Kulti

by Mariana Zapata

  I coughed and eyed his thigh one more time before quickly stepping into my shorts and pulling them up my legs, just as he pulled up his own pair of running shorts.

  I couldn’t breathe, and I really couldn’t look him in the face as I grabbed my socks off the floor. “Umm, I’ll, uh, wait for you in the kitchen.”

  He grunted his agreement and I hauled ass out of there, walking out before I remembered I left my shoes in the room. I went back in, grabbed them without looking at the boner—I mean, Kulti—and going back out. My dad was already gone, the coffeepot was on for my mom who was already getting ready for work. I filled up two water bottles from the collection I had here and drank a glass while I waited for the German. It didn’t occur to me until he arrived in the kitchen that I should have brushed my teeth.

  “Ready?” I asked.

  Sleepy and his eyes and cheeks puffy, he nodded.

  Don’t glance at his crotch, don’t glance at his crotch.

  I glanced. Just real quick.

  “Eyes up here, Taco.”

  I wanted to die. “What?” I slowly looked up to see a smug look on his swollen mouth.

  By some miracle, he decided not to embarrass me and say he knew I was full of shit playing dumb. Was I going to take advantage of the pass he was giving me? Hell yeah.

  I waved Kulti forward, noticing he’d taken the wrap off his freshly inked tattoo. A hint of dark lines peeked out from his shirtsleeve. “Come on. I’m not going to take it easy on your old knees, so you better keep up.”

  * * *

  “If you want to go somewhere, you can borrow my car,” I told the German over breakfast a couple hours later.

  He leaned back in his seat, polishing off a hardboiled egg. “I don’t.”

  “Think about it if you want. I’m going to trim the yard first, and then I want to head to the mall to buy my dad his birthday present. It’ll take me a couple hours until I’m ready to go. “

  “You’re mowing the yard?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  Those green-brown eyes focused in right on my face and a moment later he said, “I’ll help you.”

  “You don’t have to—“

  “I want to.”

  “Rey, you don’t—“

  “I’m not lazy,” he cut me off. “I can help.”

  I eyed him for a second, the brief image of what I was sure was a good fat eight inches under his boxer briefs filling my head, and then pushed the image back, remembering what the hell we were talking about. “All right, if you really want to.”

  Because, seriously? I doubted he cut his own lawn, but he wanted to help me do my dad’s? All right. I was stubborn, but I wasn’t dumb enough to not take help when it was offered.

  A few minutes later we were outside, and he was helping me take my dad’s ancient mower out of the garage—he took his good one with him to work—and his back-up edger and weed-eater. “Which would you rather do?” I asked him once all our equipment was on the driveway.

  He shrugged, looking at the mower with interest.

  I would have bet my life he hadn’t mowed a lawn in a couple of decades, if ever. Hadn’t he just told me the night before how little time he’d spent with his family once he started at the soccer academy? Even then had he ever spent time doing housework when he was so busy being a childhood prodigy?

  I was tempted to tell him I could do it all myself, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t.

  He’d come to San Antonio with me because ‘he had nothing else to do.’ He’d offered to help me probably for the same reason. The poor guy was alone and bored. I had a feeling he didn’t have many friends, he’d admitted to not being close to his family, and all that together made me just sort of sad. It made me want to help him, to include him in things. I wanted him to get his feet wet with life.

  What was the best thing to do?

  “You mow, and I’ll take care of the edging and weeds,” I told him, making sure I wasn’t giving him a look of pity. “All right?”

  His long fingers wrapped around the upper bar of the mower and he nodded.

  I handed him a pair of disposable earplugs, safety glasses and a smile that was encouraging but not too encouraging. I said a prayer that we’d make it through this intact.

  Reiner Kulti took almost an hour to cut my dad’s front and back lawn. He had to take two passes in the front to get the lines even, and he almost ruined the engine once when he didn’t empty out the bag. It was my fault, I hadn’t told him how. He did it without asking a single question, and I didn’t offer any advice either.

