The next few days went by uneventfully and yet as eventful as they normally were. We had to get our physicals for the team one day, and the next day we got measured for our uniforms. After each small chunk of a morning, I’d go to work afterward where I’d be harassed by Marc about whether I’d gotten Kulti’s autograph for him yet. Then each evening, I’d practice yoga or go swimming or do some weight training, depending on how tired I was. Then I’d get home and talk to my dad or watch television.
Everyone wanted to know what Reiner Kulti was like, and I had nothing to give them. He showed up to whatever we were doing and stood in whatever corner was available and watched. He didn’t really talk or interact with anyone. He didn’t doanything.
So… that was kind of disappointing for everyone who asked.
A small part of me was surprised the vultures hadn’t descended on his unmoving ass. If he ever needed the money, he could work as one of those living statues that painted their bodies in metallic colors and hung out in Times Square, letting people pay them tips to take pictures with them. His apathy was that bad.
But no one said anything about the press conference from hell or brought up stuff about Eric and Kulti, and there weren’t anymore questions about me rejoining the national team. Overall, there was nothing really for me to complain about. I could act like a normal human being with some dignity, not a stuttering idiot that a decade ago had a crush on the man that everyone was talking about.
So really, what was there to complain about?
ON THE MORNING of our individual photo shoots, I should have known how the interview was going to go when the first thing out of the journalist’s mouth was a mispronounced “Salome!” Suh-lome. Then, even after I corrected him, he still said it the wrong way. Which wasn’t a big deal; I was used to having someone butcher it. It happened all the time.
Suh-lome. Saah-lome. Sah-lowmee. Salami. Salamander.
Salmon. Sal-men. Saul. Sally. Samantha. Or in the case of my brother: Stupid. In the case of my little sister: Bitch.
Regardless, when someone continuously messed up your name, even after you correct them, it was a sign. In this case, it was a sign that I should have known this guy was a moron.
I had tried to get away from him. Usually I tried to sneak away, but lately there were so many of them, it was impossible. The minute I spotted the group of television reporters and journalists by the field where the photographs were set to be taken, my gut churned. I didn’t have a problem walking around in my sports bra in front of everyone and anyone. I could play games just fine in front of thousands of people, but the instant a camera came around when I wasn’t doing those things…
No. No, no, no.
So as soon as I spotted them, I started to circle my way as far from their location as possible. Let them get the other girls first. The furthest group from the entrance stopped Grace, the captain and veteran on the team. Thank you, Jesus. Then I saw another group swoop in on Harlow, and I felt a bolt of relief go through my stomach.
Fifteen more feet to go. Fifteen more feet and I’d be clear. My heart started beating that much faster, and I made sure to keep my eyes forward. No eye contact.
Ten feet. Baby Jesus, please.
“Salome!”
Fuck.
I looked over and breathed a sigh of relief when the reporter shouting didn’t have a camera or a cameraman with him. He was a blogger. I could have kissed him.
The first few questions were normal. How my offseason had gone. How training was going. Who I thought our biggest competitors would be.
It was right around the time that I was finishing his last question, preparing myself to tell him that I needed to go, when I heard the reporters I’d bypassed start chattering loudly. Again, it was no big deal. The journalist’s eyes started darting to the area behind me even as I spoke, watching and waiting for his next victim. There weren’t usually reporters or journalists waiting around before practice unless it was playoff time. At least that’s what it had been like before the former German superstar showed up.
Now, apparently, they all had bottle vision whenever he was nearby. And from the look on the journalist’s face when he saw his next subject, I knew who had caught his attention.
The journalist’s eyes swung from whatever he was looking at behind me… to me and then back again.
A strain of dreadlike anger saturated my belly when Kulti walked by, waving off the three media people who were trying to get his attention by asking questions and shoving their cameras and recording devices in his face.
He could get away with being antisocial, but I couldn’t?
“Isn’t your brother a pro too?” the journalist asked slowly.
I swallowed and forced myself to hope this wasn’t going the way it seemed to be. And yet, I knew it was. “Yeah. He’s a center back,” or as I called him, a center bitch. “He plays for Sacramento normally, but he’s on loan to a team in Europe right now.” This wasthe only reason I was sure he hadn’t called me to complain about Kulti yet. Did he know? He had to. But he was cheap and wasn’t going to call until our standing phone date every other Sunday.
The man’s eyes swung back over to me, so low-lidded I knew I was screwed. “Wasn’t his leg broken years ago?”
It was his left tibia and fibula to be exact. Just thinking about it made my own shins hurt, but I settled for a nod in reply. The less I spoke, the smaller my chances were of incriminating myself by saying something stupid. “Ten years ago.”
“Did it happen during a game?” he was asking, but we both were well aware he knew the answer.
Asshole.
