Kulti

by Mariana Zapata

  I’m positive I didn’t imagine the bite in his words. Obviously, I needed to steer the topic into safer territory.

  “One more question and I’ll quit being nosey.” He might have nodded, but I was too busy eating popcorn to be sure. There was no way I could ask him with a straight face. “Did you blow that game against Portugal before you retired or were you really sick?”

  His response was exactly what I expected: he threw a pillow at my face.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The next two weeks went by normally. Practices went well, Harlow and Jenny finally came back from their national team obligation, and the Pipers won the next two games in the season. I worked, exercised and Kulti came over nearly every night. We’d watch television, or get pissed off at each other playing Uno or poker, which he taught me to play. A couple of nights he showed up when I was about to start yoga. He’d help me move the couch and did it with me.

  It was all fine, fun and easy.

  I loved routines and knowing what to expect most of the time.

  There were only two downsides, and they both revolved around females.

  The girls on the Pipers gave me weird looks and said things when they thought I wasn’t listening. It took everything inside of me some days to ignore them, and other days I’d just smile at them and remind myself that I could go to sleep easily at night knowing that I hadn’t done anything to be ashamed of. Some days were easier than others, but as long as we kept playing well as a team, I’d suck it up and keep my big mouth closed. Harlow on the other hand, didn’t have any problem telling the younger girls to mind their own businesses and focus on soccer and not spreading gossip. She did it without once asking me anything about what was happening with Kulti.

  The emails had picked up again. It had started as only a message or two from the German’s female fans, but in no time picked up to three or four. By the time the picture my dad had taken of all us at dinner began being circulated, they were so frequent that I stopped reading emails from people I didn’t recognize. I didn’t say anything to anyone. I didn’t want to. The less attention I brought to myself and Kulti, the better, I figured.

  * * *

  “Holy shit.”

  I turned around to see what the sixth grade teacher was ‘holy shitting’ over, and I froze.

  Seriously, I froze.

  “Holy shit,” I repeated the exact same words that had just come out of the other woman’s mouth.

  It was the German walking across the middle school field, which would have been a ‘holy shit’ moment to begin with if I wasn’t already used to seeing him all the time. But there were the two men walking alongside him. One was another German who I’d seen play plenty of times growing up, and the other a Spaniard who I’d met before and happened to have a cologne commercial running on television.

  They pooped. They all pooped. Every single one of them.

  I took a deep breath and looked around the field at the four teachers who had volunteered to help out with the soccer camp that Saturday morning. Four small goals had been set up about half an hour ago in preparation for the twenty kids who had pre-registered.

  Dear God, he’d brought these men and he hadn’t said a word about it the last time we’d seen each other. Then again, neither of us had brought up him helping since we had originally talked about it two weeks ago. I didn’t want him to feel obligated to do anything.

  Yet here he was with friends. Not just any friends, but them.

  There was no way in hell I was being totally cool about this. No way Kulti couldn’t tell I was thrilled. From the way his mouth tightened when he stopped just a few feet away, ignoring the two teachers standing right by me, he knew everything.

  I grabbed his forearm as soon as he was close enough and squeezed hard, hoping he could understand everything I was feeling, everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. At least nothing I was able to get out in that instant.

  “Hello,” I managed to say in a voice that sounded just like my own and not like I was on the brink of shitting a small pony. “Thanks for coming.”

  The German tipped his head down in acknowledgment.

  Turning my attention to the other men, I thought to myself once more: poop, poop, poop. Fortunately, I got through it.

  “Hi, Alejandro,” I said, almost shyly.

  It took the Spaniard a moment of looking at me before it dawned on him that we knew each other. “Salomé?” he asked hesitantly. Honestly, I was surprised he remembered my name; I had no doubt he’d met a thousand people since we’d last seen each other, and it wasn’t like we’d been best friends. We both had a sponsorship with the same athletic clothing company. About two years ago, we’d had photo shoots scheduled at the same time.

  “It’s nice to see you again,” I said, extending my hand out in a greeting.

  What I didn’t see were the hazel-colored eyes going back and forth between myself and the Spanish man.

  Alejandro quickly took it, allowing himself to smile broadly. “Como estas?” He fell into that quick, soft accented Spanish that was a little foreign to me.

  “Muy bien y usted?” I asked.

  Before he could respond, the other newcomer butted in. “Hablo español tambien,” he said in a rougher accent, more like the Central American Spanish I was accustomed to.

  I smiled at him. “Hi. It’s nice to meet you,” I greeted Franz Koch, one of the star players in the European League a decade ago. In his mid-forties, he’d been the captain of the German National Team years ago.

  If I remembered correctly, he’d been a freaking beast.

  “Franz,” the man said, taking my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I cleared my throat to keep from croaking and managed to smile. “Oh, I know who you are. I’m a big fan. Thank you so much for coming.” I scratched at my cheek as I took a step away from them. “Thank you all for coming. I don’t know what to say.”

  My German was fortunately on top of what needed to be done, because he jumped right in. “Let’s do what you planned, but we’ll split into two groups instead.”