  He looked so damn proud of himself, I almost cried. Honestly. I felt like a mom dropping off her baby boy at preschool.

  I slapped him on the back and kept the ‘good job, buddy’ to myself before putting up the equipment.

  * * *

  He had that look in his eye again. The same one he’d had when he’d been looking at the lawn mower.

  “Have you ever been to a mall before?” I asked him once we were through the glass doors.

  Kulti had his attention on everything around us. His hair was concealed by the baggy beanie he had pulled low on his head, and he’d been thoughtful enough to wear a long-sleeved button-down chambray shirt that I had a feeling cost more than my entire outfit put together. With his hair and tattoo covered, we were pretty confident that he wouldn’t be recognized.

  I hoped. I really, really hoped. The idea of a mob lusting after him was something out of my worst nightmares.

  “Yes I have been to a mall before,” he muttered.

  “The Galleria doesn’t count,” I told him, referring to the huge shopping center in Houston with all the designer stores.

  He blinked those beautiful light eyes down at me. “I’ve been to several malls,” he insisted. “A long time ago.”

  I groaned and shoved at the elbow he hadn’t gotten work done on, earning a small smile. “Well don’t steal anything because I won’t bail you out, okay?”

  “Yes, schnecke.”

  “Good.” I grabbed his wrist and gave him a tug in the direction of one of the stores I needed to visit.

  The German looked at every store and booth we walked by until I found one of the businesses I was looking for. Right in the center of the aisle were the massage chairs and masseuses my dad loved coming to every time he went to the mall. “Let me get a gift certificate real quick,” I told him after I’d stopped right by the booth. He nodded and watched as one of the male masseuses rubbed down a woman’s shoulders.

  “You want one?” I asked after paying for a gift certificate.

  He shook his head.

  “Sure?”

  He nodded. “What’s next?”

  “A new pair of tennis shoes.” I pointed at the store close by. “He never buys himself new shoes, so we all have to buy him some, otherwise he’ll wear the same pair until they’re taped together.”

  I could have sworn he smiled as he walked alongside me into the shoe store. I knew exactly what I was getting, even though I wished Kulti wasn’t around to watch. He was busy looking at the rows on the walls when the store employee came over.

  “Can I help you?” the young guy asked, eyeing me with a little too much interest considering I was probably almost ten years older than him.

  I pointed at the pair I wanted, careful to keep my back to the German a few feet behind me and said, “Size nine and a half, please.”

  The employee nodded in approval. “The RK 10s in black?”

  I bristled at the fact he was talking about them out loud. “Yes, please.”

  “We have the Kulti 10s on sale for women,” he offered, pointing at the shoes on the opposite side of the store.

  “Just the men’s,” I smiled at him.

  “The 9s are buy one, get one half off,” he kept going.

  “I’m all right. Thanks, though.”

  He shrugged. “I’ll be back, then.”

  Thank God. I turned around to see the German holding a running shoe up to his face
with interest.

  “Those are nice,” I chipped in.

  Those green-brown eyes flicked up to mine and he nodded in agreement. “Did you find what you wanted?” he asked, setting the shoe back on the rack.

  “Yes.” I scratched my cheek and his eyes immediately narrowed. “The employee is getting them for me right now.” Knowing I needed to change the subject, I asked, “Are you getting anything?”

  “Here you go,” the unfamiliar voice said from behind me a second before the employee walked around and held out the box.

  The big swoosh mark on the top of the box wasn’t a big deal, but the guy pulled the lid and tissue paper back and there they were. The Reiner Kulti 10th edition in black.

  “Perfect,” I sort of choked out, avoiding the gaze that had locked on my face. “I’ll take them.”

  “Absolutely not,” the German snapped from right next to me.

  “I’m taking them,” I insisted, ignoring him.

  “Sal, you are not buying those,” he insisted.

  The employee looked back and forth between us, his expression confused.

