Kulti

by Mariana Zapata

  “Your tio sent me the picture,” he said, which explained everything. Dad wasn’t a fan of my mom’s brother.

  Bah. “Franz came to our game yesterday and asked to do some one-on-one coaching with me,” I offered him up. “We played for three hours. I thought I was going to die.”

  “Only you two?” he asked in a soft voice that was probably still the same volume a normal person spoke in.

  “Yeah.”

  “He asked you to play with him?”

  “Yes. He said my footwork was fantastic. Can you believe that?”

  Dad chuffed. “Yes.”

  I grinned into the phone. “Well I couldn’t believe it. He asked if I was free tomorrow to play again.”

  “You better have said yes,” he grumbled, still trying to hold on to his aggravation.

  “Of course I said yes. I’m not that dumb...”

  Dad made a noise. “Eh.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Dad?”

  “Que?”

  “He asked me why I haven’t considered playing in a different league.” His words from earlier were wreaking havoc on my brain. “He said I was wasting my time here since I don’t play on the national team.”

  The thing about parents, especially ones that loved their kids what some people might consider ‘too much’—if that was even possible—was that sometimes they were selfish. Other times, you could hear the pain it caused them to put their kid’s well-being ahead of their own wishes. So I wasn’t positive how my dad would react to what I was saying. But I knew deep in my heart that my dad had always done what was best for me even if it cost him time, money and even heartache. Sure he’d been all about my brother going to Europe, but Eric wasn’t me.

  While I might not be his baby, I was his Sal. We were each other’s best friends and confidants. Dad and I were a gang of two.

  I kept going, and I told him about Cordero, Gardner and the Pipers that were talking about me because of my friendship with the German. By the time I pulled into the driveway of my garage apartment, Dad knew just about everything. I wasn’t totally surprised that I felt relieved to get it off my chest.

  “I don’t know what to do,” I admitted.

  There was no hesitation on his end. “Hijos de su madre,” he growled. “You would never…” Dad let out an exasperated snarl of frustration. “You would never do that.”

  I sighed. “What should I do? I haven’t done anything wrong, and a part of me doesn’t want to leave…”

  “Mija,” my daughter, “Do what’s best for you. Always.”

  * * *

  “Five! Four! Three! Two! One!”

  My arm was shaking as I finally let it collapse. Push-ups, freaking push-ups.

  One-armed push-ups were the damned devil. I groaned and rolled onto my back, flopping my arms out at my sides to loosen them up, but it wasn’t helping much. I’d spent the last three afternoons in a row playing with Franz Koch, and the guy wore me out. Add that to two days of work and practice. It would tire anyone out.

  “Thirty seconds, ladies!” Phyllis, the psychopath fitness coach, yelled.

  Oh God.

  “Fifteen seconds!”

  I rolled back onto my belly and planted both hands down flat on the ground, feeling the short crunch of turf under my palms.

  “Five seconds! Get into plank position if you aren’t already in it!”

  She was insane.

  “Up! Into a wide stance! Down! I better see your chests touching the floor!” she hollered, walking through the multiple bodies lowering themselves, myself included. My arms burned as I went down, biceps and shoulders being lit on fire. “Casillas! Do I see your arms shaking? Because I know I don’t see your arms shaking!”

  I gritted my teeth together and dropped even lower to the ground, arms trembling and everything, but I’d be damned if I stopped.

  Especially when Phyllis started bellowing, “Roberts! Glover! You better get those scrawny arms under you and get yourselves up. This isn’t high school P.E.! Get up!”

  High school P.E.?

  The two minutes straight of push-ups had me gasping for breath by the time we were finished. I pulled my knees under me and finally got to my feet with a tired huff.

  “You had more in you,” someone chipped in as they walked by.

  I glanced up to find that it was the German making such a lovely observation.

