Kulti
: Chapter 9

There’s that saying some people use: Be careful what you wish for.

My first coach when I started playing club, a select group of players that wanted more than what their local school or rec center offered, told us almost daily, “A dream is just a wish without a plan.” After you hear it enough times, it grows on you and the older you get, the more you realize how true the words are. So it wasn’t that I didn’t take wishes seriously, I just didn’t put much weight into them. There weren’t a lot of things I wanted, but I knew that if I wanted something expensive, I had to save for it by cutting out other expenses in my life.

The point was: I’d wanted to play soccer professionally most of my life, so I learned what I needed to do to make that happen. I had to practice, commit, practice some more and sacrifice in no particular order. Usually, I tried to apply that to every aspect of my life.

But once upon a time, a young Salomé Casillas had spent three birthday wishes in a row on the same thing: that one day Reiner ‘The King’ Kulti would know that I was alive… and marry me. Third on my list of wishes was that he’d teach me how to be the best.

I would have given just about anything for that to happen. Anything. I would have died of joy if he’d ever touched my freaking hand when I was twelve.

At twenty-seven, knowing what I knew about him at this point, I would have been happy living the rest of my life inconspicuously.

But sometimes fate was fickle and immature, because just a couple of days after telling Gardner about how everyone was being affected by the ex-superstar’s lack of attention, my pre-teen prayers were answered out of nowhere.

He must have either been brainwashed or had his body snatched by an alien because a new man showed up to the field after that. A man with a rigid line to his shoulders, a rod of iron through his spine, and a voice that couldn’t be misinterpreted.

How many times had I thought about how much I wanted Kulti to be the kind of coach that a player of his caliber had the potential to be? It wasn’t a secret that great players didn’t always make great coaches. But my gut, or maybe it was my inner thirteen-year-old, believed that he’d be an exception. That he could do or be whatever he wanted to.

Except I hadn’t anticipated the fact that what I thought of as ‘coach’ he apparently interpreted as ‘Gestapo.’

Those next two days were the most strenuous of my life, both mentally and physically.

Part of it was because the pressure to be perfect was right in my peripheral, pushing, pushing, pushing, and making its presence well-known, zt least to me. The main part though, was Kulti. He showed up to practice with an angry tick in his jaw and hard eyes that seemed to suddenly assess everything.

The first time he yelled, the drill most of the team had been busy executing had come to a sudden pause. I mean, it stopped. For all of two seconds, the players that had been maneuvering around obstacle courses stopped in their tracks and looked up. I was one of them. It was like the voice of God had suddenly come down on us and told a prophecy or something.

“Faster!”

One word. One word had caught us all off guard.

And then Gardner’s, “What are you doing? Come on!” brought everyone back into their right minds.

Jenny, who was busy practicing with the goalkeepers, met my eyes from across the field. And telepathically we communicated the same three words: What the hell?

We kept going.

So did he. His voice was borderline angry, determined and strong, lilting and strangely fascinating with multiple accents curbing it as he kept hurling things at the group. My stomach churned each time I heard him.

This was exactly what I’d asked for—what I’d wished for.

When I was panting with my hands on my knees because he kept yelling about how we could go faster, I smiled because I’d pushed myself.

And because this is exactly what a younger version of me would have sold ten years of her life for.

Sure, he was a dick. Sure he’d been pressured into caring by me complaining to the head coach. But when I looked around and everyone else was busting their ass on a whole new level, I figured it was worth having the bratwurst hate me.

Eventually I started to regret ever thinking that Kulti caring was a good thing, because another segment of what I’d always dreamed of came into play and it wasn’t the magnificence I’d anticipated.

I got the attention I’d wanted. Only it wasn’t as fantastic as my dreams had told me they’d be.

“Twenty-three!”

It took me a second to react to my number being called—the day of Dad’s birthday. Eric’s birthday had been my national team number and my sister’s had been my number back when I played club soccer. I’d been using twenty-three for years, but no one ever called me by it.

“Twenty-three, what kind of a slow pass is that? Are you even trying?” he belted.

