Kulti(47)

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.”