Kulti(85)

The next thing I knew they were on their feet, hands on their heads, losing their minds. The guys went up to the German, speaking quick Spanish and watching him like they had never seen anything like him before.

It wasn’t until I heard the first one who had spoken, say, “No me digas!” that I heard Kulti reply in perfect Spanish, explaining that he was real and not a ghost, “No soy fantasma.”

The guys lost it again. “You speak Spanish!” one of them exclaimed in the same language.

The German shrugged and gave them an easy smile.

For the next couple of minutes, I watched as the strange men blasted off several questions, and they were answered in an accent that rivaled mine.

I’m not going to lie, not even a little bit. Besides a big butt, I had a thing for guys that spoke different languages. While Reiner Kulti was every bit as impressive of a male specimen as you could get physically, the way he spoke Spanish multiplied his attractiveness by about thirty percent.

Okay, thirty percent minimum.

But it wasn’t like I could or would think about that too much. He was my coach.

And I was his friend. Or something like that.





Chapter Sixteen





The first sign that something was off was when I spotted the three people on the edge of the field halfway through Pipers practice two days later. Two of them I recognized from the team’s office staff, and the other person, carrying a kit, was a stranger. It was only on rare occasions that management showed up during training, if there were photographers on the field or if there was an exhibition game going on, but never without a reason.

The second sign that something was up was when they approached Gardner. It was the way he reacted to whatever they were telling him that had me a little worried. He looked annoyed and possibly outraged. Easygoing and calm ninety-nine-percent-of-the-time-Gardner, angered?

Yeah. No.

Then the clapping started. The meeting of palm on palm that paused our warm-up. “Ladies, we’re taking it easy today.”

Easy?

Apprehension rippled down my spine.

“Apparently, we’re doing a round of drug testing today. It’s nothing to worry about. As most of you know, you are subject to random drug testing throughout the season. If we can have your cooperation we can get through this quickly, and after your sample is received you’re free for the rest of the morning,” Gardner explained, frustration tracing his words.

Random drug testing? The last time I’d been randomly drug tested had been back in college. The stipulation included in everyone’s contract was more of a blue moon-type occurrence. If they wanted to they could test you, but apart from the health exams and blood tests we took at the beginning of every season, I’d never heard of it happening.

So, yeah, that was freaking weird.

I had nothing to hide. The hardest drug I took was an over-the-counter painkiller and that was only in a dire situation like with my foot.

There was no reason for me to think the testing had anything to do with me.

Then Gardner called me into his office that afternoon.



* * *



“Sal, take a seat,” Gardner said from his spot behind his desk.

I gave him an uncomfortable smile and sat down.

Coaches just didn’t call you after practice was over, the day a random drug testing went on, and ask you to come in for a chat. They didn’t. I’d been in the middle of a nursery with Marc choosing some annuals for a project, when the call came through. I’d been shitting bricks since.

There were only a few reasons why Gardner wouldn’t just tell me over the phone what he wanted: they were trading me, dropping me or some super-fast test had come back and found something in my urine that said I was doping.

Me, doping. Jesus Christ.

I wasn’t so badass or indestructible that I wasn’t on the verge of losing it. First, I didn’t want to get traded. Second, I sure as shit didn’t want to get dropped from the team; even though my contract was good for another year, you still never knew. Third, I sure as hell wasn’t ingesting anything that was remotely illegal.

But still.

I managed to tell Marc what was going on, and the ‘oh shit’ look he’d given me was enough.

Taking a deep breath, I gripped my thighs and steeled myself. I might as well bite the bullet. “So, what’s going on, G?”

He sat back, crossing his arms over his chest and smiled. “Always to the point, that’s why I like you, Sal.”

Gardner might like me, but he wasn’t telling me what was going on. “Are you letting me go?” To my credit, I sounded calm, not at all like I was on the verge of taking a bat to his office furniture.

A bat to his office? Dear God. I needed to tone it down.