Kulti

Chapter 21 #2

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 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 voice mail 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 superstar players had volunteered at my soccer camp through someone else.

“Your tío 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?”

“?Qué?”

“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 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 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 PE! Get up!”

High school PE?

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.