out, holding them clasped in his palm. “I would drive you home but…” His lips curled over his teeth, almost as if he were going to smack them.

  But.

  “Don’t worry about it.” I didn’t ask him if he couldn’t. He couldn’t. It was that simple. I didn’t know why exactly, but the clues were there.

  He didn’t even blink or look mildly uncomfortable, I understood that much. He nodded once, his lips still tight. “I’ll follow you.”

  Follow me home? “That’s all right. I promise. I can make it home in one piece.”

  “I’ll follow you.”

  Dear God. “I’m sure you have better things to do. Trust me, it’s fine.”

  “I don’t. I’ll follow you home,” he insisted. I opened my mouth to argue, but he cut me off. “Get in.”

  That was exactly how I found myself leading an international soccer icon to my garage apartment.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It was the knocking.

  It was the freaking knocking that finally made me roll out of bed.

  I was going to kill whoever was on the other side of the door. Okay, maybe not kill but seriously maim.

  The fact that my feet were dragging behind me at ten o’clock in the morning was the first example of how horrible I felt. Though I knew better, I wasn’t actively stretching any of my muscles, which explained why I felt even worse t
han the day before.

  “Coming!” I barked out when the knocking became even more obnoxious.

  Murder. Screw it. Maybe I could get away with a crime of passion.

  When I looked through the peephole that my dad had installed the minute after he’d finished helping me move in, I thought about slapping myself in the face to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.

  “Coach?” I asked as I unlocked the top lock and then the bottom, pulling the door

  open just a crack.

  His big German face stared at me through the slit. “Rey is fine. Let me in.”

  He would like being called Rey—king in Spanish.

  I let him in.

  Only after I opened the door, did I think about the fact that I’d just rolled out of bed a second earlier. My hair must have resembled something out of John Frieda’s worst nightmare and my face… puffy. It was definitely puffy and drool-stained, definitely. “I just got up,” I explained weakly, watching him lock the door once he was inside.

  “I can tell.” Those brown-green eyes gazed at my face for a second, straying a little lower briefly, before finally taking a look around my small living room. “I called you,” he said absently.

  “I put my phone on silent after I called Gardner to tell him I wasn’t coming in,” I explained. First, I’d slept like complete crap. A comfortable position to sleep in had eluded me the entire night, I’d been miserable. When my alarm went off at six and I’d rolled over to turn it off, my ribs had told me very calmly that there was no way I was going for a run, much less making it through practice.

  Fortunately in the last four seasons I’d been with the team, I’d missed practice on only one occasion that wasn’t injury related. My grandfather had died, and I’d flown to Argentina for the over-the-top funeral thousands had attended. A country in mourning, a telecaster had called it that night when I’d sat in my hotel room watching the news recap the day. Gardner didn’t even hesitate to tell me to feel better and come back once my mysterious ‘virus’ went away.