The hair on the back of my neck prickled up and my mouth might have dropped open just a little.

But I pushed.

He kept going. “Twenty-three, this.” “Twenty-three, that.” Twenty-three, twenty-three, twenty-three…

Shoot me in the face, twenty-three.

There wasn’t affection in his tone, much less pride.

Every single time I looked at him when he called my number, his face was set in a rough expression. Glowering. He was glowering at me. That handsome, handsome face was staring at me with an expression that was definitely not very nice.

Good God.

I stood up straight, wiped my sweat off and just glared right back at him. I could deal with this jack-off that had been mean to my dad. At least that’s what my bones said.

“He has the worst batting skills I’ve ever seen. No joke. He looks like a lumberjack out there with his bat six feet high and his ass in a different zip code than the rest of his body,” Marc said with a shake of his head as he steered the vehicle onto the freeway. We were on the way to our next jobs—two big houses in a neighborhood called the Heights.

“Worse than Eric?” I asked because as fantastic as he was at kicking a ball and chasing after it, he was pretty shitty at most other sports.

The grave nod Marc gave in response said it all. If the softball player he was talking about was worse than my brother, God help everyone on their team. “Jeez.”

“Yeah, Sal. It’s that bad. He isn’t scared of balls coming at him—“

We both looked at each other the second the two words were used together and we burst out laughing.

“Not that kind of ball,” my friend laughed loudly. “There’s no excuse for being that bad.”

“It happens,” I noted.

He shrugged in reluctant agreement and continued with his story about the new player that had recently joined in on their weekly recreational softball games. “I don’t know how to tell him he’s terrible. Simon said he’d say something, but he wimped out, and most of the time there’s barely enough people to split into two teams,” he said, eyeing me.

So subtle.

I’d played on and off with him for the last two years when I could. While I couldn’t play soccer officially or not-so-officially in any team way besides with the Pipers during the season, no one said I couldn’t join in on the occasional softball game, as long as it wasn’t ‘official.’ That was the keyword I could twist and distort from my contract.

Right as I started to say that I could join in on a few games, my phone rang. On the screen, ‘Dad’ flashed.

Holding my phone up, I told Marc who was calling and answered. “Hey, Pa.”

“Hola. Are you busy?” he replied.

“On my way to a job with Marco Antonio,” I said, using my family’s nickname for him. “Y tu?”

“Okay, I was just calling you quick. I’m going to pick up Ceci from school; she has early dismissal. I wanted to know though, do you think you can get us two more tickets for the opening game? Your tio is going to be in town that day and he wants to go,” he said slowly.

My uncle wanted to go to a game, but he just didn’t want to pay. What was new?

“I’m sure I can get two, but I won’t be positive until later today, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s fine. If you can’t, don’t worry about it. He can afford two tickets. Cheapskate. Call me later when you’re off and tell Marco I said he’s buying me a beer at the game.”

I snorted and smiled, and an instant later I realized I hadn’t brought up the incident with the German. My face flushed and my neck got hot. “Dad, hey. I’m sorry about the open house. If I had known he’d be such an asshole, I would have warned you. I’m really sorry—“

He hissed on the other line, and I didn’t miss the perplexed look Marc shot my way from the other side of the truck’s cab. “Mija, you have no idea how many times someone’s been that way with me. I’m fine. I’m over it now. People are like that because they don’t know any better, but I do.”

“He had no right to act like that. I was so mad, I went up to him and called him a bratwurst,” I admitted aloud for the first time since the incident.

Two howls went up. One was from my dad and the other from Marc. “No!” he cracked up on the phone.

“Yeah. I lost it. I think he hates my guts now. I’ll have to tell you later the kind of crap he’s been telling me on the field,” I said with a big grin aimed at my boss, who was shaking his shoulders with laughter.

Dad kept laughing. “Yeah, I want to hear about it,” he said before pausing. “Pero Salomé, acuérdate de lo que te he dicho. Kill them with kindness, si?”

I groaned.

“Si. Forgive him for not knowing better, okay?”