  “Okay.” I nodded. “That works. The kids should be showing up pretty soon.” A smile exploded over my face when the two unexpected visitors nodded in agreement. They were here for my camp. “Is that fine with you guys?”

  They agreed immediately. Alejandro and Kulti went on one team—I didn’t miss how quickly my German claimed the Spaniard, and Franz and I were on the other.

  It turned out to be the most fun I’d ever had at any youth camp, ever.

  Franz, who didn’t have an ounce of an ego and understood that this was for fun, was a dream to work with. An excellent team player and leader, he passed the ball freely, teased the kids with his thick accent, even talking like Arnold for a little while. He really just took pleasure mentoring the kids. We laughed, grinned, high-fived each other and the kids throughout the game.

  On the other side of the field, where we’d moved the goals over, I could hear Kulti and Alejandro arguing with each other in quick Spanish from time to time. The kids, mostly Hispanic, cracked up over whatever they said to each other.

  Most importantly, the kids had been ecstatic.

  Everyone knew Kulti and Alejandro. Franz had been the one with the least amount of claps when I’d introduced him, but he’d won over the boys and girls who had been frowning when they got stuck with us and not the two superstars.

  It had been amazing. Was I over the moon? Absolutely. By the time the three hours were over, I felt like I’d won a million dollars. The kids left more stoked than ever, the parents were in awe from where they were relegated to standing on the side of the field, and even the coaches were all grinning.

  I threw my hand up and Franz’s met mine in a wild shake once all the kids and the volunteer teachers had taken pictures with the four of us. “Thank you so much for coming. It really means the world to me.”

  “You are very welcome. I had a great deal of fun,” he said with an honest smile.

/>   I held my hand out to Alejandro. “Thank you, too. Those kids,” I couldn’t help but smile, “you guys made their day. Thank you.”

  The Spaniard shook my hand. “You’re welcome, Salomé. I had fun, though next time I would rather be paired up with you,” he said, cocking his head toward the German standing next to him. “He was difficult.”

  “He’s a pain every day.” I leaned into Kulti, bumping his arm with my shoulder.

  I didn’t miss the mini-step he took away from me or the face he made as he did it. His forehead scrunched, and he gave me a side-look that was almost repulsed.

  What the hell? Did he just take a step away from me? O-kay.

  My poor heart didn’t miss how crappy his actions made me feel. All righty, then. Apparently being playful with him only applied to times when we were alone.

  I could feel the smile on my face wither for a second before I plastered a bigger one on top of it.

  Well.

  That was embarrassing.

  I looked back over at Franz and Alejandro, unsure of what to do since Kulti was being weird. “Thank you guys for coming. I appreciate it more than you can imagine. If there’s anything I can ever do for either of you, please let me know.” The bright smile I gave them was genuine. I held my arms out, knowing that at least the Spaniard would give me a hug. He’d given me one before.

  He didn’t leave me hanging. A little damp and sweaty, Alejandro stepped forward and wrapped his arms around my shoulders in a gentle hug. “Fue un placer ver te otra vez, linda.”

  I looked up at him when he started to pull away and smiled. “Always,” I replied in Spanish. “Thank you again.”

  We had barely pulled away from each other when Franz stepped forward and grabbed me for a big hug, lifting me off the ground. “Thank you for having me.” He set me back down, his hands splayed wide on my shoulders as he took a step back. “I’ll be at your game this evening. I’m looking forward to seeing you play.”

  My eyes went wide, but I nodded. “That’s great and a little nerve-wracking. Thanks.” Glancing down at my watch, I made a face. “Speaking of which, I should really get going so I can get ready.” I took another step back and grinned at the two men before returning my attention to Kulti.

  Kulti, who was standing there with his tongue in his cheek, had his arms crossed over his chest. He was pissed. I could recognize it by the way his eyes were narrowed.

  What the hell did he have to be mad at? Was he mad because I tried to play around with him in front of his friends? It was fine in front of my family, but not in front of people he knew? I brushed it off and ignored his expression, saying, “Thank you for everything, Rey.” Because I was thankful, that much was true. I just wished he wasn’t acting strange in front of his friends.

  * * *

  A hand touched my arm as I made my way toward the locker rooms following our Pipers’ game that night.

  I blinked and then grinned, still on a high from our win. “Hey, Franz.”

  The older German stood on the other side of the railing that separated the stands from the players making their way down the ramp to the locker rooms. “Salomé,” he shook his head, smiling a gentle smile that made me feel so at ease. “Your videos don’t do you justice. Your footwork and your speed are fantastic.”

  What was it with all these compliments lately?

  Before I could digest it, Franz kept right on going. “You favor your right foot too much. I do as well. I know some tricks I could show you. Are you free tomorrow?”

  Franz Koch wanted to show me some tips. I would never say no to someone offering to give me pointers. “Yeah, definitely. I’m free all day tomorrow.”

  “Excellent. I’m not familiar with this city. Do you know where we can meet?”

