“I’m the milkman’s.”
“I knew it!” He finally laughed with a deep pleased sigh.
I was smiling like a total fool. “I love you too, old man.”
“I know you do, but I love you more,” he chuckled.
“Yeah, yeah. Call me tomorrow? I’m pretty tired, and I want to ice my foot for a little bit.”
A ragged sigh came out from him, but I knew he wouldn’t say anything. His sigh said it all and more; it was a gentle wordless reminder that I needed to take care of myself. We’d gone over this a hundred times in person. Dad and I understood each other in a different way. If it had been my brother saying something about needing ice, I probably would have asked him if he thought he’d live and Dad would have told him to suck it up. It was the beauty of being my father’s daughter, I guess. Well it was the beauty of being me and not my baby sister, who he constantly fought with.
“Okay, tomorrow. Sleep good, mija.”
“You too, Dad. Night.”
He bid me another goodbye and we hung up. Sitting up on my bed in the garage apartment that I’d been renting for the last two years, I let myself think of Kulti and how he’d just stood there like a golden gargoyle, watching, watching and watching.
It was then that I reminded myself about him pooping again.
Chapter Four
The next few days went by uneventfully and yet as eventful as they normally were. We had to get our physicals for the team one day and the next day we got measured for our uniforms. After each small chunk of a morning, I’d go to work afterward where I’d be harassed by Marc about whether I’d gotten Kulti’s autograph for him yet. Then each evening, I’d practice yoga or go swimming or do some weight training, depending on how tired I was. Then I’d get home and talk to my dad or watch television.
Everyone wanted to know what Reiner Kulti was like, and I had nothing to give them. He showed up to whatever we were doing and stood in whatever corner was available, and watched. He didn’t really talk or interact with anyone. He didn’t do anything.
So… that was kind of disappointing for everyone who asked.
A small part of me was surprised the vultures hadn’t descended on his unmoving ass. If he ever needed the money, he could work as one of those living statues that painted their bodies in metallic colors and hung out in Times Square, letting people pay them tips to take pictures with them. His apathy was that bad.
But no one said anything about the press conference from hell, or brought up stuff about Eric and Kulti, and there weren’t any more questions about me rejoining the national team. Overall, there was nothing really for me to complain about. I could act like a normal human being with some dignity, not a stuttering idiot that a decade ago had a crush on the man that everyone was talking about.
So really, what was there to complain about?
* * *
On the morning of our individual photo shoots, I should have known how the interview was going to go when the first thing out of the journalist’s mouth was a mispronounced “Salome!” Suh-lome. Then even after I corrected him he still said it the wrong way. Which wasn’t a big deal; I was used to having someone butcher it. It happened all the time.
Suh-lome. Saah-lome. Sah-lowmee. Salami. Salamander. Salmon. Sal-men. Saul. Sally. Samantha.
Or, in the case of my brother: Stupid.
In the case of my little sister: Bitch.
Regardless, when someone continuously messes up your name even after you correct them… it’s a sign. In this case, it was a sign that I should have known this guy was a moron.
I had tried to get away from him. Usually I tried to sneak away, but lately there were so many of them, it was impossible. The minute I spotted the group of television reporters and journalists by the field where the photographs were set to be taken, my gut churned. I didn’t have a problem walking around in my sports bra in front of everyone and anyone. I could play games just fine in front of thousands of people, but the instant a camera came around when I wasn’t doing those things…
No. No, no, no.
So as soon as I spotted them, I started to circle my way as far from their location as possible. Let them get the other girls first. The furthest group from the entrance stopped Grace, the captain and veteran on the team. Thank you, Jesus. Then I saw another group swoop in on Harlow, and I felt a bolt of relief go through my stomach.
Fifteen more feet to go. Fifteen more feet and I’d be clear. My heart started beating that much faster and I made sure to keep my eyes forward. No eye contact.
Ten feet. Baby Jesus, please—
“Salome!”
Fuck.
I looked over and breathed a sigh of relief when the reporter shouting didn’t have a camera or a cameraman with him. He was a blogger. I could have kissed him.