Forgive him for not knowing better? “I can try but what about Eric? You want me to be nice to the person that hurt him?” The recent memory of Kulti calling him an imbecile was still fresh, but I didn’t tell my dad about it.

“Pues si. It was a long time ago and remember Eric broke that player from Los Angeles’s arm? It happens. You know your brother. He kicks up a fit because he likes to hear himself talk.”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t feel right. I feel like I’m cheating on Eric.”

“It’s okay. You aren’t. I would tell you if you were.”

I wanted to roll my eyes at the thought, but I managed not to; instead I sighed and agreed with him. “Fine. I’ll think about it.” Boo. “I’ll call you later then. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The second I hung up the call, Marc angled his body against the seat since we were at a red light and blinked at me. “Bitch, you’ve been holding out on me. Tell me everything.”

“Well that’s fuckin’ awkward,” Harlow whispered.

It was. It really was.

For the last five minutes, the team had stood by the curb outside of the Pipers’ office building waiting for the vans that would take us to the location of our first preseason game about an hour outside of the city.

While we waited for the vans that happened to be running late, we’d all been watching Kulti arguing on the phone saying things in his native language that just sounded… ugly.

Whoo.

“What do you think he’s saying?”

“His coffee was probably too hot this morning and he’s complaining about it.”

“He’s threatening to make a coat out of their skin.”

“Or use their stem cells to lengthen his life.”

That one had me cracking up.

“He’s probably just saying ‘good morning, I’m having a great day’ and it sounds that bad,” Jenny suggested.

I shot her a smile. “You guys figure it out while I go to the restroom real quick.”

I took off speed-walking toward the restroom on the first floor. No one was there, so I was able to get in and out in just a couple of minutes after relieving my bladder. By the time I made it back out, three white vans had appeared alongside the street.

Two of them were already filled from what it looked like when multiple sets of hands hit the glass windows as I walked by them, freaking zombie-wannabes.

“Come on girl, we’ve been waiting on you!” Phyllis huffed, standing outside of the first van with two other staff members.

I nodded and jumped into the van, instinctively going for the seat the furthest away from the door.

There was only one seat open besides the front bench, and that was in the very back row with Kulti. Kulti and a mesh bag of soccer balls. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

Fighting back a groan and an eye roll that was totally over the top, I kept my gaze even and climbed all the way into the back to take the one and only empty seat right next to him. Thigh to thigh.

I could do this. I could be a mature adult. Right.

I had a pep talk with myself yesterday as I drove home after work. I could be an adult and set my pride aside to do what my dad had suggested. Was it going to be easy? Not exactly. But I was sure as hell going to try. I could put aside the fact this ass thought I was a snitch with no morals, and I could put my personal stuff aside and at least try to be cordial.

No one could take away me calling him a bitch in my head at least.

So I took a calming breath and said to myself, patience. Patience, Sal. Kill ‘em with kindness, I’d been told. I could be a bigger person. Easy.

Right?

I pulled my bag onto my lap and watched the last staff member get in the van. The second that everyone started making a lot of noise, I braced myself, put my Big Girl Socks on and whispered, like someone who hadn’t had her career threatened or her father insulted, “Can we call a truce?”

He actually responded. “What did you say?” the man sitting next to me asked in a voice just as low as mine had been.

He was talking to me. Me.

And: poop.

I was fine.

“Can we call a truce?” I kept my gaze forward and made sure not to move my mouth more than was necessary just in case someone turned around. They wouldn’t be able to tell I was talking to The King. “I want things to get back to normal. I don’t like drama, and I can’t keep doing these hate-eyes with you. It won’t be long before someone catches on.

“I would never say anything to anyone about you-know-what. I promise.” The urge to say I swore was on the tip of my tongue, but I held it in. “I won’t. It doesn’t matter how much you might make me angry, that’s between you and you. If I wanted to be an asshole, I would have taken pictures of you with my phone and sold them right after it happened, don’t you think?”

Nothing. I kept going.

