Kulti

by Mariana Zapata

  The German didn’t even hesitate to pick up the notebook, reading over the notes I’d written about the different things that I thought would be beneficial to the kids at their ages.

  “What is this?” he asked.

  I fought the urge to snatch the notebook away from him. “Plans. I have a few summer camps coming up.”

  His eyes flicked up from over the edge of the notebook. “Training camps?”

  “For kids,” I explained. “They only last a few hours.”

  He glanced back down at the sheet. “For free?”

  “Yes. I do it in low-income neighborhoods for kids whose parents don’t have the funds to enroll them in clubs and leagues.”

  He hummed.

  I scratched my cheek, feeling oddly vulnerable at him reading over the skills I planned on teaching the kids. He kept reading and it got worse. It wasn’t like he was a fantastic coach, he wasn’t. I had no doubt he could have been a great coach if he wanted to, but he didn’t.

  I scrunched my toes up in my socks and watched his face.

  “Did your parents have money?” I found myself asking.

  Kulti “uh-huh”ed.

  I pulled my knee up to my chest and put my chin on it, careful not to rub the yogurt all over it. “There was no scholarship for you at the academy?”

  He glanced up. “FC Berlin covered the costs.”

  No shit. They’d recruited him at eleven? It happened, but I guess it still amazed me.

  “And you, Taco?”

  I smiled at him from behind my knee, surprised he was asking. “You’ve been to my house, Germany. We weren’t poor-poor, but I didn’t have a pair of name brand shoes until I was probably fifteen, and my brother bought them for me with his first advance from the MPL. I have no idea how my parents managed to swing paying for everything for so long but they did.” Actually, I did know. They cut a whole bunch of things out of the budget. A lot. “I just got lucky they cared, otherwise things would have gone a lot differently.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t made them regret anything they did.”

  “Eh. I’m sure I’ve made them wonder what the hell they were doing a time or two.” Or three. Or four. “I used to have a terrible temper—“

  The German snorted. Straight-up snorted, lips fluttering, too.

  Ass.

  I nudged at his hip with my toes. “What? I don’t have a terrible temper anymore.”

  Those awesome almost-hazel eyes looked up again from over the notebook. “No, you don’t and neither do I.”

  “Ha!” I nudged at him again and he grabbed my foot with his free hand. I tried to yank it back, but he didn’t let go. “Oh please, my temper isn’t anywhere near as bad as yours.”

  “It is.” He pulled my foot back toward him, getting a better grip around the instep.

  “Trust me. It isn’t.”

  “You’re a menace when you’re mad, schnecke. Maybe the refs haven’t caught you pinching girls, but I have,” he said casually.

  I sat up straight. “Unless you have any physical proof, it never happened.”

  Kulti stared at me for a beat before shaking his head, his thumb pressing a hard line down the arch of my foot. “You’re an animal.”

  My shoulders shook but I managed to keep myself from laughing. “It takes one to know one.”

  The corners of the German’s mouth tipped up. “Unlike others, I have never pretended to be nice.”

  “Oh, I know.” I smiled at him. “There was that time you bit a guy—“

  “He bit me three times before I had enough,” he argued.

  I raised an eyebrow but kept going. “Don’t get me started on the thousand times you elbowed someone in the face.” Once the words were out of my mouth, I reeled back. “How the hell didn’t you get banned?”

  The fact he shrugged at that claim said just how much of a crap he still didn’t give about the staggering number of noses he’d broken and eyebrows he’d busted.

  “All the fights you were in—“

  “I usually didn’t start them.”

  “Debatable.” He blinked at me. “And don’t forget about the tibias you’ve broken.”

  With that comment he just kept an even glare on me that had me smiling pretty smugly, even if it was at my brother’s expense.

  “You win,” I stated. “All I give are bruises,” and then I added, “and an occasional bloody lip or two and a concussion once.”

  The German leaned over, putting my notebook down and scooting closer to me, yanked my foot once more before setting it back on the couch next to him. His hand was wrapped around my ankle. “I’m positive you’ve thought about doing worse and in the end, that’s what matters.”

  He had a point, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to admit it.

  Instead I just sat on my end of the couch and gave him a flat look of irritation, until he smiled just the slightest bit wider and finally looked back down at the notebook. I went back to the sticky notes on the poster board and reviewed what I had jotted down already.

  In the middle of making a few new notes, Kulti tapped the top of the foot I still had right by him. “Tell me how I can help with this.”

  If anyone thought for one second that I would ever say no to help from him, they would have been insane. It wasn’t just the endless endorsements he had access to. If he wanted to do any actual work with the kids, it would be like having Mozart give a kid a lesson in musical composition.

  I swallowed and felt my entire body brighten. “Any way you can.”

  “All you have to do is ask.” Then as if he thought about what he said, his eyelids hooded low. “You aren’t going to ask, I don’t even know why I bother. Let me see what I can do.”

  “All right.” I smiled at him. “Thanks, Rey.”

  He nodded very solemnly and I found myself just studying him.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “No,” he said in a pain-in-the-ass tone.

  I ignored him. “Why did you take the Pipers position when you hate coaching?”

