Chapter 3 #2
I caught the tail end of his spiel as he pointed out the six newest additions to the team and then stated his expectations for what he hoped to accomplish—to find a winning combination of talent to take the team to the top for another year in a row.
Something about access to the local college’s gym and a list of expectations when we were off the field were passed around.
It was the same talk I’d heard every other time a new season started.
Except I’d never been threatened with getting kicked off a team for talking badly about a coach who made more money in a year that most of us would make in our entire lives.
I’d worked too hard and too long to let something so dumb ruin my career for me.
No, thank you and fuck that.
Gardner went on for a little while longer about what they would be focusing on during the six weeks between the start of training and the beginning of the season.
He introduced the rest of the staff and eventually Sheena, the public relations person who had stood by while I made an ass of myself, took over.
It was all Kulti, Kulti, and more Kulti.
“…presence is going to bring more attention to the team. We need to use the momentum of the press and public’s excitement to turn it around and focus in on our organization. It’s positive, and it’s a valuable tool to keep the league growing…”
I knew it! I’d known they’d brought him in mainly for the publicity.
“…if you’re approached, turn it around and bring attention to the team or the league. Be excited…”
Be excited?
“…Mr. Kulti should be here tomorrow.”
Jenny kicked me beneath the table.
THEY WEREN’T KIDDING when they said the team would be getting more attention because of the retired German player.
What was usually a quiet low-key event with players getting dropped off in minivans was now an event saturated by rental cars and a few news vans.
Freaking news vans. A small group of people were scattered through the lot as I pulled in.
I recognized some of the girls as players, but the rest were strangers: journalists, reporters, bloggers, and possibly even Kulti fans.
At least I hoped it was more fans, but I wasn’t optimistic.
This wasn’t even the start of practice; it was our yearly fitness assessment before real training began just to see how everyone was doing. No big deal, yet there were so many people….
Anxiety seared my stomach, and I took a deep breath to make the feeling go away.
It didn’t really work.
One more deep breath, then another, and by the third, I was parked. Thankfully, my nerves had settled enough for me to get out of the car without looking like I was battling morning sickness. About five seconds after I got my bag out of the trunk, I heard it. “Casillas!”
Fuck my life.
“Sal Casillas! You got a minute for me?” the masculine voice called out.
I slung the bag over my shoulder and glanced around to find a man breaking away from the group of strangers. He waved, and I felt my stomach sink even as I plastered a smile on my face and waved back. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that I got all awkward and anxious in front of a video camera.
“Sure,” I answered convincingly. Our assessment didn’t start for another twenty minutes, but I still had to get ready.
“How you doin’? Steven Cooper with Sports Daily,” the man greeted me with a handshake. “I just have a few questions if that’s fine.”
I nodded. “Shoot.”
“I’ll be recording this for documentation purposes.” Showing me the recording device in his hand, he hit the button to start. “What are you looking forward to the most this season?” he asked.
“I’m really looking forward to just starting it. We have some new players and staff on the team, and I’m excited to see how well we all do together.” The fact I sounded like a well-adjusted human being instead of one that was about to shit her pants made me proud.
“How do you feel about Reiner Kulti being hired as the Pipers’ assistant coach?”
It was the same exact question I’d answered during the press conference from hell days before. “It’s still pretty surreal. I’m excited. I think it’s great that we’re having someone with so much experience coming in to help us out.”
“He’s an unlikely choice for a coach, don’t you think?”
I shoved my hands in my pockets when I felt them start to get clammy. Most of the time these things were fine, but every once in a while, they turned into ticking time bombs. I’d put my foot in my mouth more times than I could count, which didn’t help my fear with doing these interviews.
“It’s different, but there’s nothing wrong with it.
He’s been named World Player of the Year more times than anyone else for a reason.
He knows what it takes to be the best, and that’s something every player strives for.
Plus, I think it’s unfair to discredit him before we even give him a chance to prove himself,” I told him.
He gave me a disbelieving look, like he thought I was full of shit, but he didn’t argue with me about it. “All right. What’s your prediction for this season? Are the Pipers going to the finals again?”