“I can also get over the fact that you called my brother an imbecile and that you were a jerk to my dad, I think. But if you think I’m going to apologize for what I said to Gardner, it’s not going to happen. You should know that now. You weren’t being helpful or nice and it wasn’t helping the team. If it matters any, I didn’t say anything rude about you as a person—” though I wanted to. “I don’t want to feel awkward every time I’m around you for the next few months either. So, can we go back to pretending each other doesn’t exist?” I asked finally.

Fair enough, wasn’t it?

At least I thought so.

He didn’t respond. A minute passed, and still there was no reply.

I blinked facing forward and then slowly, slowly, slowly just like those creepy possessed dolls in scary movies, turned to look at him.

He was staring at me directly, one hundred percent intense and focused on my face. Those warm-colored eyes were zeroed in on me like I was the first person he’d seen in ages…and wasn’t really sure what to think. So I stared at him right back, right in the eyes, not at the small cleft in his chin or the scar that sliced through his right eyebrow from an elbow he’d taken to the face during his eighth season in the European League.

I kept my gaze steady. “I’m trying really hard here,” I told him carefully.

Still, he stared.

Yet I wasn’t a quitter and didn’t plan on becoming one anytime soon. “I’m not asking you to be my friend or even to talk to me. I could care less if you like me,” that was mostly true, “because it isn’t like I’m fond of you either, but maybe we can just set this crap aside, all right? Whatever happened between you and my brother was a long time ago. Done. What happened at the bar is none of my business. If you want to pay me back for the hotel room, go for it. And yeah, I did say something to Gardner about you kind of sucking at being a coach, but it’s the truth; if you were in my shoes, I’m sure whatever would have come out of your mouth would have been worse than what I said. Isn’t that right?”

It was, it totally was. For one split second, I let myself imagine the Kulti I’d grown up in love with. The one that thought he owned every field he stepped out on, and I could imagine the way he would have erupted at being doubted.

Then I reminded myself that this wasn’t the same man. For whatever reason, he just wasn’t. People changed over time. I got that, so I wasn’t going to think about it too much. This was the version of Reiner Kulti I’d been given, and this was the one I’d have to deal with for the next few months. It was like when I craved something sweet. I had a bite to get it out of my system and moved on.

Another minute passed and he still hadn’t responded. I could play the staring game as good as anyone. Even if it made my throat feel weird and I had to tell myself not to blush or worry about whether I should have put some concealer on that morning.

I blinked.

He blinked.

Okay, I’d struck out twice. What was once more in the name of peace? In a careful, controlled voice I said, “I was a fan of yours for a very long time. That game about twenty years ago at the Altus Cup, when you scored the winning goal, changed my life. I’ve respected you as an athlete for as long as I can remember. I know that I’m no one to you, but I’m here, and I’m going to still be here until the season is over. If there’s any part of you that’s still that man I admired, I’d appreciate it if we could just… make it through the season without killing each other.”

All right. I’d said more than I had planned on. Whether he was worried or alarmed by it, I had no idea, but screw it, it was the truth. You couldn’t build a friendship or… a lasting whatever, on lies. My crush on him was just extra information that wasn’t exactly relevant for this conversation… or any other.

Another minute dragged itself out and nada. Nothing.

Well, I wasn’t going to beg anyone to be fucking nice to me. All I wanted was for him to be a decent asshole who wasn’t stepping into my path during practice when he was mad over something I did. Zeroing in on me during practice? Bring it on.

Still, he was silent.

Well, I had tried.

Universe, I tried and you know it. Screw it.

“You killed it,” Harlow yelled about two feet away from me as she rushed up and grabbed my face, squishing the cheeks together, following my goal at the absolute last minute. “Fuck yeah, Sally!”

My face hurt a little. But I managed to mold out some sort of deformed smile while it was in the hands of the baddest defender in the Southwest. “You did all the work.”

“You sure as hell know I did. We can’t lose to these toddlers,” her thirty-three-year-old butt scoffed. Harlow had played only two years of college soccer. She’d gotten recruited for the European Women’s League early on and went to play overseas where she was molded into the crazy-ass she was with the WPL today.