  The notebook he’d been holding was slowly lowered to his lap. The muscle in his jaw flexed, and his expression became very even. “You think I don’t like coaching?”

  “I’m ninety-nine percent sure that you freaking hate it.”

  Kulti relaxed a whole millimeter. He just kept looking at me for so long I thought for sure he was trying to intimidate me into changing the subject or hoping I’d forget. Maybe.

  The hell I was.

  I blinked at him. “So?”

  The German’s lips peeled back into something that was a mix between an incredulous smile and an amazed one. “Is it that obvious?”

  “To me.” I shrugged my shoulders at him. “You look ready to strangle someone at least five times each practice, and that’s when you don’t even say anything. When things actually come out of your mouth, I’m pretty sure you would light us all on fire if you could get away with it.”

  When he didn’t agree or deny anything, I blinked.

  “Am I right or am I right?”

  He mumbled something that could have been “you’re right” but it was said so low I couldn’t be sure. The fact he was avoiding my eyes said enough. It had me grinning.

  “So why are you doing it? I’m sure they’re not paying you a quarter of as much as any of the European men’s teams would. I’m definitely sure the MPL would have paid you a lot more, too. But you’re here instead. What’s up with that?”

  Nothing.

  It felt like a few hours had passed without him saying anything.

  Honestly it was really kind of insulting. The longer he took to not answer, the more it hurt my feelings. I wasn’t asking him for his bank account number or for a freaking kidney. I had taken him home with me, brought him into my house, told him about my grandfather and he couldn’t even answer one single personal question? I’d understood from the beginning he had trust issues, and I couldn’t say that I blamed him. My brother got all cagey around people he didn
’t know. At some point, you never knew who was your friend for the right reasons and who wasn’t.

  But… I guess I had thought we were past that.

  I swallowed back my disappointment and looked away, scooting forward on the couch so I could get up. “I’m going to make some popcorn, do you want some?”

  “No.”

  Averting my eyes, I got up and headed into the kitchen. I pulled a pot out and set it on the stove, lighting it. Collecting my extra-large tub of coconut oil and bag of kernels, I tried to suppress the feeling in my chest that I was suddenly not so fond of.

  He didn’t trust me. Then again, what the hell did I expect? It wasn’t like anything I found out about him wasn’t given out in drips. Tiny, tiny drips.

  I’d barely scooped some oil into the heated pot when I felt Kulti standing behind me. I didn’t turn around even when he got so close that I couldn’t take a step back without touching him. His silence was incredibly typical, and I didn’t feel like saying anything either. I scooped a few of tablespoons of popcorn kernels into the pot and set the lid on, giving it a shake which was angrier than it needed to be.

  “Sal,” he said my name in that smooth tone that hinted at a trace of an accent.

  Keeping my eyes on the pot as I opened the lid to let the steam out, I asked, “Did you want some after all?”

  The touch on my bare shoulder was all fingertips.

  But I still didn’t turn around. I gave the pot another forceful shake but his fingers didn’t fall off, they just moved further up my shoulder until he was closer to my neck. “You can take the first batch if you want.”

  “Turn around,” he requested.

  I tried to shrug off his fingers. “I need to keep an eye on this so it doesn’t burn, Kulti.”

  He dropped his hand immediately.

  “Turn around, Sal,” he said forcefully.

  “Wait a minute, would you?” One more hard shake to the pot and I opened the lid.

  The German reached around me and turned off the knob on the stove. “No. Talk to me.”

  Carefully, I wrapped my fingers around the long oven handle and took a breath to bottle my frustration up.

  “You said a few minutes ago you didn’t have a temper,” he reminded me which only made the moment that much more aggravating.

  “I’m not mad,” I snapped back a little too quickly.

  “No?”

  “No.”

  He let out a sound that could have been a scoff if I thought German people were capable of making noises like that. “You called me Kulti.”

  My fingers flexed around the oven handle. “That’s your name.”

  “Turn around,” he ordered.

  I tipped my chin up to face the ceiling and asked for patience. A lot of it. Hell, all of it. Unfortunately, no one seemed to answer my prayer. “I’m not mad at you, all right? I just thought…” I sighed. “Look it doesn’t matter. I swear I’m not mad. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. I’m sorry I asked.”

  No response.

  Of-freaking-course not.

  Right. Right.

  Patience. Patience.

  “I took the position because I had to,” that deep voice I’d heard a hundred times on television said. “I didn’t do anything for almost a year except almost ruin my life, and my manager said I needed to come out of retirement. I had to do something, especially something positive after my DUI.” Two warm hands that could only have belonged to him covered my shoulders. “There weren’t many things to choose from—“

  “Is that because you didn’t want to be in the spotlight anymore?” I asked, remembering an earlier conversation we’d had.

  He made a positive grunt. “Coaching was the only thing we could agree on. Short and temporary, it seemed the best fit.” Kulti paused as the pads of his thumbs brushed over my trapezius muscles. That made me snicker, and it made the German dig his thumbs into my muscles. “A friend of mine suggested women’s soccer. I did some research—“

  I had to save that for later. I wasn’t surprised he admitted he had to do research on women’s soccer. Of course he wasn’t familiar with it.