  “I buy my dad shoes every birthday and I’m getting these for him. This is what he’d want,” I gritted out, still avoiding his gaze.

  “Sal.”

  “Rey.”

  His hand touched my elbow. “I can get these for you for free,” he said in that exasperated tone he used when his accent really began to bleed through. “In every color. Next year’s edition.” His fingers pressed into the soft indent of the inside of my elbow. “Don’t buy them.”

  “Do you work for Ni—“ the employee started to say, his eyes wide and way too interested. Thankfully he wasn’t paying enough attention to the man standing in front of him, otherwise he would have known.

  “You mind giving us a second?” I cut him off with an apologetic smile.

  What was he going to say? No? Grudgingly, he nodded and turned away.

  I finally cradled my guts to me and faced Kulti, who had put his hands on his hips looking just shy of exasperated. Patience, Sal. “Tell me why you don’t want me to buy them.”

  “I don’t want you to spend the money.”

  Oh dear God. “Rey, I’m going to buy my dad shoes regardless of whether they’re yours or not.” Later on I could dwell on the fact I was hanging out with a man that had his own signature shoe line, but now wasn’t the time. “I’d rather you make… what? How much do you make, five dollars a pair? Anyway, I’d rather get yours and you make my five dollars than someone else, all right?”

  That didn’t seem to help matters at all.

  If anything, Kulti’s jaw went tight and the corners of his mouth pulled down flat. And his shoulders and biceps might have tightened, but I wasn’t positive. “I can get every shoe in this store for free. I haven’t bought a pair of shoes in over twenty years. You shouldn’t have to pay for shoes either. You’re the best player in the country—“

  Every cell in my body froze.

  “—you shouldn’t have to, and I’m not going to let you buy some of my fucking shoes that you had to work all day to pay for. While we are at it, I’m not going to let you buy any shoes in this store. Not for you and not for your father,” he snapped. “I can get you whatever you want, just tell me.”

  I would have opened my mouth to argue with him, but I couldn’t. I just stood there, looking up at him at a complete freaking loss.

  Kulti’s fingertips touched the outside of my wrist, his expression hard and serious. “If you were me, wouldn’t you do the same thing?”

  Damn it. “Well, yeah.” I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed before how golden his eyelashes were. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. I swear I didn’t bring you along to guilt-trip you into getting them. I promise. I would have bought them in Houston but—“

  I stopped talking when I noticed something in his body language change, when I felt his deep breath wash across my cheek. He looked deflated but not necessarily in a bad way.

  He put his hand on top of my head, the bottom of his palm resting just barely on my forehead as he let out another chest-filled breath. “You are…” The German shook his head and sighed. “No one could ever make me do something I don’t want to.”

  I could believe that.

  “Understand?” He dipped his head. His face, so deeply tanned from years of being in the sun, looked younger for some reason in that instant.

  “Yes.”

  Kulti nodded. “You would do it for me if you were in my position, schnecke.”

  “Did you guys decide if you’re getting the shoes?” an unexpected voice asked from behind me.

  It took me a second to tear my eyes away from the almost-hazel ones so close to mine. “I’m sorry for wasting your time, but I’m going to have to pass.”

  The frown on the employee’s face wasn’t unexpected. He moved his gaze over the German with even more interest. “Say, you look familiar—“

  I hated being rude, but I grabbed the German’s wrist and led him out of the store before the kid could think about it too much more. Once we were out, I let go of his wrist and smiled up at him as we walked through the spacious corridor, but he was already pulling his cell out of his other pocket and pecking at the screen with his thumb.

  “I need you to send me RK 10s, size nine and a half—“ The fact he’d paid attention to the shoe size on the box didn’t escape me, ‘’—in men’s… What’s your address?” He turned his attention down to me, and I rattled off my parent’s home address. Kulti repeated it to the person on the other end of the line. “I want them there tomorrow... and a sample of the pair you sent me last week… yes, those.” He hung up, just like that. He just called, said what he wanted and hung up. No thanks, no goodbye, nada.

