Kulti

by Mariana Zapata

  “I told you not to call me that,” he gritted out.

  “That’s what you are, isn’t it? Coach Kulti?” My jaw felt hard and tight. I could not get over what he’d said. “I can’t believe you would think I was messing around with Franz, Jesus Christ. I really,” I put my fist up to my mouth and blew a deep breath into it. “I really, really want to punch you in the face right now.”

  “I can’t believe you would think about going to Europe without talking to me.”

  I took a step back letting his words sink in to my gut. Europe was a better opportunity, and we both knew that. There was no doubt. Before the WPL existed, Americans went overseas because it was the only place to go. But if it came down to it, most athletes would rather stay close to home. I was one of them.

  More importantly, Kulti had always told me that there was only one person in the world I needed to watch out for, and that was me. Yet, here he was telling me otherwise. He was making me feel bad for even thinking about going to Europe without mentioning it to him first.

  “I didn’t say I would go, he just brought it up. It’d be a great opportunity if I wanted to leave my family, which I don’t think I want to, but…” I felt unsure. “Why are you being like this? I don’t badger you over stuff you don’t want to talk about, which is just about everything. Plus, you’re my friend; I figured you’d be happy someone was trying to work with me on improving my skills. You of all people should understand.”

  The German seemed to be trying to bore a hole straight into the center of my face. “I would have worked with you any time, any day you wanted, Sal. I could care less what management or the coaching staff think. You of all people shouldn’t think twice about what your teammates say about you. They’re nobody.”

  God, this man. “I’m sorry, Rey, am I a mind reader? Am I supposed to know you’d want to practice with me?”

  “No. You’re stubborn and a pain in my ass.”

  “I’m a pain in your ass? You’re a pain in my ass. I try and I try with you, and for what? For you to be an asshole when you’re frustrated or upset? Maybe other people will deal with your shit when you act like that, but I can only take so much. I like you. I like how well we get along sometimes, but I don’t know anything about you really, when it comes down to it. All you do is give me these bits and pieces when you’re in the mood. When you’re not in the mood, you don’t say anything at all. Or you go through this fucking phase where you give me dirty looks and ignore me for no apparent reason. How is that supposed to make me feel?

  “I’ve already put enough on the line being your friend. I’ve shared my family with you, my home; I’ve told you things I haven’t told other people. I’ve put my career at risk for this—us. You have nothing to lose, and I have everything I care about in jeopardy. I’ve given and I’ve given to everyone, and for what? To have what I valued the most in my life taken away? I’ve been trying, and I’m fine with that, but you need to meet me at least a quarter of the way. There’s only so much I can take from you and your freaking mood swings.”

  I palmed the back of my head as I watched him, waiting. Waiting for something. For some assurance, some promise that he would try to keep his crap under control, or at least try harder.

  Instead his face took on a hard expression, the tendon in his neck straining. “I’m too old to change, Sal. I am the way I am,” he finally offered to me in a crisp voice.

  “I don’t want you to change. All I want is for you to trust me a little. I’m not going to screw you over, and I don’t like giving up on things,” I told him in an exasperated voice.

  And what did he say? Nothing. Not a single thing.

  I’d never been a fan of people who talked a lot. I thought it was a person’s actions that really said what mattered. That was until I met Reiner Kulti, and I suddenly felt like stabbing myself in the eye.

  My head gave a dull throb, a warning of a tension headache beginning. I suddenly realized this conversation was going nowhere. Exhaustion poured straight into my muscles, and for the first time in a long time, I felt defeated. I hated it.

  But there comes a time when you have to listen to your gut and not your heart, and I did just that.

  “Maybe we both have too much stuff going on right now. I’m overwhelmed, and I have no idea what I’m doing, and you have your own crap to work out. Maybe you need to figure out what you want to do with your life before we can keep being friends. If you even still want to be friends after this.” I told him.

  As soon as the words were out of my mouth he looked outraged. Absolutely outraged. “Are you joking?”

  I shook my head, grief coming down on me with such a force it made me want to cry. At the end of the day though, it was like he said: no one was going to watch out for me but me. “No.”

  He opened his mouth and then closed it, and a second later he shook his head and was gone.

  * * *

  Kulti didn’t come to my house that day or the next.

  When I started to feel a little guilty on Sunday afternoon, I sent him a text.

  Sorry for what I said. I’m under a lot of stress and I shouldn’t have blamed you for my choices. You’re a great friend, and I won’t just give up on you.

  He didn’t respond.

  Then Monday came and he wasn’t at practice.

  He wasn’t at practice Tuesday, either.

  No one asked where he was. I sure as hell wasn’t going to be the one to do it.

  I sent him another message.

  Are you alive?

  No response.

  * * *

  Two things caught my attention when I pulled into the middle school’s parking lot.

  There was a black Audi already there with familiar license plates.

  Parked right next to it, was a big white box van.