The next thing I knew, she gave my cheeks a pinch and turned around to yell, “Jenny!” and then congratulate her on her excellent blocking by spanking her ass.

We had won seven to one, and I had scored two goals in the first half and a third in the last minute of the second. Could we have played a little better? Yes. Could I have played a little better? Yes. But it was done and I could think about it later when I was in bed. All I wanted to do was go home to ice my ankle for a minute.

On my way to the vans for our ride back to headquarters, I was completely distracted when my phone started to ring.

“Hey, Daddy,” I answered first thing.

There was a strange panting sound on the other end.

“Dad?”

“Sal,” he gasped.

“Yeah? Are you all right?” I asked hesitantly.

“Sal,” he gasped again. “You’re never going to believe what came in the mail.” Was he wheezing? I couldn’t be sure.

“What?” I asked slowly, expecting the worst.

He was definitely wheezing. “I don’t know what you said or did but…” Wait, was he crying? “I got home from work today and there were two things on the porch—“

“Okay…”

“There was a note in one of the boxes that said ‘My deepest apologies for being a real prick.’ There was a jersey in there, a limited edition one that’s a size too big, but ME VALE!” I could care less, he whooped. “And it was signed, Sal. Sal! It was signed by him!”

I stopped walking.

“There was a poster from when Kulti played with FC Berlin in the other package!” he continued on.

A small knot formed in my throat at the pure joy that resonated from my dad’s voice at the unexpected gesture. Days had passed since the incident, and I would have hardly expected Kulti to remember or care enough to apologize for being an ass. The fact that he hadn’t made a big deal about it…

I swallowed and felt my nose sting a bit.

“That’s great,” I found myself saying, still standing in place.

“Si, verdad? This is great. I’m going to show it to Manuel, he’s going to be so jealous…” He said something that I barely caught. “Tell him thank you and that there’s no hard feelings, would you Sal? There’s no return address on here.”

“You got it.”

“Oooh! This is great! I want to look at it again, and I can’t with the phone in my hand. Call me later.”

“Okay.”

We quickly said goodbye to each other as I just stood there, nose stinging, relief pecking at my throat. I licked my lips for a second and then decided to be an adult about this. The next thing I knew, I’d turned around and started walking back to where I’d come from, searching.

Sure I could have waited to see if he rode next to me in the van, but I wasn’t betting on it.

When I spotted him, I wiped at my nose with my shoulder and kept on going. This time he must have seen me out of his peripheral vision because when he glanced up, he kept watching me make my approach. He was rummaging through his bag on a propped-up knee.

I stopped in front of him, licked my lips and took a deep breath. He was so much taller than me I had to tip my head back to look at his face, my own duffel dangling from my hand. His amber-colored eyes were clear and focused, and I suddenly hoped that he wasn’t automatically expecting the worst from me.

“Thank you for doing that for my dad,” I said to him in a voice that was a lot softer and breathier than usual. Was it embarrassment that was making my voice that way because of what I’d said before? Possibly. But he’d done something unexpectedly nice that made my dad happy before I approached him about calling a truce. “I wish I could tell you how much I appreciate it. So… thank you. You made his month and I’m very grateful.” I swallowed. “And he said to tell you that there are no hard feelings from either of us.”

Was he perfect? Absolutely not. Did I think he was a good person? That was debatable, but he’d done something nice that could make me put aside that he’d been a jerk to me. But what did I know? Maybe there was a reason for it, or maybe he was just a prick. Whatever.

Before I even realized what I was doing, I thrust my hand out to him.

The silence that stretched between us and those two feet of physical space seemed eternal and infinite. It took two seconds from the moment in which I put my hand in the air for his hand, warm and made up of long fingers and a broad palm, to connect with mine.

I looked at his jaw while we shook on… whatever it was we were shaking on.

It seemed like everything was okay, or at least it would be.

But I guess things always seem fine until they suddenly weren’t.

My phone rang the instant I got out of the van after we’d made our return to the team’s offices. A number I didn’t recognize flashed across the screen, but I answered it anyway.

