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“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t! We couldn’t tell anyone until it was official, and I found out right before they made me do the press conference.”
There was a pause, a choke on his end. He said something that sounded likeDios miounder his breath. In a low whisper he asked, “You did a press conference?” He couldn’t believe it.
He hadn’t seen it. Thank you, Jesus. “It went just as bad as you’re imagining it did,” I warned him.
Dad paused again, absorbing and analyzing what I was telling him. Apparently he decided to let the news of my stupidity in front of the camera go for the time being before asking, “It’s true? He’s your new coach?” He asked the question so hesitantly, so slow, if it was possible for me to love my dad even more—it wasn’t, that was a fact—I would have.
For some strange reason I had the mental flashback of having Kulti’s late-twenties face on my sophomore math binder. Bah. “Yeah, it’s true. He’s going to be our new assistant since Marcy left.”
In a weird rattling exhale, my dad muttered, “I’m going to faint.”
I burst out laughing even harder at the same time a yawn tried to climb out of me. I’d stayed up watching a Netflix marathon of British comedies until I found the mental strength to call Jenny with my story. I knew it was close to midnight, which was way past my usual old-lady bedtime of ten, or eleven if I was feeling really crazy. But I knew she was still in Iowa for two more days and she’d be up. “You’re such a drama queen.”
“Your sister’s the drama queen,” he griped.
He had me there.
“You’re not lying?” He kept speaking in Spanish, and by speaking, I really meant he was more like panting at that point.
I groaned, shoving the sheets further down my waist. “No, Dad. Jeez. It’s true. Mr. Cordero—our general manager, that idiotI told you about—sent out an email to the team right afterward,” I explained.
Dad was quiet for a moment; the only sound coming through the speaker was his breathing. I was dying a little bit inside at his reaction. I mean, I wasn’t surprised he was having his own version of a shit attack. I’d think there was something wrong with him if he wasn’t acting like this might be one of the single greatest moments of his life. “I feel light-headed—“
This man was ridiculous.
There was a pause, and in a tiny voice that was so at odds with the man that could usually be heard screamingGGGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOLLLLLLLLLLLLdown the block, my dad croaked, “My hands—my hands are shaking—“ he switched back to English, his voice choppy.
My entire body was shaking with laughter. “Quit it.”
“Sal.“ His tone turned thin, too thin for a man whose voice only had two volumes: loud and louder. “Voy a llorar. You’re going to be on the same field as him.”
I had to let it go. My stomach started cramping from how hard my dad was making me laugh. I didn’t bring up Eric, it wasn’t like any of us would forget his experience, but that was true love for you—blind and unconditional. “Dad, stop.” I couldn’t quit laughing because knowing him, he was being totally honest.
He wasn’t much of a crier. He’d cried when I’d been called to the U-17 team, the national team for girls under seventeen, and again when I moved up to the U-20 team. The only other time I could remember seeing him with tears in his eyes was the day his father died. By the time I got drafted into the professional league, he’d just beamed, more comfortable in my position than I was. I’m pretty sure I was so nervous I had sweat stains on my butt.
“He’s going to be your coach,” he squeaked, and I mean really squeaked.
“I know.” I laughed that time. “I’ve gotten like ten emails from people I know asking me to confirm. You’re all insane.”
Dad simply repeated himself, “He’s going to be your coach.”
That time, I pinched the bridge of my nose to keep from making a sound. “I’ll tell you when the open practice will be so you can meet him.”
Then he did it, he crossed the line again. “Sal—Sal, don’t tell anyone, but you’re my favorite.”
Oh my God. “Dad—“
There was a shout in the background that sounded suspiciously like my younger sister and was followed by what I could only assume was Dad holding the phone away from his face as he yelled back, “I was joking!...You told me you hated me yesterday, te acuerdas? Why are you going to be my favorite when you say you wish I wasn’t your dad?” Then he started yelling some more. Eventually he came back on the line with a resigned sigh. “That girl,mija. I don’t know what to do with her.”
“I’m sorry.” I was, at least partially. I couldn’t imagine how hard it was for my little sister to be so different from Eric and I. She didn’t like the same things we did—sports—but mostly, she didn’t seem to really like anything. My parents had tried putting her in different activities, but she never lasted and never put in any effort. Like I’d told my parents, she needed to figure things out for herself.
“Ay. I guess I can’t complain too much. Hold on a second—Ceci,que quieres?” And then he was off, yelling at my sister a little more.
I just sat there with the phone still to my face, lying in my bed two hundred miles away from where I’d grown up, soaking in the idea that Reiner Kulti—theReiner Kulti—
was going to be my coach. I swallowed the nerves and anticipation down.