“That’s the plan.” I smiled at him. “I need to get going, unless you have one more question?”
“Okay. One more: do you have any plans on joining the national team again soon?”
I opened my mouth and left it open for a second before closing it.
I rocked forward on my heels as I rubbed my palms down the front of my shorts.
“I’m not planning on it anytime soon. I want to focus on our regular season for now.
” I swallowed hard and thrust my hand out for him.
A second later, I was marching toward the field, watching a few of the other girls get corralled into conversations with other reporters.
Two other journalists called out for me, but I declined with an apology.
I had to warm up before our assessment began.
Today pretty much consisted of running sprints for an hour, upper body endurance in the form of a push-up palooza, and endless squats from the third circle of hell, among other forms of torture that the old biddy fitness coach developed recently.
Some people really dreaded it, but I wasn’t totally opposed to our fitness stuff.
Was it fun? No. But I worked out a lot, hard, all year so that I wouldn’t be the one huffing and puffing during the first half of a game, and I liked being the fastest. So sue me.
I worked harder than just about anyone for a reason.
I was fast, but I wasn’t getting any younger, and my bad ankle wasn’t getting any better either.
Then there was my knee, which had been a problem for the last decade.
You had to make up for stuff like that by never getting soft, putting your well-being first, and not taking things for granted.
I’d just finished dropping my things on the side of the field when it finally happened.
It was the “Oh. My. Godddd” out of one of the girls I wasn’t familiar with that suddenly snapped me into paying attention.
I spotted him. He was there. There. Oh hell. I was dead.
All six-feet-arguably-two inches of brown hair, five-time World Player of the Year was right there talking to the team’s fitness coach, a mean old woman who had no pity on anyone.
Oh snap. I reached up to make sure my hair hadn’t frizzed up in the five minutes I’d been out of my car and then stopped.
What the hell was I doing? I dropped my hands immediately.
I’d never cared what I looked like when I was playing.
Well, I rarely cared what I looked like period.
As long as my hair wasn’t in my face and my armpits and legs were shaved, I was good.
I plucked my eyebrows a couple times a week, and I had an addiction to homemade face masks, but that was usually as much effort as I put into myself.
People asked me why I was dressing up if I wore jeans, it was that bad.
I’d worn lip balm and a headband on my last date, and here I was fixing my hair. Sheesh.
For the record and for the sake of my pride, I don’t think I’d ever fangirled outwardly in my life.
There were a few soccer players I think I’d gotten a little red-faced over, and there was that one time when I was fourteen at a JT concert, he’d touched my hand and I’d swooned a little bit…
but that was the extent of it. But seeing the master of ball control standing out on the side of the soccer field in a blue and white soccer training jersey and track pants was just… too much.
Way. Too. Much.
Reiner Kulti nodded at something the old, sadistic demon said, and I felt… weird.
To my absolute horror, my inner thirteen-year-old, the one that had planned on marrying this guy and having soccer-playing superbabies with him, peeked in and reminded me she’d been around once.
I’d swear on my life that my heart clenched and my armpits started sweating simultaneously.
The best term to describe what was going on with me: starstruck. Totally starstruck.
Because… Reiner Kulti.
The King.
The best player to come out of Europe in….
All right. This wasn’t going to work, not at all, not even a little bit.
Rationally, I knew that mooning over him was stupid.
I was too old for this crap, and I’d gotten over my crush on him a decade ago when I said “screw you” to the man who had married someone else and then nearly ended my brother’s career right after it started.
Kulti was just a man. I closed my eyes and thought of the first thing that could get me out of my holy-shit-it’s-Kulti-standing-right-there trance.
Poop.
He poops.
He poops.
Right. That was all I needed to snap out of it.
I pictured an image of him sitting on the porcelain throne to remind me he was just a normal man with needs like everyone.
I knew this—I’d known this for the longest. He was just a man with parents that pooped and peed and slept like the rest of us. Poop, poop, poop, poop, poop.
Right.