  Unsure whether to feel relieved that Kulti was still alive, or aggravated that the sauerkraut hadn’t texted me back once, I took a deep breath. I pulled into the parking spot, putting my Big Girl Socks on, though my instincts said that he more than likely hadn’t gone out of his way to show up for camp if he wanted to get into an argument.

  At least that’s what I hoped.

  I’d barely gotten out of the car and popped the trunk to grab my bag and the two cases of bottled water, when I heard steps come up behind me. I knew without turning around that it was him. Out of the corner of my eye, he stopped right beside me and pushed my hands away from the cases, hoisting them out.

  “Tell me where to take them,” he said simply as his greeting.

  All right. “Their field is in the back. Come on,” I said, shutting the trunk with my bag in hand.

  We walked silently across the lot and down the paved path leading toward the field. Three teachers had volunteered and were providing the goals from the school’s existing sports equipment. I spotted two of them already there and made my way toward the table they had set up for registration.

  When we stopped in front of them, the man and the woman physically jolted when they realized who was standing next to me.

  “Mr. Webber, Mrs. Pritchett, thank you so much for helping out. This is my friend, Mr. Kulti, he’ll be volunteering with the camp today,” I introduced them.

  The two teachers just kind of stood there, and it was Kulti that nodded a greeting at them.

  “If you can let me know where the goals are, I can start setting up,” I told Mr. Webber, the physical education teacher.

  He was looking at Kulti as he nodded absently. “They’re heavy,” he warned, eyes still on the German.

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I assured him, only just barely restraining myself from rocking back and forth on my heels.

  “I’ll help,” Pumpernickel added, which finally got the teacher going.

  Between the four of us, we pulled the soccer goals out and set them up. There were only two, but it was enough. The pre-signup sheet had fewer kids registered than the week before.

  I was busy spraying lines on the grass when I spot
ted Kulti speaking to two female teachers who would be working the registration table. He was gesturing at something on the sheet and they were nodding enthusiastically, which didn’t say much because he probably could have been telling them that he pooped golden nuggets and they would have been excited, based on the way they’d been looking at him.

  Hookers.

  All right, that wasn’t very nice.

  I finished spraying the lines just in time for the first of the kids to start showing up with their parents.

  “Are you okay with doing this like we did last week? Only working together this time?” I asked Kulti once I’d approached the registration table where he’d been standing.

  He tipped his short brown-haired head at me, his eyes directly meeting mine. “We make a good team, schnecke, it will be fine.”

  So now he was back to calling me schnecke, whatever that meant.

  I eyed him a little uncertainly.

  In return, he punched me in the shoulder, which would have made me smile, but him dodging me at the last camp was still a little too fresh in my thoughts. The facial expression I made—a weak, watered-down smile you gave someone that you didn’t find particularly funny but didn’t want to hurt their feelings—must have said as much, because Kulti frowned. After a beat, his frowned deepened.

  The German, who had reportedly gotten into a fight years ago when someone called his mother a whore, grabbed my hand, raised it and hit his own shoulder with it.

  What in the hell had just happened?

  Before I even had time to think about what he’d done, my oversized bratwurst took a step forward and he did it.

  He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, bringing me in so close my nose was pressed against the cartilage right between his pectorals.

  He was hugging me.

  Dear God, Reiner Kulti was hugging the shit out of me.

  I just stood there with my arms at my sides, frozen. Completely freaking frozen in place. I was stunned, beyond stunned. Stupefied.

  “Hug me back,” the accented voice demanded from up above.

  His words shook off my paralysis. I found myself wrapping my arms around his waist, gingerly at first, our chests meeting in a real honest hug. My palms went flat against the twin columns of his lower back, arms overlapping.

  “Am I dying and I don’t know it?” I asked his chest.

  He sighed. “You better not be.”

  I pulled back and looked up at his face, completely unsure about what the hell had just happened. “Are you dying?” I blurted out.

  “No.” Kulti held that same serious expression that was so innate for him; I wasn’t sure what emotion he was feeling. “I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings. I only stepped away because Alejandro is… competitive. He wants what he can’t have. It was my mistake inviting him.” He glanced up quickly before looking back down and adding in a lowered voice, “I’m sorry for all the problems my presence has caused in your life. Soccer has given me everything, but it’s also taken away just as many things.”

  He gave me a sad determined look. “I don’t want it to take you away as well. You are the least shameful thing in my life, Sal. Understand?”

  He was dead serious.

  If we had not been around strangers watching our every move, I might have started tearing up. It was bad enough I had to press my lips together to keep from doing something I would regret.

  I managed to suck in a tiny breath and aim a smirk at him. “Can I give you another hug or is that over your daily allowance?”

  The German shook his head. “Have I told you that you remind me of a splinter I can’t remove? You’re incredibly annoying.”

  “Is that a yes?” I blinked up at him.

  “That’s a stupid question, Sal,” he stated.

  But was it a yes?

  I didn’t get a chance to ask for clarification because I spotted four kids making their way across the field from the parking lot, and I knew I’d have to put off this conversation for later. I still didn’t completely understand why Kulti had been such a douche the other day with the kids, but he’d apologized, and in his book that was the equivalent of giving me his kidney, so I’d take it and demand an explanation later.

