“She called you a whore.”

Shame filled my belly, and I felt my face get all warm, indignation flaring up in my throat. “I’m not.”

“You don’t have to tell me you’re not.” The expression on my face must have been unsure enough that he stared me right in the eye as he said, “I’ve met a lot of women in my life. I can tell.”

The thought of him and a lot of women was probably an understatement. For some reason I found the idea disgusting. “I’m sure you have.”

I knew how bad some girls were with college soccer players, and I’d seen firsthand how women reacted around my brother. