The German’s lips peeled back into something that was a mix between an incredulous smile and an amazed one. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me.” I shrugged at him. “You look ready to strangle someone at least five times each practice, and that’s when you don’t even say anything. When things actually come out of your mouth, I’m pretty sure you would light us all on fire if you could get away with it.”
When he didn’t agree or deny anything, I blinked. “Am I right or am I right?”
He mumbled something that could have been “you’re right,” but it was said so low I couldn’t be sure. The fact he was avoiding my eyes said enough. It had me grinning.
“So why are you doing it? I’m sure they’re not paying you aquarter of as much as any of the European men’s teams would. I’m definitely sure the MPL would have paid you a lot more, too. But you’re here instead. What’s up with that?”
Nothing.
It felt like a few hours had passed without him saying anything.
Honestly it was really kind of insulting. The longer he took to not answer, the more it hurt my feelings. I wasn’t asking him for his bank account number or for a freaking kidney. I had taken him home with me, brought him into my house, told him about my grandfather, and he couldn’t even answer one single personal question? I’d understood from the beginning he had trust issues, and I couldn’t say I blamed him. My brother got all cagey around people he didn’t know. At some point, you never knew who was your friend for the right reasons and who wasn’t.
But… I guess I had thought we were past that.
I swallowed back my disappointment and looked away, scooting forward on the couch so I could get up. “I’m going to make some popcorn, do you want some?”
“No.”
Averting my eyes, I got up and headed into the kitchen. I pulled a pot out and set it on the stove, lighting it. Collecting my extra-large tub of coconut oil and bag of kernels, I tried to suppress the feeling in my chest that I was suddenly not so fond of.
He didn’t trust me. Then again, what the hell did I expect? It wasn’t like anything I found out about him wasn’t given out in drips. Tiny, tiny drips.
I’d barely scooped some oil into the heated pot when I felt Kulti standing behind me. I didn’t turn around even when he got so close that I couldn’t take a step back without touching him. His silence was incredibly typical, and I didn’t feel like saying anything either. I scooped a few tablespoons of popcorn kernels into the pot and set the lid on, giving it a shake, which was angrier than it needed to be.
“Sal,” he said my name in that smooth tone that hinted at a trace of an accent.
Keeping my eyes on the pot as I opened the lid to let the steam out, I asked, “Did you want some after all?”
The touch on my bare shoulder was all fingertips.
But I still didn’t turn around. I gave the pot another forceful shake, but his fingers didn’t fall off; they just moved further up my shoulder until he was closer to my neck. “You can take the first batch if you want.”
“Turn around,” he requested.
I tried to shrug off his fingers. “I need to keep an eye on this so it doesn’t burn, Kulti.”
He dropped his hand immediately. “Turn around, Sal,” he said forcefully.
“Wait a minute, would you?” One more hard shake to the pot, and I opened the lid.
The German reached around me and turned off the knob on the stove. “No. Talk to me.”
Carefully, I wrapped my fingers around the long oven handle and took a breath to bottle my frustration up.
“You said a few minutes ago you didn’t have a temper,” he reminded me, which only made the moment that much more aggravating.
“I’m not mad,” I snapped back a little too quickly.
“No?”
“No.”
He let out a sound that could have been a scoff if I thought German people were capable of making noises like that. “You called me Kulti.”
My fingers flexed around the oven handle. “That’s your name.”