“Hello?”

“Miss Casillas?”

“Yes?”

“I’m calling from Mr. Cordero’s office,” the woman introduced herself. Her name was Mrs. Brokawski. “Would you be able to come by the office within the hour?”

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that a meeting with your general manager isn’t a good thing. Especially not when you and said general manager don’t have the best relationship in the world. But what could I say? No thanks?

“I can drop by there in about ten,” I agreed making a face.

“Great, we’ll see you soon.”

“Great,” I said, on the verge of banging my phone against my face as I hung up. If there was one person I hated speaking to, it was Mr. Carlos Cordero, the Pipers’ general manager and a major asshole.

Fantastic.

“He’ll see you now,” Mrs. Brokawski said, ushering me into the office I’d only been in three times over the years.

I smiled at her more to be polite than because I wanted to—she wasn’t exactly the friendliest person in the world—and went into what had to be at least a four-hundred-square-foot office with furniture that cost more than I made in a year. Behind the massive mahogany desk was the fifty-something-year-old Argentinian who reminded me of a 1950s mob boss with his pompadour haircut and tailored suit.

To me, he looked like a weasel. He was a weasel that could do pretty much whatever he wanted with my career.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Cordero,” I said, standing in front of the seat closest to the door after his assistant had closed it.

The older man leaned across his desk and shook my hand, eyeing the team sweatpants I’d pulled on over my uniform. “Miss Casillas,” he said, finally taking his seat again and gesturing for me to take one as well.

There was no point in wasting time, was there? Hands on my thighs, I asked, “What can I do for you?”

He flicked up a groomed eyebrow—I swear he waxed them regularly—and tapped his nails on the desk’s surface. “You can tell me why I heard that you got into an argument with your assistant coach.”

The gavel fell.

Seriously? It’d been more than long enough since that had happened and he was bringing it up now? Damn it. “It wasn’t much of an argument. I was upset with him and I let him know that he had acted inappropriately, that’s all.”

“That’s interesting.” He fidgeted and moved to rest his arms on the sides of his chair. “I was told you called him a bratwurst, I believe.”

I don’t think I’d ever wanted to smile more, but I managed not to. I had no business lying to him. I’d said what I said and I wasn’t going to take it back. “Yes.”

“Do you think that’s appropriate language to use on the staff?” he asked.

“I think it’s appropriate when someone decides to be ungracious with his supporters.”

“You do understand how important his involvement with the team is?” The jackass was giving me this look that said exactly how stupid he thought I was, and I could feel anger bubbling up in my gut, leaving a sour taste in my mouth.

“I completely understand, Mr. Cordero, but I also understand how important it is to have the support of our fans. The WPL expects a lot from their players, don’t they? Some of us live with host families; we depend on word of mouth from the people that come to our games. Coach Kulti wasn’t very gracious, and all I did was let him know without using bad words or body language. I didn’t disrespect him.” Well, I didn’t disrespect him that much.

For as long as I’d known him, the team’s general manager was the type of person who wanted things done his way when he said he wanted them done. He didn’t like back-talk and he always insisted he was right.

He wasn’t.

So I knew that this conversation was going down the drain fast, and I wasn’t about to back down from it, as much as my common sense begged me to. I hadn’t done anything wrong and if I could go back in time, I would do the exact same thing again.

“Miss Casillas, I would be careful with what you believe to be right or wrong; are we on the same page?”

This fucker.

“The Pipers are a team, and this isn’t the first time you haven’t been on board with doing what’s best for the whole.”

Was he ever going to drop it? Each time I’d been in his office, except for this once, it had always been for the same damn thing. Let us tell everyone. And every time I had told him the same thing: No—I’m not involving my family. He had yet to forgive me for it and from how it seemed, he never would.

“I want you to apologize,” he continued, ignoring the look of death I was giving him.

“There’s nothing for me apologize for,” I told him in a calm steady voice.

He leaned forward and hit a button on his phone. “I beg to differ… Mrs. Brokawski? We’re ready.”

We’re ready? For what?

