Kulti(48)

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.