Kulti

by Mariana Zapata

  I had to tamp down the inner scream that went on inside of me.

  Did he have any idea what he’d meant to me when I was younger? Of course he didn’t. But that was beside the point. I was where I was because I thought he hung the moon when I was a kid. Because I thought he was the greatest player ever and I wanted to be him—okay, and be with him, but whatever. I used to get into arguments with people who talked badly about him.

  That’s what it was like. Even now, I defended his skills like an objective unbiased player because you couldn’t argue the statistics. He had been amazing and there was nothing emotional behind that statement.

  He’d been an incredible player above the layer of assholery he wrapped himself in.

  Freaking jackass.

  “How’d that go?” Jenny asked with a smile when I sat down next to her.

  I didn’t bother to hide how I rolled my eyes. “They asked me if he was single.”

  She snorted.

  “I should have said, ‘no, I met his life partner a few days ago. He’s great.’” I gave her a little smile as I pulled my things out of my bag. “Maybe one day.”

  “Yesterday I had one of them ask me if I thought he was preparing for a comeback. Then, I was getting my mail when my neighbor asked, ‘Hi, Jennifer, do you think you could get me tickets to your next game?’ I don’t even know his name!” she exclaimed. “The day before that, my aunt asked me if there was any way for her to drop by during practice. She doesn’t even like soccer.”

  Jenny wasn’t one to ever complain, so for her to mention it said something.

  I settled just for nodding at her. I didn’t trust the words that could potentially come out of my mouth.

  “Genevieve told me that her boss said he’d give her a raise if she brought him back something that belonged to you-know-who.”

  Not surprising. On the other hand, I was sure that if I gave Marc Kulti’s underwear, he’d probably tell me to take a week off and still pay me my half. “I heard Harlow tell a reporter this morning that she came to play, not talk about her coach.”

  We both snorted.

  “But what are we going to do? Complain about all of the attention? I already told them about the weird emails I’ve been getting about Eric, and they’re trying to turn everything around to work out positively. Eric told me Kulti was offered some huge deal from a European team, and he turned it down. They aren’t going to want to risk losing him.” I thought of the night at the bar again and his threat, and felt that familiar bolt of frustration streak down my back before I pushed it away. “Oh well.”

  She nodded in resignation. “I hope everyone calms down as the season goes on.”

  “Me too.”

  Chapter Seven

  Practices and life just went on for the next few days.

  There’d been at least a couple of reporters by the field every morning. It was usually the same ones for a couple of days before the rotation changed and other people showed up. Gardner led practices with the assistance of the fitness coach and one of the other assistants while the infamous frankfurter did what he always did: a whole bunch of nothing.

  Eventually after a couple of days, I stopped giving a shit about the German—I had other things to worry about—and ignoring him became second nature, even when he was right there.

  Like the day of the team photo.

  Safely nestled in the front row with the rest of the under-five-foot-seven players, I had a midfielder on one side and a defender on the other, courtesy of the assistant photographer’s manhandling. Had I forgotten that Sheena had said I should stand by Kulti? Nope. Was I about to say anything to fix what was going on? No way, Jose.

  The sun had taken its punishing nature to the next level, the humidity making me sweat in places most people never would, and all I wanted was the water under a canopy too far away to reach in a quick sprint. Standing there defenselessly huddled together was about a hundred times worse than running around having practice before the heat got too bad. Way worse.

  “Is this almost over?” the player to my right sighed. She was one of the new additions to the Pipers.

  “I think so,” Genevieve, a girl in the row directly behind me, answered. This was only her second season playing in the WPL.

  I glanced over my shoulder to see the assistant rearranging the women in the top row. Harlow was standing off to the side, scowling at whatever the woman was saying, and it made me smile. “They’re almost done with the big broads up there, then it should start and it’ll be another twenty minutes tops.”

  There was a collective groan from the six people around.

  “Casillas!”

  Oh hell. No. No. “Twenty-three! You’re in the wrong place!” the photographer yelled from her spot right next to the Pipers’ public relations employee.

  “See you later, guys,” I muttered.

  It took everything in me to not hang my head and drag my feet toward Sheena, who had appeared out of nowhere. I’d been keeping an eye out for her. Bah. I understood that she was watching out for me, doing me a favor by helping me out of the predicament that the past had gotten me into simply by association. But as I thought about those emails that went unread in my inbox, I decided it was probably worth it to just keep my mouth closed and do what I needed to.

  Apparently, none of that mattered. I swallowed, put my Big Girl Socks on and took a deep breath as I walked like a normal sane human in the direction I was being pointed.

  “Sal, squeeze in right there one row below Mr. Kulti, next to Miss Phyllis.” Miss Phyllis, the fitness coach who resurrected herself year after year to make sure the team was in shape. It also happened that we were around the same height, so Sheena’s thinking made sense. If you didn’t take into consideration that the human Berlin Wall was at least six inches taller than the player standing next to him.

  I threw my shoulders back and pretended like I didn’t notice the way he ignored everything and everyone around him even when I stood less than a foot away.

  But I took it like a champ, not letting him get to me.

  Much.

  Unfortunately just because I knew better than to try and engage him, didn’t mean everyone else was on the same page. I’d barely been standing there two minutes when I overheard the player standing somewhere behind me ask, “Could you tell me what time it is?”

  Anyone who knew even a little bit about Kulti was well aware of the fact that he had a watch endorsement. He always wore one.

  We’d all been instructed to leave our cell phones in our bags, so I wasn’t surprised that no one had a watch on. I’d played with one a long time ago, but didn’t want to risk breaking the face.

  “No one knows what time it is?” the player asked again.

  Nothing.

  Not a single response from the man who was paid to wear a watch.

  Jeez. I finally turned around and said, “I don’t have a watch on me, Vivian. Sorry.” Because I hated when I asked something and no one responded. It was rude and awkward.

  But what was more rude and awkward was being able to give an appropriate answer and not do so. From the look on the player’s face, she knew he could have answered.

  And he’d chosen not to. Classy.

  I kept my face forward after that and smiled at the camera when the time came.

  * * *

  Things didn’t get any better when the videographers showed up two days later to film practice. Sheena kept waving me over in the general direction of where the coaches were standing. “Go on,” she whispered to me when I got close enough. “Just a few shots.”

  It was just a few shots with a man who had said three sentences to me in a month.

  Bah.

  I picked up my pride, shook it off and placed it around my shoulders before gradually easing my way toward the coaches who happened to be standing together.

  I made a point to make conversation with Gardner, while Kulti stood nearby with those fantastic flexed biceps crossed over his chest, and his attention
elsewhere. Every time I looked at him, he reminded me more and more of a soldier in some branch of the military with his crew cut and blank face. Meanwhile, in my head, I flicked him off with both hands at the same time. Maturity was definitely a personal strength of mine.

  Not.

  But I did what I had to do. Always. That’s what put a smile on my face and made me talk to people I was actually fond of while the videographers walked around. It had to be good enough.

  I brushed off thinking about the German ignoring life itself and paid attention to the girls standing around me; Gardner began speaking to someone else.

  “I’m ready to get this over with. Anyone know what we’re doing tomorrow?” I overheard Genevieve ask.

  Another girl responded, “I think we’re meeting at the offices tomorrow to pick up the rest of our uniforms, aren’t we?”

  We were, but I hated always being the one who knew what was going on and piping in.

  Someone else agreed. “Yeah. Anyone want to go out for happy hour tomorrow?”

  Go to happy hour the day before a game? I made a face to myself but kept my gaze forward and my mouth shut. But I still listened as two people agreed and another one said no.

  Either way, it wasn’t like they invited me or asked for my opinion. Most people had given up on inviting me places after so many no-shows, and that was my fault. I was busy. Sometimes it seemed like I had to schedule bathroom visits into my day. So while they were all going out for happy hour, I was going to finally be starting a new project with Marc for a customer that we’d fondly called a “Southwest Oasis.” Fifteen years ago, I never would have thought I’d be excited about special-ordering rocks and cacti.

  Was it glamorous or fun in a traditional way? No. But it was my life and I didn’t care.

  “I can’t wait,” another girl admitted. “This week has s-u-c-k-e-d. I could use a couple margaritas.”

  A couple? I winced.

  “Girl, me too—“

  “What you all need is some discipline, not drinks the day before a game.”

  Honest to God, I stopped breathing at the sound of the foreign voice speaking. I didn’t need to turn around to know who had just spoken. You’d have to be an idiot not to know.

  Of all the times, he’d chosen to speak up…

  “But it’s just a preseason—“

  I wasn’t sure who was dumb enough to even bother justifying that it was ‘just’ a preseason game. I partially understood that it technically didn’t count, but still. Who liked to lose? I sure as hell didn’t; I didn’t even like losing at air hockey.

  Regardless.

  That coming from him? What a damn hypocrite.

  “No game is ‘just’ anything,” was the sharp, no-nonsense reply that came out of the sauerkraut’s mouth.

  “Hey, why don’t we—“ Gardner quickly jumped in with some random topic to distract the newcomer.

  I sure as hell wasn’t going to turn around and look at him for using such an ugly tone or for being a massive phony. Maybe if I hadn’t just dragged his drunk butt into a hotel room days before, I’d feel different.

  But the damage had already been done.

  Even I felt the burn of his words. No one else said anything. But the second I made eye contact with Jenny, she mouthed, ‘what the heck was that?’

  I gave her bug eyes and mouthed back, ‘I have no idea.’

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Grace approached him. The conversation had to have lasted all of three minutes, if that, but in those three minutes I was positive that every member of the Pipers team watched. We watched Grace march up to him, say something in that way she’d talked to us all before when her captain pants were on, then we saw him respond in a short sentence. Two minutes later, one of the most collected, professional players I’d ever met had anger painted all over every feature of her body.

  Grace was pissed. Grace. She was the type of person that always took the higher road. In the five years we’d played together, even back on the national team, she had never played dirty. Cool as a cucumber, determined and smart, Grace was the epitome of a pro.

  She didn’t lose her shit.