My silent question was answered a minute later when the office door swung open and a beaming Mrs. Brokawski stepped in, holding it open for none other than the bratwurst we’d been talking about. Kulti entered, his expression that cool remote one, his eyes going from me on the chair to Mr. Cordero standing up.

“Come in, Coach.” The general manager looked like a different man, smiling and jovial. The freaking rat. “Take a seat. You know Miss Casillas.”

I didn’t even bother forcing or faking a smile on my face; I just looked at him. I realized that he more than likely had nothing to do with this conversation, but I was too frustrated to forgive him for coming into the office at the wrong time.

The German took the chair next to mine, sitting upright and stiff. He was still in the same clothes he’d had on at the game.

“Thank you for coming in,” Mr. Cordero told him, grinning. “I’m sorry it has to under these circumstances.”

To give him credit, Kulti glanced at me one more time before ignoring the fake gestures and words coming out of the man sitting across from us. “What is this about?”

A low whistle came out of his mouth, and I felt my jaw tightening.

“It has come to my attention that you and Miss Casillas had a small incident regarding a fan, and I would like to apologize for her behavior.” His dark eyes swung to me, imploring me, demanding me to say what he wanted me to say.

I pursed my lips together and fought the great big breath caught in my throat. I was being treated like a dumb little kid who got caught stealing and had to take the goods back to where he’d taken them from. It was embarrassing.

“Miss Casillas, isn’t there something you want to say?”

No.

“There is nothing to apologize for,” that great deep voice next to me claimed, literally shocking the hell out of me.

“You shouldn’t be spoken to—“

The German cut off a person who hated not having the last word, and I felt a spike of pleasure fill my chest at the flash of annoyance in Cordero’s eyes. “Her judgment was sound. Nothing was said that didn’t need to be said. I don’t require an apology from either of you.”

“But—“

“I was out of place with my behavior and we have come to terms with it, haven’t we, Miss Casillas?” the sauerkraut asked, turning his attention to me.

Why, yes, yes, we had, hadn’t we? I nodded. “Yes, we have.”

Cordero’s eyes moved from one player to the retired one. I didn’t miss the pink blossoming on his neck. That sure as hell told me I needed to get out of the room as soon as possible before I said something I would regret. “Coach Kulti, excuse me, but Miss Casillas’s actions are unacceptable. I can’t allow—“

The man sitting next to me raised a hand to cut off the team’s general manager. “It’s acceptable and we’ve dealt with it. I’m going to be upset if she’s punished for being honest and upfront with me, two traits that should be celebrated instead of persecuted. Nothing else needs to be said. Is that all this meeting was for?” the German asked, already rising to his feet.

What the hell had just come out of his mouth? He’d saved me. Hadn’t he?

“Yes, that’s all. I just thought you deserved an apology for—“

“I don’t. If I wanted one, I would have gotten one.” Those brown-green eyes slid over to me. “I have somewhere to be now.”

Cordero was too busy looking at Kulti to notice me getting to my feet and grabbing my bag. I felt like a coward, but at least I’d be a coward that still got to play. I think. “I need to get to work, too. I think we’re going to have a great season!”

Yeah, I hauled ass out of there. I didn’t even bother telling Mr. Cordero’s rude minion goodbye as I left. I could hear another set of footsteps as I made my way toward the elevators. A moment after hitting the down button, Kulti stopped next to me, watching the numbers go up on the small screen above the doors.

Well, in less than two hours he’d made my dad’s day, shaken my hand and saved me from saying words I either would have regretted or hated myself for. I knew damn well when to be gracious. Eyeing him, his muscular silhouette, the reddish-brown stubble that had grown in on his face over the course of the day, and his overall proud face, I scratched my cheek and made myself turn to face him completely. There was no half-assing this.

“Thank you for that,” I said, “in there.” Like he didn’t know what I was thanking him for. Idiot.

His gaze slid over to mine and he tipped his chin down.

That was it. No groups of unnecessary words, no smiles, nothing extra. All right.

At least it wasn’t one person threatening the other or calling each other offensive names, right?