Kulti(53)

Four times total, that was it.

It was… I wasn’t sure how to describe it. Beautiful was lame. Nostalgic was weird. It was something to witness in person. This man I’d seen on television a hundred times playing in person just feet away—it was definitely something.

But I’d done this thousands of times with other people, and I reminded myself that it wasn’t any more special because this was Reiner Kulti. It sort of reminded me of when I worked with kids during the youth camps and how excited they were when they improved. Sure he didn’t smile or thank me for kicking a ball back to him, but I let the moment sink in. Just for a second, I let myself accept that this was Reiner ‘The King’ Kulti whom I was kicking a freaking ball to.

And then I looked at PJ and asked if she wanted to keep practicing.



* * *



“You know, I was thinking we’d have a better turnout by now,” Jenny noted from her place right next to me.

With a sad look around the bleachers surrounding the field we usually practiced on, I felt inclined to agree with her. While the college team’s stands were decently filled considering it was a weekday, our side had exactly thirty people. Thirty people total.

Needless to say, it wasn’t anything out of the normal for a preseason game. But with the way everyone had been hyping up having the German on staff, and how it would help out the team, we’d all been expecting more.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I told her. Every game so far had low numbers, and that was even more sad considering that at least a third of the people in the audience had Kulti jerseys on. My money was on the fact that they weren’t even really paying attention to the game and were instead focusing on the brown-haired man who sat in the sun the entire game, actually paying attention but managing not to say any of his reassuring words of ‘is that what you all call a pass?’ He gave us commentary during practices, but he’d yet to make any suggestions during a preseason game. Whatever.

“Actually, I heard that they were only posting the regular season games on the website, and that they weren’t putting playing times for any of our preseason games. The only people with times are season ticket-holders or friends and family,” Genevieve, the player sitting on my other side explained, though we hadn’t been speaking to her.

That was interesting. “Really?” Jenny and I both asked at the same time.

Genevieve nodded. “Yeah. For security or something like that, I think. It was an agreement his management and the owners had to come to before he took the job. At least that’s what my friend in the office said.” She didn’t have to be specific about who he was. “Too many psychos would lose their crap and try to come watch him for free.”

That made way too much sense.

I eyed the German sitting at the far end of the bench from a side-view. What would that be like? To have psycho fans that would stalk you, or possibly be such a danger to you, that an entire association had to agree to not post times you’d be present without putting you at risk? I couldn’t imagine that. I didn’t want to. The simple idea of it made me feel claustrophobic.

He was just minding his own business, living his life, and…

Poop.

I faced forward again to watch what was left of the game.

We won. Again.

After the two teams high-fived each other in good sportsmanship and we congratulated each other for kicking ass, we were all ready to leave. There was still some equipment around the field we’d finished using and I wasn’t one of those people who just pretended not to see it and left. It made me feel bad, so I went ahead and started grabbing things, helping the rest of the staff along with a couple other players that hadn’t immediately taken off.

“Thanks for helping out,” Gardner called out as we walked right past each other, me heading toward the bag as he walked away from it.

I nodded at him. “Sure, G.” My parents hadn’t raised me to be a lazy ass.

There was a sudden loud yell—a scream really. High and just barely distinctively male, it made my ears hurt at the same time it embarrassed me because it was almost deranged-sounding. Sure enough, the noise had originated from way too close. A man was halfway on the field, his gaze locked on the six-foot-two retiree about ten feet away from me, shoving dirty towels into a bag.

I watched as the man let out another shriek—it was a happy one, I guess—and took two baby-bird steps forward before stopping again.

“Kulti?” he wavered the name, and then he went charging.

I’m sure I stood there with my mouth open in awe as Kulti took it all in stride, smiling gently for what had to be the first time I’d ever seen—possibly ever?— and made it seem like it wasn’t a big deal at all that this guy was flipping out. I didn’t stare, but I kept an eye on them, watching as Kulti talked to his fan in a low voice, signed something the man presented him, and gave him a handshake while the remaining players finished putting equipment up. Out of the corner of my eyes, I watched as he looked around the field. There were only four other people; one coach, two other players and me.