“That’s it?” he spat.
“There’s no excuse,” I told him, watching the woman look back and forth between us. “I know better, and I’m sorry.”
His lids got heavy. If I didn’t know him any better, I would have assumed he was sleepy. He wasn’t anywhere close. “You played like an imbecile.”
Seriously? Did he have to call me that in front of another person?
“Kulti?” The woman waved her hand around in his face.
The German turned his head and stared at her long enough that she scrunched up her face and stepped back.
“God, I forgot how much of an asshole you can be. I don’t even know why I bother,” she hissed at him.
The man who guarded his words like they were gold didn’t let me down. He didn’t say a word. Kulti looked at her for maybe five more seconds and then turned his attention back to me as if she hadn’t spoken.
What an asshole.
“Your team deserves your attention, and I deserve better from you. Do that shit again and I’ll have you coming in as a sub for Thirty-Eight,” he threatened, oblivious to the woman who shook her head as he spoke, before finally turning around to walk off.
That time, I flinched and winced. I probably sucked air in through my nose. Thirty-Eight was one of the younger forwards, Sandy, a rookie on the team who would be a force to be reckoned with in the near future.
“Learn to compartmentalize your life, do you understand me?” he asked in that somber crisp voice I had a feeling he had learned to wield perfectly in the last few weeks.
As much as I hated to admit it, my face went hot, and I knew I was blushing with humiliation. He would try to take starting a game away from me? For playing crappy during one single game? More embarrassment flooded my system, lined carefully with anger.
The idea that I thought we were friends floated right up and center.
But Pipers time wasn’t friend-time. It never had been. The man who called me Taco, and played soccer and softball with me, was a completely different person from the one standing before me in that moment.
Learn to compartmentalize your life, he’d said. Do what he did.
The only thing I could do was nod jerkily and accept the ultimatum he’d given me. I wasn’t going to remind him this was one bad game out of so many. I wasn’t going to promise anything or apologize. It hurt my pride, but I balled it up and tucked it neatly into my sternum. In a voice that I was extremely proud of for how solid it sounded, I said, “Okay. Fine. But maybe next time call me an imbecile when I’m not in front of your girlfriend, would that work for you? ”
When he closed his eyes and began grinding his teeth together, I wondered if I said the wrong thing. It wasn’t until he started scratching at his cheek and then erupted a second later, I figured the answer was:yeah. I had.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he burst out.
I took a step back and gave him a crazy look because seriously, what else did he want from me? “No.”
“I’m threatening to bench you, and you’re complaining about who overheard?”
I’d bet a dollar that my hair kind of blew back a little bit at his question, but I wasn’t going to puss out. No fear. “Yeah, I am. If I’m playing bad consistently, then I don’t deserve to start. That sucks, but I understand. I’m not going to argue with you over an obvious fact. What I do have a problem with, is you being rude to me in front of other people, and you were a dick to her. Jesus F. Christ. Manners, Germany, ever heard of them?”
Kulti didn’t hesitate to throw his hands up behind his head. The short brown strands crept through his fingers. “I want to shake you right now.”
“Why? I’m only telling you the truth.”
“Because—“ he snapped something in German I thought was the equivalent of ‘fuck’, “—you’re going to sit there and let me take this away from you? Just like that?” he growled.
“Yeah, I am. What do you want me to tell you? Do you want me to beg you? Get mad? Throw a fit and stomp off? I understand. I get it. I played one bad game; I’m not going to play two. That’s fine. It’s your tone and choice of where we’re having this conversation that I have a problem with.”
He might have started pulling on the shortest of short ends of his hair in what was a mix of annoyance and frustration. “Yes, goddamnit, get mad! If my coach had ever even hinted at taking me out of a game, I would have lost it. You’re the best player on the team—“
I’d swear on my life that my heart stopped beating. Had he just said what I think he said?
“You’re one of the best I’ve ever seen, period, man or woman. What kills me is that you are a complete fucking pushover who’s hung up on worthless words in front of a person that doesn’t matter.” His cheeks were flushed. “Grow some balls, Casillas. Fight me for this. Fight anyone that tries to take this away from you,” he urged.
His words went through my brain like molasses, clinging and slow. Yet I still didn’t understand. Then again, maybe I did. This was the same man that owned the field each time he went on. Most of the time, each of his plays had begun with him and ended with him. He was a greedy asshole with the ball.