It took a second for me to think of a field; the one that came to mind was a small one, but it worked. I rattled off the name. “Need an address?”
He shook his head. “What time?” We agreed that the earlier the better. “Your foot will be fine?” he asked.
“As long as you don’t step on it,” I said, dropping my bag into my trunk. “Good night, Coach.”
“Gute nacht,” he responded, tipping his head as an indication for me to get in my car.
I got in and waved at him through the rearview mirror.
9:30?
It was 9:29 the next morning when I was pulling alongside the curb to Kulti’s home.
I was picking him up. Poop.
I looked at the house through my passenger window and took in the big new two-story construction. He’d sent me a message at eight in the morning, asking if I could come by to get him after all. I didn’t ask why he couldn’t have his fancy driver take him to the field, but did I wonder? Of course I did.
I was picking up The King from his house to go play soccer. At no point in my life had I had any signs that this would ever happen. This was friendship or something like it—even if it felt like driving to his house was more of a date than hanging out.
I got out and marched up to the door he’d walked up to on all those occasions I dropped him off. The house was big, but not obnoxiously large, despite the fact it was at least twice the size of the home I’d grown up in. But who cared? I’d been in bigger houses before.
Ringing the doorbell, I took two steps back and found myself clasping my hands behind me while I waited. Less than a minute later, the door swung open and Kulti stood there, dressed in blackathletic shorts and a blue T-shirt, holding a big glass of something green.
“Come in,” he ordered, standing to the side to let me in.
I did, trying to be discreet as I looked around at the bare cream walls. “Good morning.”
“Morning.” He closed the door. “I need ten minutes.”
“Okay.” I eyed both him and his drink as he walked around me and headed down the main hallway of his house.
It was impossible not to notice how empty the walls were, or when we walked by the doorway leading into his living room, how there was only a three-seater couch with a massive television in front of it. No framed jerseys or mounted trophies, no signs of who the owner of the house was. The next doorway led into a stainless steel and granite countertop kitchen. Big, open, and airy, it looked like a more expensive version of something out of an IKEA catalogue.
“There’s water, milk, and juice,” he said going in, already tipping his green glass back to chug down whatever concoction he was drinking without a single flinch.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I answered absently, admiring the view of the backyard from the big window above the sink. There wasn’t much to it besides newly laid grass that could use a good watering. Most of the lots in the neighborhood had been old homes that had been torn down to build these new ones, and the house took up so much space it only left a small rectangular yard that didn’t have much room for anything besides a patio set, if he’d wanted one.
Kulti brushed up against me as he leaned into the sink to rinse out his glass.
I leaned away from the view and him. “Your house is really nice.”
He seemed to absently look around the kitchen, nodding.
“Did you just move in?”
“Two months now, I think,” Kulti answered.
What a freaking talker. I watched as he placed his glass inside the dishwasher. “This is a really nice neighborhood.” I cleared my throat.
He shrugged. “It’s quiet.”
Something about what he said nipped me. “No one knows you live here, huh?”
The German shot me an incredulous look I couldn’t comprehend before answering. “No one.” He kept on giving me that strange look. “I’m ready to go now.”
So he didn’t want anyone to know where he lived. That wasn’t surprising, but I let it drop. “Let’s go.”
Kulti had a bag waiting in his nearly empty living room and followed out after me, setting the alarm and locking the door. The Audi he’d been riding around in was parked in the driveway when I peeked through the wrought-iron fence that sectioned off the back part of his house.
