There was one thing I knew: Kulti didn’t like coaching. He’d said so himself.
Why would he want to stay and coach again?
Jesus Christ, the idea of him going back to his flat in London made me so sad that the excitement from the whole shoe-buying thing, crumbled under its weight.
At the same time, that made me feel like a selfish dick. Who was I to be sad over someone, especially a friend, doing something that made them happy when I knew damn well something else didn’t? I knew I was in no position to give anyone a guilt-trip over anything, but the idea of him leaving sucked.
I swallowed the sadness away and forced a smile on my face even though I wasn’t looking at him. “I see.”
He was going to leave Houston. Blah.
He might have turned his head, but I wasn’t positive, and I didn’t want to talk about it any longer. “So... are you hungry?”
At the nextsoccer camp four days later, Kulti showed up with two more people. The first guy I recognized was an American goalie who had played for the national team in every major tournament the last six years right along with my brother. The second one was a pleasant surprise.
“Franz!” I walked toward the older man, bypassing Kulti, to give him a hug. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
He hugged me in return, two quick taps to my spine. “My business in Los Angeles didn’t take as long as I had anticipated.”
“Well, thank you so much for coming back,” I told him.
Someone made a grumpy noise. “Sal.”
Franz let out a short laugh as he let go of me, stepping back. His face was tipped down, open and easy, as he whispered, “Someone is territorial, hmm?”
I turned to look at the man whose gaze was burning a hole into my skull. Pretzel face territorial? I highly doubted it, but I found myself way too pleased by his scowl.
“Are you going to introduce me?” I asked, gesturing toward the popular goalie.
“No.” He kept that damn insolent look on his face, his arms extending wide in a universal gesture I was becoming familiar with.
Curling my lips over my teeth, I raised my eyebrows at him. God, someone was in a freaking mood and it put me into an excellent one. The smile on my face grew even bigger.
He flicked his own eyebrows up at me. Those dark brown, thick slashes went up and back down, silently telling me that he wasn’t going to introduce me until he got what he wanted.
For one second, I thought about ignoring him and just introducing myself, but…
Kulti liked to play games, and I liked to win them.
Somehow I managed not to smile as I stepped forward and hugged him, silently worrying that he would make me look like an idiot if he didn’t actually go through with it and hug me back. I mean, it wouldn’t be the first time he acted like I had cooties. I just hugged him and I hugged him tight.
Completely catching me off-guard, Kulti, my freaking German with supposedly no conscience, pressed his cheek to the top of my head and wrapped himself around me. He hugged me back. His body was hard and tense as he did it, but it was different. It wasn’t an angry hug; it was something else. It was like when I was a kid and would hug the crap out of my dog because I loved him so much.
Like that—but not.
When he finally pulled away, I glanced up. I didn’t take it personally that he wasn’t smiling down at me. He was just glaring, well really more like glowering, but whatever. I gave him another hug, and felt the weight of his arm settle over my shoulder.
It stayed there.
The other man was a goalie named Michael Kimmons. He was taller than Kulti and just a little older than me.
“Hey, it’s nice to meet you. Thanks for coming.” I thrust my hand out at him when I felt the German’s arm clamp down the instant I introduced myself.
“Mike Kimmons,” he said with a hard shake.
“Sal Casillas.”
“I know your brother Eric,” he threw in. “We play together.”