I missed the horrified look on Kulti’s face before he came inside and shut the door
behind him. I didn’t see him drop to his knees or put his hands on my own, lowering his head so that his forehead pressed to mine.
“Schnecke,” he said in the softest, most affectionate tone I’d ever heard. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I managed to blabber out. I was shaking and my upper body was convulsing with soundless cries.
“Stop with your lies and tell me why you’re crying,” he ordered even as he scooted forward and stroked a big hand down my spine.
“I’m not crying.”
“You are the worst liar I have ever met.” He moved to rub my shoulder. “Why are you upset?”
Every time he asked, I somehow managed to cry harder, my body shaking more; there were actual noises coming out of me. “It’s stupid.”
“More than likely, but tell me anyway,” he said in a gentle voice.
I couldn’t catch my breath. “They’re… going… to… trade… me,” I bawled to my freaking humiliation.
The hand on my shoulder didn’t let up its comforting circles. “Who told you?”
“Franz,” I said, but it really sounded like moreFranzzzz-agh.
Something quick and vicious-sounding in German shot out of his mouth: a spit, a curse on top of a curse.
“He’s not lying, is he?” I asked his shirt collar.
Kulti sighed into the top of my head. “No. He wouldn’t say something unless he was sure,” he confirmed.
My heart and my head were both well aware that the signs had been there.
“Gardner warned me, but I didn’t listen,” I told him. “This is so stupid. I’m sorry. I know it’s not the end of the world and this is embarrassing, but I can’t stop crying.”
The big German I’d been in love with since I was a kid, put his arms all around me. And he shushed me. Literally, he said, “Shush.” Then he held me a little closer and said into my ear, “You’re better than this. Stop crying.”
“I can’t,” I whined for probably the first time in at least ten years.
“You can and you will,” he said tenderly. “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now—“
Of course he couldn’t. He’d never been traded against his will and if he had, it had to have been for a better position and more money. For me, it was like getting dumped. Violated. Thrown away.
“—but you’re better than this. In two years you’ll be thanking them for being so stupid—“
His pep talk wasn’t helping. “I gave them the best years of my life,” I might have wailed, but hoped I didn’t.
“You have not. You haven’t even reached the peak of your career.”
I was inconsolable. Reiner Kulti was telling me I still had better years ahead of me, and it wasn’t making me feel better.
“Taco. Stop. Stop this instant,” he demanded in a grave voice.
I couldn’t. All I could keep thinking was that Houston was where I wanted to be. It’s the place I had made my home. If they had asked me first if I wanted to go somewhere else, it would be one thing, but these under-the-table deals were for the players you tried to get rid of so that they wouldn’t blow a gasket.
There was snot running down my nose and it made the German huff in exasperation and tighten his hold around me, his arms like a shield against the world. “I know this is my fault, and I swear I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured in that thick accent I wanted to wrap myself in.
“It’s not your fault,” I said muffled against him before changing my mind. “I don’t regret it at all. This is their fault for being so damn dumb. I’ve always done whatever they wanted me to do. I’m a team player. I don’t completely suck. I get to practice early and stay late, and this is how they repay me? By trying to send me to fucking New York? Where I’ll probably never get to play again?”
I sat up, not caring in the least that I had to look like a giant mess and sniffled at my friend. I was feeling the weight of a hundred galaxies on my shoulders, feeling my dreams on the cusp of slipping away. I knew I was being overdramatic, but it was all too much. “What am I going to do?” I asked him, like he had all the answers.