  More importantly, what had inspired him to give me a hug right then?

  I squeezed his hand and gave him a nod. “Let’s start, all right?”

  “Yes.” He didn’t break eye contact with me once. “I brought shoes for everyone. I think it would be best to give them to the kids at the end.”

  “You brought…” I shut my mouth and got it together. “In that van? There’s shoes for the kids?”

  “Yes. I asked the volunteers to take their size information during registration. There should be more than enough for everyone. I brought nearly every size.”

  It’s funny how things work sometimes. It really is.

  I had learned and accepted my place in a stranger’s life a decade ago. I’d grown up and accepted what would and could happen, and I had known that there was no future for me and a man who didn’t know I existed.

  And then one day, that same man for some reason decided to step into my circle, of all the circles in the world he could have chosen. Slowly, slowly, slowly, we became friends. I knew and understood that procession. I was okay with my place. Friends. Not so simple or easy, but those were the best things in life, the hard things that didn’t fit perfectly, weren’t they?

  In one instant, in one kind deed and unexpected gesture, something inside of me woke up. There was a reason I put up with his shit and forgave him for being a dick so quickly.

  I was still in love with this man.

  I had no right to be. No sound reason to. I liked to think I made wise decisions, but reviving my childhood adoration for him was one of the dumbest things I could ever have let myself do. But, obviously, I couldn’t take it back. My heart hadn’t completely forgotten what it was like to feel this way for him, but no matter how much I tried to pretend otherwise, it had swelled and grown over the years.

  Now, I understood. I had loved Reiner Kulti as a kid. I had loved my ex-boyfriend as a young adult, learning and growing. And the Sal Casillas I was today knew that I couldn’t love someone who didn’t deserve it.

  It was the shoes for the kids whose parents couldn’t afford them that tied the noose around my neck.

  Him bringing his friends to my soccer camps.

  Kulti buying my dad the trip of a lifetime.

  Calling me his friend in front of people that he genuinely knew he didn’t give a single shit about.

  I was in love with this pumpernickel.

  God help me, I think I wanted to cry.

  I tried to find something to say—anything, and I hoped that my face didn’t say, ‘You are a fucking idiot, Sal.’ Because I was. I really was. There was no escaping the truth when it was looking at you from two feet away, brown haired, bright eyed and six-foot-two-inches tall. I scratched my cheek and fought the urge to look away, to find my breath and sanity wherever it had gone. “I didn’t think your sponsor would do something like that.”

  Here’s the thing about the German: he wasn’t one to beat around the bush or play coy or be modest. He looked me right in the eye and said it. “They didn’t. I bought them.”

  He…

  “Ms. Sal!” one of the teachers by the registration table called out.

  “You,” I poked Kulti in the stomach knowing I only had a second before I needed to haul it back to the table. “I don’t know how to thank you—“

  “Don’t.”

  “Ms. Sal!”

  Gaze to gaze with the bratwurst, I told him in a rush, “Thank you.”

  He gave me a heavy-lidded glare but didn’t say anything before following me over to registration.

  Needless to say, the kids went wild when they saw the German. Me, they could have given less of a shit about. Kulti, they were losing it over. They listened to him and were excited out of their minds when we began different drills and exercises.<
br />
  The bratwurst was right. We were a good team. I had just as much fun with him as I had with Franz if not more, because of the amount of playful shit-talking we had going on with each other.

  A crowd triple the size of the one we had on the field, formed on the far end of the school’s blacktop throughout the duration of camp. Camera flashes continued going off, but luckily no one approached us—and by ‘us’ I mean Kulti—while we were busy. I just pretended they weren’t there and told myself to keep acting normal.

  When the time came around for us to wrap up, I let Kulti tell his young fans that they were all getting a pair of his latest edition RK running shoes. Any passerby would have thought the kids had been told that they’d won the lottery from the way they reacted. The German hadn’t been joking. There were more than enough shoes for all the kids.

  “Can I get one of just the two of you?” the mom of one of the kids asked after we’d taken a picture with her son.

  “Sure,” I said, right before the German threw an arm around my shoulder and hauled me up to his side, roughly and deliberately.

  Well.

  I whacked him in the hard slab he called his stomach with a smile.

  “I know this isn’t my place to say anything,” the lady gushed once the picture was taken. “I thought the age difference was a little strange, but seeing you together, it makes perfect sense. You two are stinking cute.”

  My face went hot. “Oh, it’s not—“ I started to say before the German reeled me up against him.

  “Thank you for bringing your son,” he cut me off.

  Thank you for bringing your son?

  I almost choked.

  The second we were alone, I held my arms out to my sides. He had given those people the wrong impression of our relationship. “What the hell was that?”

  He gave me a bored look as he began collecting the cones scattered around the field. “People will believe whatever they want to believe. There’s no point in telling them otherwise.”