That made way too much sense.
I eyed the German sitting at the far end of the bench from a side view. What would that be like? To have psycho fans that would stalk you or possibly be such a danger to you that an entire association had to agree to not post times you’d be present without putting you at risk? I couldn’t imagine that. I didn’t want to. The simple idea of it made me feel claustrophobic.
He was just minding his own business, living his life, and… Poop.
I faced forward again to watch what was left of the game. We won. Again.
After the two teams high-fived each other in good sportsmanship and we congratulated each other for kicking ass, we were all ready to leave. There was still some equipment around the field we’d finished using, and I wasn’t one of those people who just pretended not to see it and left. It made me feel bad, so I went ahead and started grabbing things, helping the rest of the staff along with a couple other players who hadn’t immediately taken off.
“Thanks for helping out,” Gardner called out as we walked right past each other, me heading toward the bag as he walked away from it.
I nodded at him. “Sure, G.” My parents hadn’t raised me to be a lazy ass.
There was a sudden loud yell—a scream really. High and just barely distinctively male, it made my ears hurt at the same time it embarrassed me because it was almost deranged sounding. Sure enough, the noise had originated from way too close. A man was halfway on the field, his gaze locked on the six-foot-two retiree about ten feet away from me, shoving dirty towels into a bag.
I watched as the man let out another shriek—it was a happy one, I guess—and took two baby-bird steps forward before stopping again.
“Kulti?” His voice wavered on the name, and then he went charging.
I stood there with my mouth open in awe as Kulti took it all in stride, smiling gently for what had to be the first time I’d ever seen—possibly ever?—and made it seem like it wasn’t a big deal at all that this guy was flipping out. I didn’t stare, but I kept an eye on them, watching as Kulti talked to his fan in a low voice, signed something the man presented him, and gave him a handshake while the remaining players finished putting equipment up. Out of the corner of my eyes, I watched as he looked around the field. There were only four other people—one coach, two other players, and me.
He still kept on looking around like someone would magically appear. Over the course of the next five minutes, he glanced up five more times. It was finally on the last look around that I sighed and realized what he was doing.
He was searching for help.
By the looks of it, no one else in the general vicinity seemed to be catching on, or they just were unwilling to help. That little voice in my head that seemed to be my conscience reminded me that if I didn’t help him I’d feel guilty later.
Not that it made it any easier.
One more sigh and I started walking toward the German, bag over my shoulder, hands knotted behind my back; I thought about what I was going to say to get him out of his encounter. Kulti looked up as soon as I got about halfway to him, his features calm and even as he listened to the fan talking.
I raised my eyebrows and made my eyes go wide in a “just goalong with it” gesture.
He blinked in response.
While I was a shitty liar, I could bend the truth so I wasn’t really lying… mostly. I plastered on a smile as soon as the fan saw me coming. “Hi,” I greeted him before turning my attention to Kulti. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but would you mind helping me change my tire, please?”
Yeah, I almost winced at myself for inventing such a girly make-believe situation. I could damn well change my own tire. When I moved away from my parents for the first time, I made sure to look up an instructional video and watch it enough times that the steps were ingrained in my memory. But it wasn’t like anyone else knew that. Plus, it’d been the first thing that had popped into my head when trying to think of an excuse to save Kulti.
There was no hesitation on his behalf when he nodded and said way too sincerely, “Of course.” The German chocolate cake—which I was not a fan of, for the record—turned his attention back to the other man and quickly thanked him for his support and something about it being a pleasure meeting him. Before I knew it, The King was walking alongside me across the field in the direction of the parking lot.
I repeat, Kulti was walking alongside me.
Poop. Poop. Poop.
I took a mental breather and swallowed, glancing at the man next to me.
“Don’t turn around,” he ordered in a low voice.
All right. The “how about you don’t tell me what to do” lived and died in a split second right on my lips.
Instead, I shot him an annoyed glance.
He happened to be looking right at me as I did it.
Fantastic.
Almost as if he could read my mind, he explained, “He’s watching. I’m sure of it.”
