Kulti(69)

Oh God. He was back. My gut said that he might have gotten laid, though he didn’t strike me as the type that sex would have made that big of a difference in him, but it was beyond that.

Those greenish-hazel eyes looked around the field as he shoved a big yellow obstacle into place, and he caught me looking at him. His eyelids lowered and one corner of his mouth pulled up into a smile that was one fourth the size of a normal one. It morphed into a smirk a second later.

I knew what he was thinking: loser.

That smirk said it all, though. I was right. Maybe he’d gotten laid, and I didn’t really like the way that thought made my ears feel strange, but I knew why he’d been smiling.

Because maybe he’d kicked my ass the day before.

But the truth was, at least the version of the truth I wanted to accept, he’d finally played soccer for the first time in years.

And you know what? As much as I hated the fact that he’d won by a point, I had to snicker to myself. You’re welcome, pumpernickel.

Damn that was annoying. He was annoying.

“Pssh. He probably stayed up doing inventory on his trophies last night.” I laughed.

Harlow snickered and laughed.

Waggling my eyebrows, I elbowed her in the side and gestured toward where the mini-bands were located for stretching. Jeez Louise, I was sore. I probably looked like a lumbering bear getting to my feet. Busy adjusting my bun and headband so my bangs wouldn’t get into my face, I barely happened to look up just as I was passing by Gardner, Kulti and Phyllis, the fitness coach.

“Morning,” I greeted them.

“Good morning,” Gardner replied.

Phyllis said something that was probably “good morning.”

The German grunted, “morning.” This stupid expression crossed his eyes, and I pretended to ignore him as I kept on walking. Well it was more of a limp than a walk.

My limp only got more pronounced after the first half an hour of practice. It got so bad that I started daydreaming about actually taking an ice bath. I mean, who dreams about an ice bath?

The cherry topping on my sundae of pain happened when I jogged by Kulti. He shouted after me, “Are you planning on running any faster today, Casillas?”

It took everything inside of me not to flip him off with both my middle fingers.

Practice wasn’t the best. I was sore all over; my hamstrings were too tight, my shoulders were a little sore, and I was tired. Yesterday had been too much. So yeah, I dragged ass. It didn’t help that everyone pointed it out. Two hours felt like ten and by the time the equipment was put away, I was beyond struggling. But I’d accomplished what I had set out to do, hadn’t I? I’d gotten Scrooge to sort of smile and he hadn’t talked a whole bunch of shit to me.

I might have lost our one-on-one, but I’d won the real battle.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when I heard a snicker. “You seemed to be struggling today.”

Slowly pushing up to my feet from the crouching position I was in, I instantly rolled my eyes at Kulti’s question. He stood a few feet away, having pushed one of the heavy metal obstacles off to the side of the field.

“Oh, I’m perfect. How are you feeling?”

His mouth went into a straight line that said exactly how full of shit he thought I was. “Wonderful.”

So full of shit. “Oh yeah? I thought I saw you favoring your left leg a little bit, but I guess not.”

As if bringing it up made it hurt more, his leg jerked at the same time his eyes narrowed. Voice flat and dry, he said, “My leg is fine,” but he still had that funny look in his eye. As if he was only barely frustrated with his knee hurting—or in his case ‘not hurting.’

I purposely glanced at his knee and said, “huh” before looking right back at his face.

Tipping my chin up, I stared him right in the eye. He seriously had the most intense face I had ever, and probably would ever, see. His gaze was unflinching and solid. If someone could have light sabers in their eyes, it would be him. He had the demanding stare that boxers and fighters seemed to perfect when they were face to face with their opponent during weigh-ins.

Wait a second. Why was he looking at me like I was his enemy?

For one brief second, the idea bothered me. Later on, I’d wonder if I was just so subconsciously bored that having Kulti look at me like I was a real opponent was exciting. But then… I’d take it.

I smiled at him, no, smirked at him. I was pleased with myself.

His nostrils flared in response, and he just kept right on staring, head held high, neck elongated. He was such a proud asshole.

And as much as I would have enjoyed standing there, staring at him, I knew how important it was for me to do something about my body pain. I let my smile grow bigger and then took a few steps backward. “I’ll see you later, Coach.” Two more steps backward, I eyed his leg. “Keep off your leg.”