He left, and I was alone again.
I didn’t let myself think of Kulti and why he hadn’t come to check on me yet.
I watched a little more television, grateful I actually could without my head hurting worse, had a visit from a nurse, and finally gave up hope that the German was coming to check on me around eight o’clock. I mean, we were just friends. He wasn’t my boyfriend or anything. Plus, I was sure he’d found out from someone else that I was fine.
I got off the bed and headed to the bathroom where I showered,put on the same underwear and scrubs they’d let me wear since I’d declined a gown, and went back out. The instant the bathroom door opened, I knew someone else was in the room. I could see the green and black running shoes on the mattress.
Sure enough, in the chair closest to the bed was a surly, scowling German with his feet propped up, a fruit bouquet on his lap, and the remote on the armrest. The television was set to the Sports Network. Kulti’s head, the hair still as closely cut as always, turned slowly in my direction.
“Taco,” he greeted me.
“Berlin.” I rounded the chair and went to sit on the edge of the bed, facing him. Kulti’s lids were low as he regarded my face, plucking a piece of star-shaped pineapple from the big bouquet on his lap. He didn’t look amused or particularly happy to see me either. “What’s your problem?” I asked him when he continued staring.
He crossed one foot over the other, put a strawberry in his mouth, and kept right on scrutinizing me.
All right. I eyed what was left of the fruit. “Did you bring that for me?”
Those green-brown eyes stayed steady as he took a piece of kale, put it between his lips, and chewed.
When I stuck my hand out to pluck a chocolate-covered strawberry, he moved the bouquet out of my reach.
“Seriously?”
He blinked.
“What’s up your butt?” I asked.
He swallowed the kale in his mouth and kept his face even. “I called you.”
It was my turn to blink. “I was too busy being carted out on a stretcher to drop by the locker room and grab my phone,” I deadpanned.
“I see.” He put a piece of pineapple in his mouth.
“Is that why you’re mad?”
“I’m not mad.”
“You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad.”
“Rey, I’m not blind. You’re pissed off. Just tell me what you’re mad about. The team won.”
Kulti turned, set the arrangement on the table behind him, and sat back sniffling drily. His eyes flicked up to the television screen, and his nostrils flared as he tipped his chin up. “Look.”
I had to turn my entire body toward the television mounted up on the wall. The two familiar anchors forSportsRoomwere going through their highlights of the day. I caught the end of number four: an amazing double play during a baseball game.
“NumberthreetodayisfromaWomen’sProfessionalLeaguegame.SalCasillas,oftheHoustonPipers,tooktheterm‘header’toadifferentlevelduringasecondroundplayoffgame.”
The clip began with me jumping, surrounded by three opposing players. It showed Melanie, the girl who had elbowed me, circling around at the last minute and jumping up high too. Then it happened.
Holy crap, my head hurt at the replay of her arm shooting back and my head snapping forward, followed by the shot of me crumbling to the ground like I was dead.
“Oooh,” one of the anchor’s disembodied voice filled in the action. “Thathurtme.”
The footage kept going, showing Melanie being shoved away by Harlow as a referee ran up to see what was happening. Out of the corner of the screen, two male bodies were seen running onto the field, one overpowering the other in less than a second, long legs pumping faster and faster in a sprint that could have set a world record. The man slid to his knees across the turf, hunching over the body—me—on the ground.
“Nowyouknowit’sbadwhenReinerKultiisonthefieldcheckingonhisplayer,” the other anchor said in a mocking voice.
