I hesitated for one second as we turned and spotted some of the girls staring. They must have been the group that just passed us. This hard ball of resolve formed in my belly, and I slipped my fingers through Kulti’s.
Screw it. The season was over. I was done, tapped out.
I grabbed his hand, and he smiled.
We’d taken maybe eight steps when he asked, “Who called you a robot?” in such a sweet, sincere voice it was easy to believe it was a casual question.
But I knew him too well, and by that point, I didn’t even care. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” he replied in that same tone. “Was it the same player that told Cordero about you calling me a bratwurst?”
I stopped walking so abruptly it took him a step to realize it. “You know who told him?”
“The nosey one. Gwenivere,” he replied.
“Genevieve?” I coughed.
“Her.”
My eye. My eye twitched. Freaking Genevieve? “Your manager told you?”
He nodded.
I swallowed. Unbelievable. What a backstabbing bitch. Holy shit.
“Your face says enough,” he said, tugging me back to continue walking. “I’ll wait for you out here.”
I smiled at the small group and gave his palm a quick squeeze before disappearing into the mostly empty locker room. I should have stayed, listened to Gardner talk about the season, but I couldn’t. I grabbed all of my things, stuffed them into my duffel bag and left. Tomorrow I would go back and return what wasn’t mine. I could also see Jenny and Harlow before they left to go home.
I found Kulti standing against a wall giving Genevieve and the other girls standing by the door a look that could have boiled someone’s flesh right off. I wasn’t going to ask. I raised my eyebrows at him, and just before we took off, I smiled over at the women, choosing one word and one word only: “Bye.”
Have a good life, I added in my head. I had high hopes I would.
“Come on,” Kulti murmured, leading me through the group of reporters crowding the exit.
He shouldered them out of the way, and I kept walking, not giving a crap that I should have said something to them. It seemed to take a year to make it to his car.
I slid in first, watching as he followed after me, pressing that long, muscular build against mine. His arm slipped over my shoulder as he angled into me, smothering me with his broad chest. That was all he did. He didn’t tell me not to keep being disappointed or angry. Kulti didn’t tell me everything would be fine. Kulti just kept on holding me until we made it to my garage apartment.
Wordlessly, we went up the stairs and he unlocked the door. He dumped my bag in its usual spot. I told him I was going to shower. The next few minutes all seemed like a blurry dream, and I took a lot longer than usual. By the time I finished, I was proud of myself for not crying more than I had. I mean, grown men cried in football when they lost, it would have been fine for me to bawl too…
If I was a baby.
I’d cried enough at the stadium.
It wasn’t the end of the world. It really wasn’t. I would keep telling myself that until I got over it.
Kulti was waiting in the kitchen when I finally ambled out of my bathroom. He shot me a look over his shoulder as he scraped something out of a skillet and onto two plates. “Sit.”
Taking a seat at one of the two barstools at the counter, he slid a plate of mixed veggies, sliced sausage and rice to me. Neither one of us said much as we sat together eating. I felt somber and a bit depressed, and I figured he was just giving me space to mope a bit. I’d have to ask him another day how he dealt with these things.
When we finished, he took our dishes and set them in the sink with a small, tight smile. He went and sat on the couch, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I’m not sure how long I sat there but after feeling pretty miserable, I finally got up and made my way to the living room to see him sitting in the middle, going through one of my dollar-store Sudoku books. As soon as he saw me, he set it aside.
Kulti pulled me onto his lap.
It happened so quickly I couldn’t really focus on anything. His mouth dropped to mine, which had already parted in anticipation.
That split second of anticipation was nothing compared to the actual deed. His mouth was warm and supple, willing and demanding as he dragged his tongue across my bottom lip. I did what any other sane person would have done; I opened my mouth. His tongue tasted faintly like the spearmint he chewed on sometimes as it brushed against mine: once, twice, over and over again, thirsty and needy. He was crushing me to his body as our kisses got deeper, rougher, almost bruising. They were devouring.