  And she just had. Over what, I had no idea, but a small part of me was dying to know.

  Had she said something to Kulti about how he’d snapped at the girls? Knowing her and how seriously she took her role of captain, more than likely. Every other time I’d seen them together, they seemed like friends… well, friendly. Friendly-ish. Yeah.

  The scene left me a little worried.

  What had happened?

  * * *

  “Sal, is that sexy-ass brother of yours coming to our opener?”

  I stuck my tongue out and over-exaggerated some retching, earning a laugh from a couple of girls who knew how much I hated that they imagined dirty things with my brother every time he dropped by. Desperate, slumming sluts. Finally, I grinned at the girl who asked and shook my head. “No, he’s not. My sexy-ass little sister is coming and so are my parents. They’re actually here today.”

  “Aww, really?”

  Joy and pleasure sparked through my chest. A lot of the players didn’t have family that lived close enough to occasionally come to games… or didn’t bother. My family, on the other hand, usually showed up to most home games, doing the three-hour drive and spending the day after to see me. I knew that I was lucky, and I was grateful they were so supportive.

  Even if my sister, Cecilia, spent the entire game on her phone sending text messages and browsing Instagram. But, whatever. She was there even after she called me ugly names and made up horrible ideas in her head of what I thought about her. It wasn’t like my mom would have chosen this life for me either, but she showed up and cheered anyway, even if it cost her. But that was love, wasn’t it?

  Today was our open practice before the preseason games began against the local college teams. This practice was a gesture that the league did for season ticket holders, friends and family of players, and winners of various contests. After practice we hung around and took pictures, and if there were little kids, we kicked the ball around with them for a while.

  “Yup. I’m not sure if Eric will be able to come by this year since he’s still overseas.” Thankfully. I could easily picture him in the stands glowering at the bench, and by ‘the bench,’ I meant Reiner Kulti.

  “Let me know in advance so I can put some make-up on that day,” the girl laughed.

  I snickered and waved her off, pulling my socks on over my shin guards since we were already finished warming up. Getting to my feet, I looked at the hundred or so people that were in the bleachers in a small, sectioned-off part of where we practiced. In the matter of just a couple of minutes, I spotted my dad’s receding hairline, my mom’s new bright red hair color and Ceci’s big head covered by a cowboy hat. Throwing both hands into the air, I waved at my family and whoever else assumed I was waving at them; I smiled big. Instantly, Mom and Dad waved back, and so did a few other people I didn’t know.

  “Come on, ladies. If everyone is ready, let’s get started,” Gardner called out.

  The next two hours flew by without a trace of the awkwardness that had been blanketing the team since Kulti decided to take his bastard-ness to the next level. We all seemed to block that out of our heads for the time being at least. I snuck glances at the bleachers throughout the exhibition. I had always been one of those kids that liked having her family around for games. There were people who didn’t, but I wasn’t one of them. I played better when they were in the stands, or at least I took it even more seriously—if that was possible. My parents knew more than enough about soccer to catch everything and still make suggestions to me about things that could be worked on.

  The sun seemed extra hot and my ankle was only bothering me a little bit, but overall it went really well. Except every time I looked in my dad’s direction he was busy staring at Kulti like a total creeper. I loved him even if he had horrible taste in men.

  We wouldn’t
even bring up that I’d been just like him many years before.

  As soon as we’d cooled down and stretched, a few of the Houston’s men’s team employees—our team was owned by the same people—led the onlookers off the stands and onto the field. It’d been more than a month since the last time I’d seen my family, and I’d missed them. I watched my dad looking around the field for the only person that really mattered. I knew it wasn’t me, ha.

  “Ma.” I held out my arm for my mom who quickly glanced at my sweaty training jersey, made a face and hugged me anyway.

  “Mija,” she replied, squeezing me tight.

  Next, I grabbed my little sister by the brim of her cap and pulled her toward me as she squealed, “No, Sal! You’re all sweaty! Sal, I’m not kidding. Sal! Shit!”

  Did I know she didn’t like sweaty hugs? Hell yeah. Did I care? Nope. I hadn’t forgotten she’d called me a bitch the last time we’d been in the same room together, even if she was going to act like no such words had come out of her mouth. I hugged her to me even harder, feeling her smacking me on the back pretty damn hard as my mom said, “Hija de tu madre, watch your mouth” to deaf ears.

  “I’ve missed you, Ceci,” I said, peppering kisses all over my baby sister’s cheeks as she tried to pull away, saying something about her make-up getting smudged.

  She was seventeen. She would get over it. We were both almost the same height, had brown hair, although mine was a bit lighter, taking after our Argentinian grandma, and the same light-brown eyes. But that was about it as far as our similarities went. Physically, I had about twenty pounds on her. Personality-wise, we were as different as could be. By the time she was fifteen she had mastered wearing heels, while I thought putting on a real bra was fancy, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. But I loved the crap out of her, even when she was a little snobby and whiny… and sometimes she was a little bit mean.

  When I finally let her go, I snorted in my dad’s direction. He had his back to us and was busy looking around the field. “Hey, Dad? Give me a hug before you never want to wash your hand again.”