It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.
Kulti’s mouth twisted to the side at the same time his nostrils flared. “I haven’t played since I retired. If you tell anyone?—”
I almost slammed on my brakes.
Okay, I didn’t, but I wanted to. I couldn’t believe him. I eased the car to a stop at a red light as he finished his stupid threat that I chose to ignore. Slowly, incredulously, I said, “You’re joking.” Who was I kidding? He didn’t have humor in his DNA.
Sure enough, he confirmed it. “I am not.”
“No.”
He arched a dark eyebrow. “I don’t lie.”
I let my head fall back against the headrest as I took in what he’d admitted. Two years. Two years! He hadn’t played in two years! “At all?” My voice was all low and whisper-like.
“Correct.”
Holy fuck. It felt like the world had been ripped out from under my feet. Two freaking years for a player like him? What in the hell was that?
I wanted to tell him something, to apologize or something, but I could only open my mouth and close it, good intentions present.
But I knew that my pity wasn’t what he’d want. If I had to bet money, I would have said that the longest length of time he’d ever taken off from playing was when he tore some ligaments in his foot, but I wasn’t about to bust out my Kulti-psycho-stalker knowledge.
Keeping my eyes forward, I cleared my throat and then followed up by doing it again.
Because two years! Two years!
Holy shit. How was that even possible?
I dwelled on the number one more time, and then locked it away to process it later in the privacy of my own home. Two years was a lifetime, and yet it was more than long enough to explain why he had such a huge stick up his ass. The poor guy was like a eunuch. No soccer was pretty much the equivalent of losing your balls, at least that’s what I figured.
Compassion and understanding rolled through me.
Easing off the brake, I told him my own story. Although later on I’d wonder why I bothered. It wasn’t like he’d care. “When I was seventeen, I tore my ACL during a game, and I was out for almost six months. My parents and coaches wouldn’t even let me look at a soccer ball or watch a game because it drove me nuts to know there was nothing I could really do to speed up the healing process.”
Those were some of the worst months of my life. I’d never been really bitchy, but toward the end of my recovery, I’d gotten so short-tempered I wasn’t sure how my parents didn’t slap me for being such a pain in the ass. “It was the longest six months of my life andprobably the most miserable,” I added, shooting him a sidelong glance.
His attention was focused forward, but I did see him nod. “I’ve been there.”
I knew he had, but once again, it was Kulti-psycho-stalker knowledge that I’d take to the grave with me.
We stayed quiet the rest of the way to the house, his house, whatever. Only this time, as soon as he opened the door, I told him, “I won’t say anything about your dry spell.”
Kulti nodded, and I could have sworn he had something that could have been considered the smallest smile in the history of smiles pull at the corners of his mouth. Then he was at my trunk getting his bag and actually raising a hand in a half-assed goodbye as he walked up the stone path to the front door of the big house.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about Kulti, and how he hadn’t played in two years, the rest of the day.
THE NEXT DAY, during practice, I couldn’t help but keep staring at Kulti and wondering how the hell he hadn’t murdered anyone since he’d quit playing.
I mean… he hadn’t played at all? Or just… I don’t know, hadn’t played a regulation game? By the look of his movements and his body language, it didn’t seem like he’d completely stopped playing, but what did I know? Two years couldn’t completely erase a lifetime spent with a white and black ball.
Harlow elbowed me in the ribs as she stopped right by me. “Did he just call you a slow ass?”
The team was running drills, and I’d been in the first group of players.
I hunched my shoulders, saying nothing. What was there to say? Kulti had called me slow during a drill and then asked another player if she had two left feet. She was the same girl I’d run with in the morning a few times by then, the one that always wanted to beat me at sprints.
Was she slow? No. Hell no. Sandy was really good.
