Chapter 14
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Exactly one week after the softball game, days after pictures had gone on the internet of Jenny, the bratwurst, and me playing Uno at the airport, Kulti pulled me aside after our cooldown following practice.
We rarely spoke during practice unless it was him calling me a different synonym for slow or asking me if I was going to finish my passing drills in the next decade. I didn’t take it personally and tried not to think about it too much. We’d just played softball. We hadn’t gotten married.
Awkward thought.
So… whatever. I was learning and growing, and I was busy enough that this weird friendship didn’t live at the front of my brain.
“Are you playing again tonight?” Kulti whispered the question when I was close.
I kept my eyes forward, no matter how badly I wanted to look at him. “I was thinking about it.” I paused. “Do you want to go?”
“Yes,” he answered quickly. “Same time, same place?”
“Yep.” I waved at Harlow as she walked by, totally not missing the raised eyebrow she was giving me. “I’ll wait for you in the same spot.”
Kulti grunted his agreement.
We both went our own ways, wordlessly.
I couldn’t help but think about the fact that he wanted to go play again. He wanted to play softball of all things.
Then it hit me just like it had the first time; Reiner Kulti wanted to play with me. He’d asked. Again.
I was on such a one-track mind that I wasn’t paying attention as I prepared to leave. My mind was on the fact that I had his phone number—poop—and that I really hoped Marc wouldn’t say anything this week either, when a reporter snagged me on the way to my car.
“Casillas! Sal!”
I slowed down and turned. A man not much older than me was sitting off to the side under the shade, a tape recorder clearly visible in one hand and a messenger bag over his shoulder. Whatever media showed up was always before practice, no one ever stayed after.
“Hey,” I told him.
“I have a few questions for you,” he said quickly, rattling off his name before skipping the whole “if you have time part.” I didn’t have time, but I didn’t want to be rude.
Instead I said, “Sure. Shoot.”
The first two questions were easy, normal.
What I thought about analysts saying we had a tough road ahead for the championship, with the inception of two new teams in the WPL?
Why would it be a tough road? I enjoyed a struggle.
What were we doing to assure we would continue to move up past the regular season?
He must have thought I was dumb enough to give away the imaginary tricks we had planned.
No one ever wanted to hear that it was hard work, practice, and discipline that were the key to winning at anything.
Then finally, it happened: “What do you think about the rumors circulating that Reiner Kulti has a drinking problem that’s been kept confidential? ”
Again?
I tried to think about all my PR training in the past. There could never be any hesitation when journalists asked questions like that.
You absolutely couldn’t let them see that they’d rattled you.
I especially wouldn’t since I’d grown almost fond of the German bratwurst lately.
Well, at least I think there was more beyond his crispy exterior.
“I think that he’s a fantastic coach and that rumors are none of my business. ”
Fantastic coach? All right. That was stretching the truth a bit, but it was a white lie. At best I’d say he was trying.
“Has he given the impression that he might be drinking excessively?” He snapped out the question quickly.
I allowed myself to blink at him in disbelief.
“I’m sorry but you’re making me feel really uncomfortable.
The only thing he does excessively is push us to better ourselves in any way he can.
” What I didn’t say was that he did it by yelling at us like we were the scum of the earth, but did the method work?
It most definitely did. “Look, I like him. I like him a lot as a player and as a coach. He’s one of the most decorated athletes in history, and he’s a good man.
” Lie? Not so much. He’d sent my dad a present.
How? I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter.
A complete prick wouldn’t have thought twice about my little dad.
“If there’s something in his past or if there isn’t, I couldn’t care less.
I know him and respect him now more than ever. To me, that’s all that matters.”
“So, you’re neither confirming nor denying that there might be a chance—”
“Look, you can’t be that caliber of player without extreme self-discipline in some form.
I’ve tried to drink a Coke before a game once, and it nearly killed me.
I will gladly answer any questions you have about our upcoming games or practices, or just about anything else related to Pipers, but I’m not going to bad-mouth or spread gossip about someone that I value and respect when I don’t have a reason to. ”
Value and respect? Meh…. Another stretch of the truth.
