I couldn’t help the smile that crossed my face. Maybe he wasn’t in love with me, and maybe I wasn’t really the best friend he’d ever had, but he cared about me. Most of his actions made it loud and clear, even when he was being a bit of a gruff, emotionless dick. I could have done worse.
All right, that wasn’t true. I couldn’t have loved anyone else, definitely not anyone worse. I wouldn’t have done something so stupid.
Not that having feelings for him wasn’t completely fucking dumb, because it was, but… whatever. This was so hard.
“I’ll send you a text when I get home,” I agreed, opening the door and getting in. Once the car was on, I rolled down the window and watched him standing just a few feet away. “You know, even if you didn’t get Mike, Alejandro, and Franz to come to the camp, and bought shoes for the kids, I would still think you were kind of great… most of the time, right?”
The lights outside of his house caught him looking up at the sky. “Go home.”
To my great pride, I only felt determination in his silence on the way back to my place.
What was the saying? When one door closes, another one opens. I might just have to do a little breaking and entering to get the right one for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
In the month that followed Franz’s admission, life seemed to strap a jetpack to itself and take off in every direction, both the good and the bad.
Pipers’ practice went on as normal, or at least as relatively normal as possible. Going back after I found out what Cordero was planning was tough, really tough. I was a horrible liar with an itty-bitty temper that desperately wanted to make an appearance. How could I face these people like nothing was wrong? How could I make it seem like I wasn’t dying a little inside while planning my escape?
It was hard. We had advanced to the first round of the playoffs. I was resentful and angry, and my emotions hadn’t wavered at all. The worst aspect of being so bitter was the part of me that held my ego above winning. Pride told me I shouldn’t give a single crap how the rest of the season went. The reasonable half of me that didn’t get sappy right before my period, said that I had no business thinking that way. I needed the Pipers to do well.
Everything was wrapped up together now. I’d spoken with my agent and asked her to discreetly see if we could find a spot for me somewhere else in Europe—specifically the teams Kulti and Franz had suggested that afternoon at his house. She’d been more excitedthan I could have imagined, and within two weeks sent me an email telling me there were three teams interested in speaking with me.
I talked to my parents on the phone and told them everything. The first thing out of my dad’s mouth before he told me he had plenty of airline miles to visit Europe was “Estecabrón.”This bitch, referring to Cordero. After that, I called my brother where he proceeded to chew me out for being friends with the German, and then offered to help me find a place to live, followed by a passing “fuck them,” referring to the WPL. We ended the conversation with me critiquing his latest game.
Then there were the emails, the phone calls, and the reporters.
Why people even cared about the pictures that popped up of Kulti and I during the youth camp blew my mind. Four youth camps worth of cell phone pictures taken by parents, teachers, and students flooded both gossip and Kulti fan sites. Shots of us smiling, laughing, a few with his arm around me or with blurred faces of kids between us were being sent to me by my dad who thought it was the coolest freaking thing ever. I, on the other hand, was only slightly horrified by the attention.
“A LOVE AFFAIR ON THE FIELD” was the last headline he’d sent me with stars in the subject.
Before that had been “KULTI’S EX WANTS HIM BACK” and, “KULTI CAUGHT WITH PLAYER.”
“How long have you been dating?” became the question I dreaded hearing the most in the world.
Honestly, it was only thinking about my dad and knowing he was probably egging on the rumors in his circle of friends that kept me from actually commenting. I could die tomorrow knowing I hadn’t done a single thing wrong. There wasn’t anything to weigh down my conscience.
I stopped talking to members of the media who asked. I stopped checking my email nearly all together once I received a message in Italian along the lines ofyou’reanuglybitchandIhopeyoudie. I also only answered calls from numbers saved in my phone.
I didn’t say anything to the German, because what was thepoint? No one was threatening to kill me. I was also partially concerned he would overreact and blow it out of proportion.
Overall things were fine. Until they weren’t.
WE WERE in Florida for the first playoff game when it happened.
I was standing near the Jacksonville Shields’ goal with a few other players from both teams crowded together to wait out the winner of a battle for the ball, when Grace managed to steal it away. We were tied zero to zero and well into the second half. Someone needed to score.
I waited and waited. I watched the veteran Piper move the ball around and kept up my vigilance to see who stood close enough to accept a pass at a moment’s notice. I’d been playing with Grace long enough to recognize her body language and what she wanted to do. There was an opening between us, but the distance was a problem. Obviously there was only one thing to do, and I was ready.
She kicked the ball up high. I braced for it and watched it fly right at me.
It was going to be a header, definitely. Head meet ball, ball meet another player with a better shot at the goal. It was one of my favorite moves.
I went for it; I jumped straight into the air as a version of my lifelong friend and enemy, the ball, continued its trajectory toward me. Someone elbowed me right in the boob, but I ignored the pain. I could sense people moving around nearby.
I was going to get it. I was going to get it. Later on, I would realize that I didn’t get it.
The last thing I was aware of was the sharp pain that cracked the back of my head.
