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I was watching. I was watching him very carefully.
“All right, I got it,” I said as soon as he’d finished his demonstration.
The other player shot me a look that I returned.
Not even ten seconds later, “Twenty-three! What the hell was that?” exploded out of Kulti’s mouth.
My hands clenched at my sides, and I asked myself,why? Why it’d been decided that this ass-wipe would make an appearance in my life ten years too late?
Taking a deep breath to steady my frustration, I put my hands on my hips and slowly faced him. “Please tell me what I did wrong because I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said before I could even comprehend the fact that words had come out of my mouth.
Catching him so off-guard must have been a testament to how much he was not accustomed to people talking back to him, or at least not accepting his word as something holy to be treasured.
Those light-colored eyes narrowed on me, and his eyelids dropped just enough to shield the interesting shade. “You would have a clearer shot if you—“ He broke off his words as he quickly changed the foot he was leading with and turned around with the ball.
I looked at him and asked someone, somewhere for patience. “Wouldn’t it be better if I passed the ball?” Of course it’d be better, I was asking a hypothetical question.
A question that he obviously didn’t understand by the way he shook his head in response. “No.”
No?
“If you have the shot, take it.”
I glanced at Genevieve, my teammate who was standing off to the side watching us, and then looked back at Kulti. “It’s not sure I’ll have it.”
“Unless you’re not paying attention or you suddenly can’t move your feet, you’ll have it,” he ground out in an irritated tone.
Fighting the urge to pinch my nostrils, I squeezed my fist tighter. “All right. Whatever you say.”Whatever you sayfor me usually meantyeah, sure, and then I’d end up doing whatever the hell I wanted anyway. He was wrong. What he was telling me to do was too risky, and it was selfish. But, whatever. I knew how to pick my arguments.
For some reason he didn’t look appeased by what I said at all. It was almost as if he knew I was just saying the words to get him off my back, which I was, but he didn’t know that. At least he shouldn’t.
He didn’t say anything else, and a minute later time for our game ran out. Another ten players headed out onto the field for their practice game. I watched and shouted out encouragements, Harlow receiving some of them. As much as I tried not to pay attention to Kulti, I couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t stop that game to make any suggestions.
Of course not, I thought almost bitterly.
Sometime later practice ended and I found myself walking to my car. I was debating whether to try and catch a yoga class that night, or just do some serious stretching at home, when I happened to look up and find someone standing by the driver side door of my car.
Only it wasn’t just someone. It was the German.
My muscles immediately tensed up at the sight of him leaning so casually against my beloved car.
I took a calm casual breath and tried to push my emotions down as I kept walking. Kulti had his duffel bag thrown over his shoulder, his hands tucked into the pockets of his white polyester workout shorts. He looked exactly like he had a dozen other times on a magazine cover. Show-off.
Oddly enough, I wasn’t affected in the least bit.
I felt smug and disinterested. Mostly I didn’t find myself giving a single crap that Reiner Kulti was standing by my car. Not anyone else’s, mine. He wasn’t the first guy I’d seen doing it, and he wouldn’t be the last.
My face didn’t betray me as I closed the distance between us. I didn’t think about the fact that I’d ripped my headband off as soon as I finished cooling down, that I hadn’t tweezed my eyebrows in a week or taken care of my upper lip.
My muscles were tight from exercise, I felt strong mentally, and that was more than enough for me.
Kulti’s lake-colored eyes stayed locked on my face as I walked right in front of him to pop my trunk and drop my things inside. I hadn’t finished slamming it shut when I said, “I have to get to work. Do you need something?”
“My driver isn’t here.”
So that’s why he’d gotten into the backseat the one day I saw him getting into his car, and why he’d hitched a ride with me the day before.
I left my hand on the trunk and looked at him over my shoulder, at his short hair, his stern face, his full mouth. Yeah, I still didn’t care. “Okay. Do you need to borrow my cell?”
