Finally, about an hour into practice, I caught Kulti off to the side, going over our playbook. As casually as possible, I made my way over, and in a voice just loud enough for only him to hear, I said, “Someone from theHouston Timesthis morning asked me if I knew about you having your license suspended. I don’t know anything, and that’s what I said, but I thought you should know so you can tell your PR person to take care of it, or whatever it is they do.”
It didn’t escape me that the moment the nine-letter word made its way out of my mouth, he stopped. His entire body strung itself into a tight immovable bow.
His body language wasn’t mine to analyze, I reminded myself as I walked away to let him absorb what he’d learned.
But seriously, wouldn’t he have needed to get a DUI or a DWI to have a suspended license?
I wasn’t disappointed by the possibility that there was a chance he had one; I’d learned from a friend when I was younger that things like that were more luck-based than anything. How many people didn’t drive home after having a few drinks? Sometimes you got caught, and most times you didn’t. Whatever.
Then again I’d grown up reading about Reiner Kulti’s strict regimen. How anal he was about his food and his workouts and his life in general. So…
It’s not your business. It really wasn’t. My business was on the field. I had to remind myself of that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I shouldn’t have been surprised to find the German waiting on the curb. Mostly, I wasn’t. Mostly.
“Need another ride?” I asked, stopping right next to him so that we were side by side. He cut straight to it. “Please.”
Please. Well, how about that. I was almost tempted to look around and make sure pigs hadn’t started flying. “Come on, then.”
Kulti threw his bag into the trunk alongside mine. Neither one of us said anything as we got inside, and I couldn’t help but feel a little awkward that I’d said something to him about the license rumor. About halfway to his maybe-house, I finally broke the silence. The radio wasn’t on, and the quiet was stifling.
“Can I ask you something?” I asked, slowly.
“Yes.” There was a pause. “I might not answer.”
I hated it when people said that. “All right.” I psyched myself up to ask the question I couldn’t stop thinking about. The possibility of getting reamed was very real, but screw it, you only live once. “Why are your PKs sucking so much?” I went for it. I just blurted it out. Good God, I should have been proud of myself. “I don’t get it.”
In an ideal world, he would have yelled at me and said that I was a lowly peasant in his universe who had no right to speak to him, much less ask questions like that.
In the real world, he made a choking sound.
I gave him a side look to make sure he was still alive.
He was.
Was his face red?
“No one can say you aren’t honest, can they?” he asked. Another choking sound—or maybe it was a snicker?—came out of him before he continued. “You can say I’m out of practice.”
All right, that was something. Not enough, obviously. “How long out of practice?” I was hesitant asking. I felt like I was trying to pet the mean dog on the other side of the fence.
He raised a hand and ran it over the short hair on his head. That hard jaw might have jutted out to the side, but I couldn’t be sure. The one thing Iwassure of: he did glance over in my direction like he couldn’t believe I had the nerve to ask.
Honestly, I couldn’t believe I’d actually gone through with it. What I really couldn’t believe was that he replied.
“Do you know when I retired?” he asked in that strict voice with only the slightest hint of an accent. I remembered hearing somewhere that he spoke four different languages fluently, or was it three?
Poop. Who cared how many languages he spoke?
Of course I knew when he retired, but I didn’t say it like that. I could be cool about it. “Yes.”
“That’s your answer.” Wait.
Wait.
“You haven’t done what since you retired?” The question was careful.
