Today though, he hadn’t been an asshole or greedy or condescending. All the characteristics I’d ever heard of from people who had played with him were nonexistent. This was the same person who had gotten suspended from ten games for headbutting the hell out of another player during a friendly game—a game that didn’t even count for anything. Then there was the time he’d gotten into an altercation with a player who had blatantly tried to kick him in the back of the knee. He was the train wreck you wanted to watch happen and keep happening… at least he had been.
Instead, he’d just stood there while we introduced ourselves and then, afterward, watched us when he wasn’t talking to Coach Gardner. I didn’t even think he touched a ball—not that I was looking that much.
The single thing I’d heard him say had been “Good morning.” Good morning. This simple greeting from the same man who had gotten in trouble for bellowing, “Fuck you!” during an Altus Cup on major television.
What the hell was wrong with me that I’d be complaining about Kulti being so distant? So nice?
Yeah, there was something wrong with me.
I coughed into the phone. “It was fine. He didn’t really talk to us or anything.” And by “didn’t really,” I really meant “at all.” I wasn’t going to tell Dad that though.
“Oh.” His disappointment was evident in the way he dropped the consonant so harshly.
Well, I felt like an asshole.
“I’m sure he’s just trying to warm up to us.” Maybe. Right?
“A lo mejor.” Maybe, Dad said in that same sort of tone he used when I was a kid and I’d ask him for something he knew damn well he wasn’t going to give me. “Nothing happened, then?”
I didn’t even need to close my eyes and think back on what had happened that day. Not a single thing. Kulti had just stood back andwatched us run around executing a variety of exercises to make sure we were all in shape. He hadn’t even rolled his eyes, much less call us a group of incompetent idiots—another thing he’d been known to call his teammates when they weren’t playing to the level he expected.
“Nothing,” and that was the truth. Maybe he’d gotten shy over the years?
Yeah, not likely, but I could tell myself that. Or at least tell Dad that so he wouldn’t sound so disheartened after he’d been so over the moon when he’d first found out Kulti would be our coach.
“But hey, I had the best times during each sprint,” I added. His laugh was soft and possibly a little disappointed.
“That’s my girl. Running every morning?”
“Every morning, and I’ve been swimming more.” I stopped talking when I heard a voice in the background.
All I heard was my dad mumbling,“It’sSal…youwannatalktoher?...Okay… Sal, your mom says hi.”
“Tell her I said hi back.”
“Mydaughtersayshi…No,she’smine.Theotheroneisyours…Ha!No!...Sal are you mine or your mom’s?” he asked me.
“I’m the milkman’s.”
“I knew it!” He finally laughed with a deep, pleased sigh.
I was smiling like a total fool. “I love you too, old man.”
“I know you do, but I love you more.” He chuckled.
“Yeah, yeah. Call me tomorrow? I’m pretty tired, and I want to ice my foot for a little bit.”
A ragged sigh came out of him, but I knew he wouldn’t say anything. His sigh said it all and more; it was a gentle wordless reminder that I needed to take care of myself. We’d gone over this a hundred times in person. Dad and I understood each other in a different way. If it had been my brother saying something about needing ice, I probably would have asked him if he thought he’d live, and Dad would have told him to suck it up. It was the beauty of being my father’s daughter, I guess. Well, it was the beauty of being me and not my baby sister, who he constantly fought with.
“Okay, tomorrow. Sleep good,mija.”
“You too, Dad. Night.”
He bid me another goodbye, and we hung up. Sitting up on my bed in the garage apartment that I’d been renting for the last two years, I let myself think of Kulti and how he’d just stood there like a golden gargoyle, watching, watching, and watching.
It was then that I reminded myself about him pooping again.
CHAPTER FOUR