  He was too far away for me to return a comment, so I kept it to myself and got to my feet. The fact he hadn’t spoken more than five words to me since the day of the kid’s camp had grated on my nerves, big time. I hadn’t done anything to piss him off besides try to play around, and he’d shut down. If he was pissed about that, then he needed to get the heck over it. We spent most days together, and all of a sudden, nothing?

  I rolled my eyes and shook my head.

  What was I doing? Really?

  I loved playing. I didn’t love the drama that went with it. I’d been doing this long enough to know that no association was perfect and no team was without its bad seeds, but…

  “You all right, Sally?” Harlow asked with a slap to my back.

  I nodded at my friend. “I’m good, just a little tired. You?”

  “I’m always good,” she claimed. “You sure you’re okay, though? You’ve been looking a little pissed off.”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. Some of these girls though… they try my patience, Har. That’s all.”

  The defender nodded, her lips puckered as she did it. “Ignore ‘em, Sally. They’re not worth it. You do what you gotta do and leave the rest up to other people to deal with.” She slapped me on the back once more. “Now tell me about this Alejandro that went to your camp. Is his rear end as big in person as it looks on TV?”

  That had me laughing. “Oh yeah.”

  She let out a low whistle. “That ass, Sal. Whew. I’m not gonna even lie, I was a little jealous you didn’t tell me he was going to your thing. I would have shown up with a lawn chair and popcorn.”

  “Thanks,” I said sarcastically. “Next time I need you somewhere I’ll make sure there’s a big ol’ butt so you have some incentive to show up.”

  Harlow laughed.

  “What about Franz?” she asked as we walked toward our bags. “Did he have a good one?”

  “Yeah, it was pretty impressive.“ I happened to look up in the middle of my sentence to see Kulti standing right by Gardner, and he was watching me.

  What I didn’t say was that Kulti had the best one.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  “Did you all wake up this morning and decide you were going to play like complete assholes?”

  It wasn’t Kulti speaking, it was Gardner.

  The game that night had gone that bad. Gardner was a firm believer in positive reinforcement. He complimented players when they did something well, and coached them through when they didn’t.

  We had bombed the game. It had been horrible.

  He was right. It was like every player on the Pipers had woken up that morning and decided to play like we couldn’t stand each other. There had been no communication between anyone, no sense of teamwork, no real effort.

  To be honest, I was more than a little relieved it was an away game. At least our fans didn’t have to watch the disaster unfold in person.

  “I have no idea what to say to you all,” Gardner continued his speech. “I don’t want to say anything. I don’t want to even look at you,” he said in a lethally calm voice before looking at the other coaches standing by him. “If any of you can think of something, please feel free to jump in. I’m at a complete loss for words.”

  Sheesh.

  “You were an embarrassment,” Kulti piped up the second Gardner stopped talking. He was standing two people away from Gardner. His hands were on his hips, his face as serious as ever. “That was the worst game I have ever seen. The only person who knew she was supposed to care tonight was Thirteen, but the rest of you,” his eyes met mine across the room and stayed there, “were disgraceful.�
�

  Yeah. That hit me right in the chest. I was fully aware that he was looking directly at me as he made the harsh comment. Sure it wasn’t my best game, or anywhere close to it, but it wasn’t like we’d lost because of me.

  The only thing wrong I had done was snap at Genevieve in the middle of the game. After I missed my second shot of the night, she said loud enough for me to overhear, “I guess you don’t get substituted if you’re messing around with the coaching staff.”

  Could I have let it go? Sure—but during practice before the game, she’d run into me during some passing drills for no freaking reason, and then not apologized for it. Immediately afterward, she’d done it again. There’s only so much you can take, really.

  I’d figured that telling her to ‘mind your own fucking business and focus on the game’ could have been a lot worse, but apparently not. Gardner had finally taken me out of the game with fifteen minutes left in the second half.

  I wasn’t going to make any excuses. I sat there in the locker room and kept my mouth shut as the other assistant coach repeated everything that Gardner and Kulti had hinted at, but in a much more constructive way. His approach was more ‘I’m disappointed in you all,’ instead of the you-all-fucking-suck approach the other two had taken.

