Fantastic coach? All right. That was stretching the truth a bit, but it was a white lie. At best I’d say he was trying.
“Has he given the impression that he might be drinking excessively?” He snapped out the question quickly.
I allowed myself to blink at him in disbelief. “I’m sorry but you’re making me feel really uncomfortable. The only thing he does excessively is push us to better ourselves in any way he can.” What I didn’t say was that he did it by yelling at us like we were the scum of the earth, but did the method work? It most definitely did. “Look, I like him. I like him a lot as a player and as a coach. He’s one of the most decorated athletes in history, and he’s a good man.” Lie? Not so much. He’d sent my dad a present. How? I wasn’t sure, but it didn’t matter. A complete prick wouldn’t have thought twice about my little dad. “If there’s something in his past or if there isn’t, I could care less. I know him and respect him now more than ever. To me, that’s all that matters.”
“So, you’re neither confirming nor denying that there might be a chance—“
“Look, you can’t be that caliber of player without extreme self-discipline in some form. I’ve tried to drink a Coke before a game once, and it nearly killed me. I will gladly answer any questions you have about our upcoming games or practices, or just about anything else related to Pipers, but I’m not going to bad-mouth or spread gossip about someone that I value and respect when I don’t have a reason to.”
Value and respect? Meh… Another stretch of the truth.
He didn’t exactly look sure whether to believe me or not, but fortunately, I guess I’d frustrated him enough that he looked back behind me to see another player coming. Hallelujah.
“Thanks for answering my questions,” he said, not exactly grateful. But what did he expect? Me to trash talk Kulti?
I’d had people I played with in the past do that to me, and I had sworn to myself a long time ago that I would never be that person. If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all, right?
The German was waitingfor me in the parking lot when I pulled in that night.
Impressive.
Until I realized I hadn’t decided whether or not to tell him about Sherlock Junior asking dumb questions after practice. His response could go one way or the other, and I really didn’t know him well enough to predict which one.
By the time I grabbed all of my crap, I hadn’t made a conscious decision.
A minute later after we’d greeted each other with a, “Hi,” and a, “Hello,” on the sidewalk, I was still undecided.
But apparently, my brain had chosen for me. We had barely taken three steps forward when I blurted out, “There was another journalist asking about a supposed drinking problem.” Well it wasn’t sosupposed. I wasn’t going to base his drinking off one experience, but I couldn’t forget about it either.
Kulti didn’t jerk or react in any outward way. “Who?”
I rattled off the man’s name.
“What was his question exactly?” he asked.
Word for word, I repeated what the man had asked. Slowly, making sure to watch Kulti’s face, I told him verbatim how I responded. Well, mostly. “I wouldn’t violate your trust or your image in any way.”
Those green-brown eyes looked into my own, making me think of a rusted lime. “I know you wouldn’t.”
What? That easy? He knew I wouldn’t? Nothing was ever that simple, and his easy acceptance made me feel uncertain. “Okay.” I paused. “Good.”
He did that European short nod of agreement that consisted of a chin jerk. “Thank you, Sal.”
There were two parts of that statement that had me stumbling, mentally at least.
The t-word again. Thank you.
But the most shocking in my book was… the Sal.Sal.
Honest to god, I think I said something remarkably close to, “Ermghard.” What the hell did that even mean? I had no idea, but it seemed fitting.
In a split second, I got it together and offered him a tremulous smile. “Thank… you.” Wait. What was I thanking him for? Stupid, stupid, stupid. “For that,” I explained quickly, even though it sounded more like a question than a comment. My face went all warm suddenly at the compliment he’d just paid me.
He’d given me his trust, or at least something close to it.
What do you say after that? I couldn’t think of anything intelligent that didn’t end up with me smiling like a goofball afterward, so I kept my gaze elsewhere as we approached the field.
“You came back!” Marc greeted us, his eyes immediately flashing toward Kulti, with that deer-caught-in the-headlights look. Or maybe he was constipated, both expressions were strangely similar. He’d finally started willingly speaking to me today, when he asked if I was planning on going to softball that night.