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“Sal—“
“No.” That was Kulti again. “Absolutely not.”
“But—“
“Stop asking,” the German snapped. “I’m not doing it and neither is she.”
“I’ve done just about everything that’s ever been asked of me. I don’t want to do this,” I explained gingerly, trying to ease over the hostility radiating off the man next to me.
Cordero guffawed.
Ten minutes later, I found Kulti waiting outside of Gardner’s office. Mr. Cordero had left first, with the German following immediately afterward. Sheena stayed in the office to discuss something. What else could it be besides me or the German?
“There’s nothing for you to worry about,” Kulti’s deep, heavy voice assured me.
I scratched my forehead, trying to urge away the frustration I felt at the conversation that had just finished up. A nasty nagging feeling had taken up residence in my belly. This wasn’t sitting well with me, and honestly I was really worried they were going to try and find something to use against me. I wasn’t sure why I felt so pessimistic, but I did.
An elbow nudged at mine. “Stop worrying,” he ordered.
I blinked at him and didn’t even think about pulling my elbow away. He’d called me his best friend; I’d give him half-credit for that… though he was still a douche. “I can’t,” I whispered to him as we approached the elevator in the office building. “Cordero doesn’t play around. He isn’t a fan of mine.”
Kulti made this face that told me I needed to chill out. “He’s like every general manager on every team. He thinks he’s a god and he’s not.” He nudged my elbow once more. “You don’t have anything to worry about.”
My stomach and my head said otherwise. Nerves had started eating up my organs. “I don’t want to get traded, and I don’t want them to bench me.”
I wasn’t going to have a panic attack. I wasn’t going to have a panic attack.
This wasn’t going to be like the national team all over again. I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I pressed my hands against my hips and squeezed, willing myself to calm down.
“Sal.” Kulti stood right in front of me. “Nothing is going to happen. I won’t let them do anything, understand?”
My knees started to shake the same way they did when I was in front of a camera. Oh God, I was going to throw up. Sometime in the last two minutes I had started sweating.
“Sal,” the German’s voice got even louder, more determined. His big hands landed on my shoulders. “No one is going to make you do anything that you don’t want to do. “ He kneaded the muscle there, his voice a gentle reassuring cadence. “I promise.”
It was the ‘I promise’ that had me glance up at him; I felt this huge ugly knot of dread creep up to the center of my chest. “I like it here.”
His green-brown eyes seemed so close to mine. “Remember all that money I made?”
The urge to punch him in the gut was still there, but instead I nodded. “What about it?”
“I can afford the best lawyers.”
“You want me to sue them?” I coughed out.
“If it’s necessary.”
Holy shit. “I don’t want to. I just want to play, here.”
“I know.” He gave my shoulders a squeeze. “If it comes to it,” the German continued, “we’ll worry about it. You’re the best player on the team. They won’t get rid of you.”
Another shot to the heart. Jesus Christ. The best player on the team? I felt greedy, like I needed to gobble up all these nice things and store them for a rainy day when he called me a slow-ass, or even one day when I was older and couldn’t play anymore. I could think back and remember the day the five-time World Player of the Year, The King, told me I was the best player on my team.
He shook my arm. “Yes?”
I nodded, still the slightest bit unsure. “Yes.”