  Jenny Milton, number thirteen, was sitting next to me; she nudged me with her elbow as she finished taking the tape off her hands. We had lost because we hadn’t scored points and because our defenders hadn’t helped Jenny when the Cleveland team made charges toward the goal. She hadn’t been able to block every attempt, and that was in no way her fault. She really had been the only one who hadn’t blown it.

  “That was brutal,” she muttered, giving me wide eyes.

  “My butt hurts from over here,” I agreed, leaning over to take off my socks.

  Jenny tipped her head over in Genevieve’s direction discreetly. “What did she say to you during the game?” She’d been the only one who hadn’t heard, I guess.

  “She said some stupid crap about me not getting subbed because of Kulti.” I kept my gaze down while I took off my cleats. “She was just being dumb.” Not really in the mood to talk about it, I got up and quickly stripped off the rest of my uniform, wrapping a towel around myself before taking off my underwear and sports bra. “I’m going to hit the showers,” I told her with a smile so she wouldn’t think that I didn’t want to talk to her. I just didn’t want to talk about what Genevieve had said.

  I was tired of it. I was tired of a bunch of stuff.

  The night before when we’d arrived at the hotel, I had laid in bed and thought about everything Cordero, Gardner, Kulti, Franz and my dad had said. I’d debated calling Eric but ultimately decided against it. He would have said something stupid about how I brought everything upon myself for being friends with someone he hated.

  And wasn’t that the shit of it? I’d become really good friends with a moody ass who had nearly ended my brother’s career. Sure, my dad had given me the blessing to move on from it without feeling guilty, but still.

  The pumpernickel was still not on speaking terms with me for some reason that I couldn’t comprehend.

  I finished showering and getting dressed before hauling it out of the locker rooms toward the vans that were waiting to take us back to the hotel. I had just cleared the last set of doors that led outside the facility when I spotted him waiting off to the side, disguised in the shadows.

  I mentally prepared myself for whatever nonsense was about to come out of

  his mouth. My gut said it wasn’t going to be pretty, but you never knew, miracles did happen.

  The instant the door snapped close, his head moved to face my direction. I didn’t know what to say, so I just pulled my bag up higher on my shoulder and continued walking forward.

  He didn’t spare a word and neither did I, as I stopped a few feet away.

  “Is there something you want to say?” I asked, a little sharper than I’d intended.

  Kulti gave me that slow leisurely blink. “What the hell were you thinking tonight?”

  “I was thinking that Genevieve was being a dick and not a team player.” I shrugged at him. “What’s the problem with that, Coach?”

  “Why are you saying ‘coach’ like that?” he snapped, picking up on my sarcasm.

  I looked at him for a second and then closed my eyes, telling myself to calm down. We’d lost and it was over with. There was no need for me to get riled up. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I know I played like crap, and I’m too tired to argue with you.”

  “We’re not arguing.”

  My poor eyes squeezed closed. “Whatever you say. We’re not arguing. I’m going to get in the van now, I’ll see you later.”

  “Since when do you run away from your problems?” He caught me with a hand to my wrist as I started to turn around.

  I stopped and looked him dead on, aggravation simmering in my veins. “I don’t run away from my problems, I just know when I’m not going to win an argument. Right now I’m not going to win against your freaking bipolar ass.”

  Kulti dropped his chin. “I am not bipolar.”

  “Okay, you’re not bipolar,” I lied.

  “You’re lying.”

  I almost pinched my nose. “Yes, I’m lying. I don’t know if I’m talking to you, my friend, who would understand why I’d snap at Genevieve during a game, or to my coach, or to the guy I first met who doesn’t give a shit about anything.” I blew out a breath and shook my head. Patience. “I’m tired, and I’m taking everything you’re saying personally. I’m sorry.”

