Kulti(90)

I felt my eyes get watery with disappointment in the team and the coaches who hadn’t fought to keep me on. More than anything, I was disappointed with myself. I sniffled, then sniffled again, trying to control the water works creeping up in my eyes. It had been years since I cried over leaving the national team. One month was all I’d given myself to be upset over it. Since then I’d locked it up, accepted reality and moved on with the rest of my life. When something is broken into too many pieces, you can’t stare at them and try to glue them back together; sometimes you just have to sweep up the pieces and buy something else.

“Are you crying?”

Clearing my throat, I blinked hard twice, lowering my gaze to the small cleft in the German’s chin. “No.”

His fingers went up to push at my shoulder lightly. “Stop it.”

I lifted my chin and pushed his shoulder right back, sniffling while doing it. “You stop it. I’m not crying.”

“I have two eyes,” he replied, looking down at me with a troubled expression on his face.

Just as I was about to sniffle again, I stopped. Those green-brown eyes were way too close and too observant. The last person in the world I would want to show any signs of weakness in front of would be him. Instead, I let my nose get all watery and avoided wiping it as I stared right back at him. “Obviously, I do too, Berlin.”

The ‘Berlin’ did it.

To give him credit, he settled for giving me a scowl instead of an ugly word for how much of a jackass I was for calling him that. “I’m not from Berlin.”

A fact I was well aware of. He didn’t know much I knew about him, and I wasn’t about to tell him. Something about that little secret made me relax.

When I looked right back at him with a clear expression and relaxed shoulders, as innocent as I could possibly make myself out to be, Kulti tilted his head back to look up at the dark sky. “Get on the bus, Sal.”

So we were back to ‘Sal.’

Knowing damn well when it was time to either retreat or answer some question I wouldn’t want to, I took two steps back. “Whatever you say, sir.”



* * *



Game?

I flexed my foot inside my boot and typed back: Sure.

Same time? Kulti texted back.

Ja. I smiled at the screen before setting my phone on my lap.

“What the hell are you smiling at?” Marc asked from his spot behind the driver’s seat.

The smile eased itself off my face. “Nothing.”

“Liar.”

I rolled my eyes as the phone vibrated from between my legs. Bringing it back out, I made sure Marc’s attention was back on the road.

Go make a quesadilla.

I started laughing hysterically.

“Goddamnit, Sal!” Marc shouted. “You want me to get into a wreck?”

Despite Marc yelling at me for bursting out so suddenly, it didn’t stop me from cracking up.



* * *



He was waiting on the bench by the time I pulled my car into the park’s lot, headband on, bat leaning against his thigh and a glove on his lap.

I kept my face even, like he hadn’t sent me the most ridiculous text message earlier in the day. “Hi.”

“Sal,” Kulti said my name like he’d been using it forever, standing up with his things in hand. He had on the same variation of an outfit he usually did: white athletic shorts, a plain black T-shirt and black and green RK signature running shoes.

“Ready?” I asked, eyeing his muscular calves for a split second.

“Ja,” he answered.

I looked up at his face and snickered, but he wasn’t smiling at me, he was just watching like always. We walked toward the field together silently. The awkward conversation we’d had during the Pipers game a few days ago seemed forgotten. I understood what he meant and where he was coming from, so I didn’t take it personally.

Not surprisingly, we were split up into two different teams. Most of the players at the park were people we’d played with the last couple of times. One of them was the douche-bag that played whack-a-mole with my foot, who was standing off with a couple of other guys, all of them staring at me.

Weird.

An open palm smacked me in the shoulder. “Watch it.” Kulti leaned over to meet me eye to eye, his index finger pointing low in the direction of my shoe.

Definitely. I stared up into his murky green eyes and nodded. “I will. Good luck.”

Instead of saying anything, he walked past me, bumping the side of his upper arm against my shoulder, lightly… playfully.

“Come on, you punk. I wanna start the game before I turn forty,” Marc shouted, waving me onto the side of the field. Our team was batting first.

“That’s like next week.”