  “Yes, yes.” If I sounded too enthusiastic, I didn’t give a single shit. Not a single itty bitty one. I rattled off the name of the park and after repeating it twice, I typed it onto the smart phone he handed me.

  The second German man to come into my life smiled as he took his phone back with a nod. “Tomorrow at nine if that’s agreeable with you.”

  Oh. Boy.

  On the inside, I was squealing with excitement; on the outside, I hoped I only resembled a little bit of an idiot. “That definitely works for me. Thank you.”

  When I caught Kulti’s attention in the locker room, I almost opened my mouth to tell him that I was meeting up with Franz the next day, but from the look on his face, I decided to keep my mouth shut. He’d looked consistently angry since we’d said goodbye at the youth soccer camp, and I had no idea what the hell had crawled up his butt and died.

  Needless to say, I decided when I was back at home that I wasn’t going to bother trying to figure it out.

  I had tried to be playful with him and he’d been a bratwurst, so whatever. Whatever.

  * * *

  I was dying.

  Oh my God, I was dying. Nearly three hours of doing various drills with and against Franz had almost killed me. Death was on the cusp, I could feel it.

  “How old are you again?” I asked as we both sat cross-legged across from each other at the park closest to my house.

  “Forty-four.”

  “Jesus Christ.” I laughed and put my hands behind my back to recline. “You’re amazing, seriously.”

  “No.” He mirrored my movement. “You are. With time and better coaching…” He shook his head. “Reiner said you don’t play for the American team. Why?”

  I crossed my legs close to my chest and looked at the nice older man. And for some reason I didn’t completely understand, I told him. “I had a problem with one of the other girls on the team, and I left.”

  “They let you leave because of a problem with another player?” He reeled back, his accent becoming stronger.

  “Yes. She was one of the team’s starting players, and I was pretty young back then. She said it was either her or me, and it was me.” Yeah, it hurt a little being so frank about it.

  “That is possibly the dumbest thing I have ever heard.” Franz stared at me like a part of him was expecting me to say, ‘just kidding!’ But I wasn’t, and after a minute he finally realized it. He genuinely looked astonished. The older German sat up straight, giving me his total attention. “Why are you still here then?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why are you playing in this league if you can’t play for the U.S. team?”

  I blinked at him. “I have a contract with the Pipers.”

  “When does it end?” he asked, completely serious.

  “Next season.”

  His nose scrunched up for a split second. “Have you thought about playing elsewhere?”

  “Outside of the U.S.?” I started fidgeting with my socks, his questions leaving me curious with where he was going with this.

  “Yes. There are women’s teams in Europe.”

  I leaned back and shook my head. “I know some girls who have played there, but I’ve never given it much thought. My brother is on loan in Europe right now, but… no. I haven’t thought about it. My family is here, and I’ve been happy here.” Until recently.

  Franz gave me an even look and said eighteen words that would haunt me for weeks to come. “You should think about playing somewhere else. You’re going to waste your talent and your career away here.”

  I would later wonder why of every person in my life, I chose to talk to Franz about my career, but in the end something in me decided he was the best option. His view was more unbiased than anyone else’s. While he might have cared a tiny fraction about my future—if that—he was giving me a clinical view. He was telling me what he would do, what the best thing would be without taking everything else into my life into consideration. Not my parents, my job, the Pipers or anything.

  Play somewhere else?

  I blew out a long breath and told him very honestly, “I don’t know.”

  “Don’t give the best years of your career to a league that doesn’t appreciate your
talent. You should be playing on the national team—any national team, and you could do it. It isn’t complicated. Players do it all the time.”

  He was right. Players did do it all the time. I wouldn’t be the first and I definitely wouldn’t be the last to play for a different country. Fans didn’t think twice about it. They didn’t care as long as someone played well.

  “Really put some thought into it, Salomé,” he said in a gentle encouraging voice.

  I found myself nodding, feeling confused and the slightest bit overwhelmed by this new possibility. Play somewhere else, a different country. That sounded kind of scary. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

  “Good.” Franz smiled. “I’m here for three more days. Are you free tomorrow for round two?”

  * * *

  I was driving home when my dad called. I let it go to voicemail and waited until I got to a red light to call him back.

  “Hey, Daddy,” I said into the speakerphone once he answered.

  “Salomé—“

  Oh dear God. He went with my full name. I braced myself.

  “You met Alejandro?” He enunciated each word slowly. The fact he went with the man’s first name said more than enough about how popular he was. It was like ‘Kulti,’ everyone knew him by one name.

  “I have a picture to send you!” I immediately shot back before he could give me too much shit.

  Dad ignored me. “And Franz Koch?”

  I sighed. “Yes.”

  He didn’t say anything after that and I sighed again.

  “I had no idea they were coming.” That sounded lame even to my ears. “Dad, I’m sorry. I should have called you right after and sent you pictures. Kulti brought them and I was so surprised, I wasn’t thinking clearly. We had a game afterward and… don’t be mad at me.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  He was disappointed. I knew he liked being in the ‘know.’ He liked knowing gossip before everyone else did, and I had let him down and made him find out that two super-star players had volunteered at my soccer camp through someone else.