He didn’t exactly look sure whether to believe me or not, but fortunately, I guess I’d frustrated him enough that he looked back behind me to see another player coming. Hallelujah.
“Thanks for answering my questions,” he said, not exactly grateful. But what did he expect? Me to trash talk Kulti?
I’d had people I played with in the past do that to me, and I had sworn to myself a long time ago that I would never be that person. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all, right?
THE GERMAN WAS WAITING for me in the parking lot when I pulled in that night.
Impressive.
Until I realized I hadn’t decided whether or not to tell him about Sherlock Junior asking dumb questions after practice. His response could go one way or the other, and I really didn’t know him well enough to predict which one.
By the time I grabbed all my crap, I hadn’t made a conscious decision.
A minute later after we’d greeted each other with a “Hi” and a “Hello” on the sidewalk, I was still undecided.
But apparently, my brain had chosen for me.
We had barely taken three steps forward when I blurted out, “There was another journalist asking about a supposed drinking problem.” Well, it wasn’t so supposed.
I wasn’t going to base his drinking off one experience, but I couldn’t forget about it either.
Kulti didn’t jerk or react in any outward way. “Who?” I rattled off the man’s name.
“What was his question exactly?” he asked.
Word for word, I repeated what the man had asked. Slowly, making sure to watch Kulti’s face, I told him verbatim how I responded. Well, mostly. “I wouldn’t violate your trust or your image in any way.”
Those green-brown eyes looked into my own, making me think of a rusted lime. “I know you wouldn’t.”
What? That easy? He knew I wouldn’t? Nothing was ever that simple, and his easy acceptance made me feel uncertain. “Okay.” I paused. “Good.”
He did that European short nod of agreement that consisted of a chin jerk. “Thank you, Sal.”
There were two parts of that statement that had me stumbling, mentally at least.
The t-word again. Thank you.
But the most shocking in my book was… the Sal. Sal. Honest to God, I thought I said something remarkably close to, “Ermghard.” What the hell did that even mean? I had no idea, but it seemed fitting.
In a split second, I got it together and offered him a tremulous smile.
“Thank… you.” Wait. What was I thanking him for?
Stupid, stupid, stupid. “For that,” I explained quickly, even though it sounded more like a question than a comment.
My face went all warm suddenly at the compliment he’d just paid me.
He’d given me his trust, or at least something close to it.
What did you say after that? I couldn’t think of anything intelligent that didn’t end up with me smiling like a goofball afterward, so I kept my gaze elsewhere as we approached the field.
“You came back!” Marc greeted us, his eyes immediately flashing toward Kulti with that deer-caught-in the-headlights look.
Or maybe he was constipated, both expressions were strangely similar.
He’d finally started willingly speaking to me today, when he asked if I was planning on going to softball that night.
“You know I don’t like to lose.” With a smile, I eyed Kulti and tipped my head over to Marc. “Marc, Rey. Rey, Marc, again. Just in case you didn’t remember.”
Extending his free hand, my brother’s friend shook my coach’s hand, and I swore—I swore—I saw Marc eye his palm like he was never going to wash that bad boy again. We were going to need to have a talk, seriously. He was just as bad as my dad.
“Is there room for us?” I asked.
“Yeah, except I’m positive no one is going to agree to let you both be on the same team together.” A familiar arm was thrown over my shoulders. “I want to be on his team this time.”
I groaned and tried to elbow him in the ribs. “Traitor.”
“You ladies ready to play?” Simon called out from where he’d quickly gotten surrounded by multiple people.
To no one’s surprise, Kulti and I were chosen for two separate teams, in a way that told me the captains for the week had planned it before we arrived.
A look passed between the two of us that was a mix of a smirk and a grin.
Splitting up into our respective teams—my team was playing defense and I’d been assigned second base—I suddenly felt like we were two boxers circling each other, or two rams about to go head-to-head.
This was going to be fun.
“TAG HIM! TAG HIM!” someone yelled.
It was the last inning, with only one out to go. I was playing second base, and a ball had been hit straight at first base. The player on first was barreling toward me as the first baseman ran up behind him.