But still, he was a fucking asshole.
Then it happened again.
A few minutes later, once the teams had switched positions, I was running—not full speed—toward third base after stealing second. Just as I was coming up to the base, someone from behind me sped up, and completely unnecessarily, shoved me forward as he attempted to tag me out.
I went flying, straight on a mission to eat a whole bunch of dirt.
Under normal circumstances, I would have been able to stop myself, but with the added push, I had too much momentum going. The image of falling awkwardly on my knee or ankle, and the possibility of tearing something flashed through my brain. There was no graceful way to stop without really hurting myself. So I went forward, hands up in the sloppiest slide that wouldn’t break a wrist, and I belly-flopped. I mean, belly-flopped and still skidded a bit. The fall was hard and painful. It reminded me of that time I dove off the platform when I was a kid and knocked the wind out of myself, almost feeling like I might have cracked a rib.
But the point was, I fell, I slid. I’d been shoved. And I was not okay with it, especially not when the silly, stupid man decided to stand over me, six feet of douche-bag supreme.
My stomach burned, and my lower ribs ached as I tried to push up to my hands and knees.
Holy shit.
I sucked in a breath and hissed it right back out, one hand going under my shirt to palm the skin that I knew was scraped to hell.
Before I could even successfully sit up on my knees, the culprit had been shoved to ground. I mean he was shoved hard. It wasn’t Marc, and it wasn’t Simon. It was Kulti standing with his back to me. Kulti had pushed the full-grown man to the ground.
Reiner ‘The King’ Kulti stood over the fucking weasel, straddling his body in a squat. “You coward,” he spat.
Literally, I saw saliva coming out of the German’s mouth as he said words in his native language, which I didn’t understand but got the gist of. They weren’t friendly, not at all.
“You’re pathetic.” Honestly, I thought he was going to slap him and was only slightly disappointed when he didn’t. His face kept moving lower and lower until I was sure the blood rushed to his head.
What followed was an explosion of German that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Vicious and sharp-edged, I only understood a few words here and there. Something about dying and his investment?
What the hell that meant, I had no idea. What I did know was that it sounded incredibly ugly. It sounded so ugly; I felt a little shiver roll down the length of my spine even as I froze in place on my knees, mere feet away from the action.
“It really is him,” Marc whispered in a reverent voice, scaring the crap out of me because I had no idea he was so close.
“Shh,” I hissed so I could hear if anything else was said to the idiot on the ground.
Sure enough, I wasn’t left hanging. Kulti straightened until he was standing up, legs on both sides of the guy’s body. “Next time, I’ll break your hand.” With that, he turned around. I’d swear on my life he cocked his leg back as if planning to kick the man, but at the last minute changed his mind and kept going… toward me.
What did I do? I just stayed there. I just stayed right there.
Had he, the man who hadn’t even batted an eyelash when a teammate of his had gotten two broken vertebrae after a cheap shot, defended me? Me?
That imposing six-foot-two frame stopped four steps later, eyes down at the hand I had under my shirt; why, I wasn’t sure. I was so wrapped up in Kulti’s actions that I couldn’t have been sure about anything.
His nostrils flared, and I swear his entire upper body seemed to expand as he reached forward, his finger barely grazing my chin. Kulti muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “so lucky,” under his breath, his chin turning to pause just above his collarbone, like he couldn’t bear to look at me. Adam’s apple bobbing, he seemed to struggle for another breath before getting himself under control.
His intense gaze ignored the gaping mouths surrounding us. He said in a crisp tone, hands wrapping around my elbows, “We’re done here. I’ll get your keys.”
All I could do was nod. I might have even forgotten to breathe from the shock and excitement as he continued holding me, helping me up to my feet. My ribs sang a sorrowful song as I stood up with a groan. The skin over my stomach hurt, but I managed to make eye contact with Simon and Marc.
“I’m fine,” I said, for once in my life not caring that all these people I didn’t know well, were staring at the sideshow known as Kulti Kicking Ass.
“You sure?” Marc asked, his face creased with worry. I nodded. “Call me later, okay?”