  After he finished putting his phone back into his pocket, he looked down at me and frowned. “What?”

  “People don’t get aggravated with you when you’re rude to them?”

  Kulti blinked. “No.”

  “Never?”

  He lifted up a shoulder in the most perfect gesture of how much of a shit he didn’t give.

  Good God. “If I hung up on someone like that, which I wouldn’t because it’s not nice, they would tell me to go screw myself.” I blinked at him and thought about what he said. “If you hung up on me like that, I would tell you to go screw yourself. Not that I don’t appreciate you getting the shoes for my dad, but it wouldn’t kill you to be polite, you know.”

  He shrugged. He freaking shrugged, and I knew me telling him how he could handle the situation differently wasn’t going to change a single thing.

  * * *

  “This is the worst game of Uno I have ever played in my entire life.”

  Kulti looked up at me from across the table and smiled his little smug baby smile. The freaking bratwurst. “You’re being a sore loser.”

  My mom and dad both nodded from their spots on either side of me. I looked at both of them and shook my head. Traitors. “I’m not being a sore loser.” Much. “They kept giving me all their crappy cards so they wouldn’t make you draw!”

  “It sounds to me like you don’t know how to lose,” he said calmly, taking the cards from the middle of the table to shuffle.

  I made a choking noise and turned my attention to the mute sitting next to me. Dad had said maybe six words in the last three hours. He got home and found the German and I in the driveway washing my car. Dad said exactly two words, “Oh, ah, hi,” gave me a kiss on the cheek and hightailed it inside. We’d eaten dinner my mom made with him saying another two words, “salt” and “si.” And the last two words he’d said were, “yellow” and “blue” when he made us change colors playing cards.

  My mom on the other hand, had decided not to be fazed, and it wasn’t like I could blame her. She wasn’t particularly impressed by famous soccer players for longer than a second. Been there, done that.

  “You’ve never liked to lose,” Mom noted as Kulti slid a card in her direction, which she took wi
th a smile. “When you were little, you would make us play games over and over again until you won.”

  She was right. I remembered being a competitive little kid. Whoops. “You guys are ganging up on me. I’m just saying it’d be a fair game if you two quit making me take more cards every turn.”

  She smiled again when the German passed her another card. “It’s just a game.”

  It was just a game.

  I made sure Kulti met my eyes when I got my next round of cards. Nothing was just a game.

  * * *

  “Dad?” I knocked on the door an hour or two later. “Papa?”

  He said something from inside that was along the lines of ‘come in,’ so I did. Standing in the doorway between his bedroom and en suite, Dad had a toothbrush in his mouth, already dressed for bed.

  “I just wanted to tell you goodnight.” I smiled at him.

  He held up a finger and went back into the restroom where I could hear him turn the water on and rinse out his mouth before coming back. “Buenas noches. I had fun tonight.”

  “You did?”

  My dad nodded seriously, sitting on the bed next to me. “Do you know how hard it’s been for me to not tell anyone that he’s staying at my house? My house, Salsa!” Dad erupted, seriously. This was more like him. “The King is sleeping in my house, he mowed my lawn, and he’s friends with my daughter.” He put a hand to his chest and took a big, walloping breath. “This is the best present anyone has ever given me.” He paused. “Don’t tell your mom.”

  And he was completely, one hundred and ninety-nine percent serious.

  I didn’t bring up how he hardly talked, but I did grin at him. I was happy that at least he was acting normal in front of me and eating up just having Kulti in the house. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to feel weird.”

  “Am I sure? Pues si.” He wrapped an arm over my shoulders and pulled me into his side. “I’m going to remember this for the rest of my life.”

  I laughed and leaned into him. Only he would be happy just having Kulti in the house even though he didn’t talk to him. “Thank you for not telling everyone.” My parents had decided not to have my extended family come over with the German staying and honestly, I was a little relieved.