  “—and the U.S. women kept coming up as consistently the best,” he finished, but something nagged at me.

  Something didn’t add up.

  “Why didn’t you just join the national team staff?” I asked even as his thumbs really dug deep into my shoulders and holyfreakingcrap, it felt great. It’d been months since the last time I’d gotten a massage.

  The German let out a sigh that reached all the way to my toes. “Is anything ever enough for you?” His voice was resigned.

  He knew the answer. “No.” Then I thought about it and his reluctance and I gasped. “They didn’t want you?”

  “No, you little idiot.” He called me an idiot even as he gave me a massage that made my knees go weak, so I couldn’t take it to heart. Actually, it was sort of his own affectionate way of talking to me. “Of course they would have wanted me if I had asked.”

  How the hell I fit in the same room as his ego, I had no idea.

  “I won’t involve myself in anything if I believe I won’t win,” he stated.

  I rolled my eyes even though he couldn’t see me. “Who likes to lose? I get it.”

  Those magical thumbs slid deep around my shoulder blade. “I know you do.”

  “Right... so….”

  He stopped all movements with his long fingers; the heat from his rough palms radiated through my skin and somehow into my bones. “You’re the best striker in America, schnecke. Look up ‘best goals in women’s soccer’ and four of the top ten are yours. I wasn’t going to waste my time on anything or anyone but the best. With more training, better coaching, you could be the top striker in the world.”

  He wasn’t going to…

  It’s like my brain stopped working.

  I opened my mouth and closed it, at a complete loss for words.

  “I came to the Pipers for you.”

  What the fuck do you even say to that?

  Is there anything to say?

  It seemed like the world came out from under my feet. My lungs felt punctured and bereft. Shaken up didn’t even begin to explain how I felt.

  Get it together, Sal.

  Breathless and unsteady, I released the oven handle and turned around slowly to face Kulti. Focus. Don’t make a big deal out of this. Damn it, it was so much easier said than done. This had been my lifelong dream when I was a kid. To be singled out by The King… remnants of a younger Sal were still in me, rejoicing and throwing Mardi Gras beads in the air at what he said. I couldn’t think about it, not then and possibly not ever.

  I came to the Pipers for you.

  Jesus Christ. I needed to keep it together. Focus. “I’m not the best but that’s beside the point. You didn’t recognize my last name when you saw the video?”

  He gave a smile that could have been sheepish if he was capable of being sheepish. He wasn’t. It was more of a smirk. “I can’t remember every player I’ve ever injured, Sal, and I wouldn’t care to.”

  Not surprising at all, but it still made me shake my head. “You’re something else, pumpernickel.” My shoulders relaxed as I took in the very serious face several inches above mine. “So, you came to the Pipers even though you knew you didn’t like coaching.” I purposely skipped the part about how he’d chosen our team.

  “Ja.”

  “And you still hate us.”

  The German lifted a shoulder in the least apologetic shrug ever. “There’s a few of you who should have stopped playing soccer a long time ago.” He blinked. “And one of you I would love to shake on a regular basis.”

  I grinned at him before reaching forward to thump him on the shoulder. “Trust me; I’ve had the urge to punch you in the face a time or five.”

  “There’s that temper again. A nice girl would never think about punching someone,” he said with that stupid smirk. “How many people have you punched before?”
>
  “No one,” Jeez Louise, “in at least ten years. I’ve thought about it a hundred times but I haven’t actually gone through with it. Come on.”

  He gave me a look that easily replaced a raised eyebrow, making a point about me thinking about doing things again.

  Asshole. “It’s too obvious and you know it. There’s no way to get away with it.”

  The German nodded in agreement. “True. How many players have you elbowed before?”

  “Enough,” I answered truthfully, knowing that my number would still and forever be a fraction of his.

  “You have the most fouls on the team,” Kulti noted, which surprised the shit out of me. “More than Harlow.”

  It was my turn to shrug. “Yeah, but it’s not because I elbow people left and right. I haven’t done that since I was a kid and got kicked off a league for it,” I explained to him with a grin.

  “Such a great deal of anger for such a small body.” A small smile cracked his lips. “Your parents? What did they think?”

  “My mom chewed me out about it. My dad did too, but only when she was around. When she wasn’t, he’d high-five me and tell me the other girl had it coming.” We both laughed. “I love that man.”

  Kulti smiled gently, taking a step back only to grab two bowls out of the cabinet. I shot him a look as I poured half of the popcorn into each one and followed him around to the couch, where we took the same seats we’d left. Knowing that I was pushing my luck, I went for it anyway. “What about your parents? Did they go to your games?” I remembered when I was younger at the height of his career, cameras would zoom in on an older couple in the stands, pointing out that they were Reiner Kulti’s parents.

  “My father worked quite a bit, and once I went away to the academy, it was too far from home. They went to as many games as they could, watched more on television,” he said around a mouthful of popcorn.

  Well that was more than enough information to press for the day. What he didn’t say was that his parents didn’t go to a lot of his games when he was younger, but once he was older, they went whenever he paid. At least that’s what I assumed from the way he worded it. “It worked for all of us.”