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“I said no,” he replied forcefully enough that I felt it in my chest.
Jesus freaking Christ. All I was trying to do was help. What a prick.
Suddenly angry with myself for making an effort to be nice to someone who obviously didn’t want it, I clenched my mouth and kept my eyes forward.
This was exactly what I got for trying. Why did I even bother anymore? Sure, he’d been nice to my dad by making up for being a freaking bag of nasty dildos, and he’d gotten me out of my crap with Cordero and given me a couple of tips on how to improve some playing skills, but it wasn’t enough. Not everyone was like this. I’d been nice to thousands of people in my life, and most didn’t act like pricks.
Especially not ones that I’d idolized.
Embarrassment at being snapped at made a knot form in my throat as I got on the freeway. For a second, I thought about turning on the radio to avoid the awkwardness that had settled in the car, but I didn’t. I hadn’t done anything wrong, and it wasn’t me who deserved to feel awkward. He did.
“What exit should I take?” I asked in a controlled voice when we were close enough.
He answered.
I exited and then asked whether to turn right or left.
Step by step, I asked him to tell me when to turn again and he did. What lane to get in, he told me. Two more turns and I was driving my car down a street I had a client on. Go figure.
Right before an immaculately landscaped two-floor modern monstrosity that seemed to take up two lots, Kulti gestured. “Here.”
I pulled the car closer to the curb and stopped, keeping my eyes forward; it was immature. I didn’t have to do that. I didn’t have to let him know that what he’d said bothered me, but I couldn’t help it. In hindsight later on, I’d curse myself for letting him see that he’d upset me, but right then I couldn’t stop myself. I just kept staring out the windshield.
I waited patiently, hands gripping the steering wheel gently.
He didn’t move. He didn’t get out. He didn’t say anything.
I didn’t look at him or ask him to get out of my car. I just waited. I could wait. I wasn’t impatient. Chin up and face relaxed, I out-waited him for what seemed like five minutes but was probably only thirty seconds.
Finally he reached for the handle and got out. There wasn’t a sigh or an apology out of his mouth, or even a freaking thank you for the ride.
The minute the door was closed, I pulled away. I didn’t peel out or act like a jackass as I tried to get away; I got back on the street and on the way to work like he hadn’t just hurt my feelings.
But he had, a little.
It was enough that I didn’t give a single shit about whether the big house in the family neighborhood was his or not. I didn’t even bother telling my dad about it.
“…like this,” he said in that deep voice with a hint of a watered-down accent in it.
I blinked at the ball on the ground and nodded. “Okay.”
“Yes?”
Scratching at my neck, I nodded again. “Got it.”
Maybe he expected me to jump for joy or kiss his feet for working with me for the third time, but I couldn’t find it in me to drag enough of a shit together to care that he had singled me out again. After having the weekend to cool off, I’d come back to practice with my head straight yesterday. Needless to say, that included me deciding to avoid Kulti as much as possible. I had better things to waste my time and energy on, and jackasses with short tempers and no manners weren’t at the top of my list.
I managed to make it through one whole practice without expending any calories on him.
Then today he decided to jump into the middle of a five-on-five game I was playing.
To be an adult, I really watched what he did and listened. I sure as hell wasn’t going to do more than that. I lifted my head and gave him an affirming nod, my face neutral. Moving around him, I went back to where I’d been and gestured to the defender I was playing against that we should restart. We did.
Fifteen seconds later Kulti interrupted us again. His long legs ate up the turf as he stopped right between us. “You’re doing it wrong,” he said, showing me what he wanted me to do differently.
I nodded and went back at it.
Another fifteen seconds of uninterrupted playing time went on before he stopped us again. “Watch. You’re not watching,” the German insisted.