  He muttered something in German that I only caught bits and pieces of, but it was enough for me to string it together. It only further pissed me off. Three years of high school German had taught me a few things.

  I turned around and leveled a look at him. “The only thing I know for sure is that I don’t know what the hell your problem has been lately, but I’ve had it!”

  Kulti’s nostrils flared as a vein in his neck pulsed. “My problem? My problem?” His accent became so much thicker when he was angry; I had to really pay attention to know what he was saying.

  “Yes! Your problem. Whatever the hell is up your ass needs to come right back out.”

  “There is nothing up my ass!”

  I almost made a crack about how there definitely had to be something up his ass, but at the last second decided I was too angry to try and make light of the situation.

  “I beg to differ,” I stuck with instead. “You’re my best friend one minute, and the next minute you look disgusted when I try to play around with you in front of your friends. I’m not going to let you choose when we’re friends, and when we’re not.”

  It took me a second to realize that the words had actually come out of my mouth. I hadn’t planned on bringing it up; I really hadn’t, but… well, too late now. Damn it.

  I was an idiot. “I understand. It’s fine. We can be friends in private, but we can’t be friends in public.” I swallowed. “Look, there’s definitely something bothering you, but you don’t want to tell me, just like you don’t want to tell me anything else. That’s all right.”

  “Who said I don’t want to be friends with you in public?” He sounded surprisingly indignant.

  “You did. I tried to touch you after we were done with the kids, when we were around Franz and Alejandro, and you took a step away. Remember? We’re always pushing each other and messing around, and suddenly it was obviously not okay because we were in front of your friends. I know I’m not some super-celebrity or anything, but I didn’t think you’d pull away like that. You embarrassed me, and I don’t embarrass easily, all right?”

  Kulti’s hands fisted at his sides, and then he brought them up to cover his eyes. “Sal,” he cursed in angry-sounding German. “You say that we’re friends, but you didn’t think to tell me that you’ve been spending time with Franz?”

  Was this a joke? I made myself calm down. “I saw him three times after you started acting like I
had the plague and frowning all the time. We weren’t really talking and you were already walking around with a dirty diaper for some reason I don’t even understand, buddy,” I explained.

  Those eyes, a perfect shade between green-green and hazel-brown, stared straight ahead before he laid into me.

  “He’s married!” Kulti shouted abruptly.

  My eyes went wide, and I had to suck in a breath to rein in my anger. “What the hell do you think we were doing?” I asked slowly.

  Kulti bared his teeth at me. “I have no idea because you didn’t fucking tell me!”

  Patience. Holy shit, I needed a whole bunch of patience.

  I didn’t find it.

  I lost it.

  “We were practicing, you jackass! What the hell is wrong with that?” I screamed at him. Holy shit.

  “Then why were you were both being secretive?” he growled, fury lighting up his light-colored eyes.

  My eye started twitching. “We went to the field by my house. He showed me some exercises I could do to work on my left foot ball handling, you fucking, fucking jackass. He said I should think about playing in Europe, okay? That’s the big conspiracy, the big secret, you idiot. He said I should go to Europe and join a club there so I could play for their national team…”

  I couldn’t let go of the volcanic-like anger seeping out of him. It became a beacon for my anger and my damn curiosity. “What the hell do you think we were doing? Sleeping together?”

  He stared at me for so long, I had my answer.

  Oh my God.

  Me sleeping with Franz. I couldn’t get over that wild assumption. What was he thinking? “I can’t believe you. Who the hell do you think I am? Easy? You think I’m going to sleep with any guy who pays attention to me? I already told you I don’t do that,” I yelled at him. I didn’t care if one of the Pipers could come out of the stadium and hear us, or worse, someone in the media. “Fuck!”

  “Europe?” He looked about ready to blow a gasket. “You could have asked me to practice with you at any time!”

  “Asked you? When? You already play favoritism with me according to eighty percent of the Pipers because we spend so much time together. If you were coaching me on the side that would come back on you, wouldn’t it, Kulti?”