She’d cost me the national team. Her and her stupid-ass estranged husband.
The tall brunette had a sweet smile on her face, but her eyes said it all. They said how much she disliked me and blamed me for something that had been a complete accident. The hate in her gaze called me a whore, in the same way she’d verbally whispered the name, when I’d stolen the ball away from her during the first half.
“Nice seeing you again,” she said in her deceivingly sugar-stained voice. She waited a moment until two other players on her team kept walking, leaving the two of us standing there. I was surprised her two buddies left; they’d called me a bitch and a tramp during the game, too. I just pretended like I hadn’t heard them by that point.
“Messed around with anyone else’s husband lately?” Amber asked the minute we were relatively alone in the parking lot.
Bitterness crept into my throat. Maybe even a little embarrassment too. I hated what had happened but as much as I’d explained the situation to her, it hadn’t mattered. Amber, being a fantastic forward several years older than me, and a star player for the national team, had taken my chance and my position away.
I would never forgive her for it, despite how horrible I felt about her husband, ex-husband, estranged husband, whatever the hell that ass-wipe was now.
I steadied my heart and shook my head. “Grow up.”
Her blue eyes flared with indignation. “Fuck you.”
Oh brother. “Really? Fuck me? That’s the best you can come up with? I’m a whore, a bitch and a slut, and I can also fuck myself. Real nice. I wish everyone could hear how pleasant you are in person.”
“You are a slut, you home wrecker.“
Guilt flashed through my belly, but I beat it back like I had every other time. I wasn’t a home wrecker.I wasn’t. I felt terrible, fuckingterrible, but it wasn’t like anything had been intentional. I would never in a million years be interested in a married man, but when you don’t know he’s married… “I’m sorry, all right? I’ve told you I was sorry about a hundred times and you know it. If I could go back in time and mind my own business, I would. So, stop. You got what you wanted and you should be happy and let it go. It’s been three years; it’s about time you quit with your shit.”
Beautiful Amber, with her great legs and competitive spirit, bristled. “Don’t tell me what to do. I hate your fucking guts, Sal.”
Acid stirred my chest. “I know you do, and trust me, I’m not your fan club president either. I just don’t feel the need to remind you of it every time I see you.”
She wanted to fight. I could tell. She had the same look on her face that she’d had three years ago when she approached me during practice one day, three days after I’d gone on a second date with her husband. “That’s why I hate you. You always think you’re so much better than everyone, but you’re not. You’re even more of a bitch because you fool everybody with that angel act. I know the truth—I know you’re a fucking whore.”
Getting called a whore? Especially when you weren’t one? Yeah, it wasn’t exactly fun and games. I would definitely never admit that out loud or show it to someone like her, but it was the truth. Sticks and stones and all that crap.
“You,” the voice from behind me said. “Run along before I call Mike Walton and repeat what you said to him.”
Who Mike Walton was, I had no idea.
But the person behind me? I definitely knew him.
The bratwurst.
From the look on Amber’s face, as the steps behind me got louder with Kulti’s approach, she knew exactly who both Kulti and Mike Walton were. Her face might have paled, but it was too dark to know for sure. What I did know was that she was pissed. Real pissed.
“Today,” Kulti snapped.
The rate at which she moved said exactly what words didn’t. Amber was one of the stars of the national team and had been for years. A few months ago, I’d seen a lotion commercial with her in it. She wasn’t used to having someone tell her what to do.
He didn’t even wait until she was out of earshot before he asked, “What’s her name?”
“Amber Kramer,” I replied, looking over my shoulder.
His face didn’t register the name. “Never heard of her.” He turned his head to look at me. “Do you want to tell me what that was about?”
I said exactly what I meant. “Not really.” I’d gone this long with keeping what happened between me and a select group of people, mainly members of the national team back when I’d been on it. It was how Jenny and Harlow knew. Having more people know about one of the dumbest things I’d ever done, wasn’t exactly on my list of things to accomplish. And though I’d been assured I wasn’t to blame, I thought I was smarter than to fall for someone’s lies. He hadn’t been wearing a wedding band or even had the tan line for one, damn it.
“She called you a whore.”
Shame filled my belly, and I felt my face get all warm, indignation flaring up in my throat. “I’m not.”
“You don’t have to tell me you’re not.” The expression on my face must have been unsure enough that he stared me right in the eye as he said, “I’ve met a lot of women in my life. I can tell.”
The thought of him and a lot of women was probably an understatement. For some reason I found the idea disgusting. “I’m sure you have.”