Kulti(50)

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?





Chapter Ten





It sounds pretty stupid to say that I felt like a small weight had been lifted off my chest, but it was the truth.

While this new and ever-so-slightly improved version of Kulti—at least the coach edition—wasn’t nice or even polite, he was present and in the moment during each practice. I was pretty sure he didn’t actually know any of our names because all he did was call us by our numbers, but the point was, he was actually calling out our numbers. Like they were curse words, sure, but he was speaking. He was participating, and every player on the field soaked in his suggestions and demands.

We won the first three games of the preseason by more than four points and managed to keep the opposing team to no more than one goal a game.

Was it because he suddenly gave a shit and was giving us pointers? I wouldn’t give him that much credit. We usually won period, but whatever, winning was winning.

I could live with that.

We practiced, we played and continued the repetitive cycle.

Kulti stayed on his side of the field and I stayed on mine, and if by chance our eyes happened to meet, we looked at each other and, as amicably and indifferently as possible, we looked away.

That totally worked for me.



* * *



“Do you want to go watch a movie later?” Jenny asked right before lunging to the right to block one of the penalty kicks I’d just taken at her. She blocked it in time. Bah.

“Maybe.” From off the side of the field, Gardner kicked another ball for me to attempt another shot. “I was thinking of having a boxed wine type of night.”

She snickered. “What happened?”

Of course she’d understand that something had driven me to drink. “I talked to my sister on the phone last night and she called me a know-it-all, nosey bitch after I told her she needed to chill out and quit giving our dad a hard time. Every time I talk to him on the phone, she’s always yelling at him for something or another. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with her.”

She grinned at me. Boxed wine was our cheat meal-slash-comfort food. Nothing said how truly crappy you were feeling like boxed wine. But hopefully it wouldn’t come down to that. It wouldn’t… I hoped. But apart from waking up aggravated because of my conversation with Ceci the night before, I’d just felt a little on edge all morning. Pissed off maybe, though I wasn’t sure what the hell I had to be mad about. It was just one of those days, I guess.

“I’m sure she’ll grow out of it eventually.” Jenny offered what I’d already considered years ago when Ceci’s hormones kicked in and she began going through these phases. Sometimes we were best friends, and then suddenly I was her worst enemy in the universe.

“I hope so. I’ve told her a hundred times that there’s no comparison between any of us. She knows Mom would have rather I’d chosen something else to do with my life, but she still acts like she’s the black sheep of the family. She thinks she’s the letdown, because according to her she’s not good at anything.” I rolled my eyes. “Such a drama queen. I wasn’t like that when I was younger. Were you?”

Jenny shook her head. “No, but my older sister was the devil. She used to hide my cleats, draw penises on them with a Sharpie, and stab my practice balls because she thought it was funny.”

We made eye contact with each other and then burst out laughing together. “You win, Jen. Holy shit.”

She made a little curtsy in acknowledgment.

I backed up four steps and eyed the top right of the goal, making my way like I was aiming in that direction, but at the last minute, kicked the ball left. Nailed it.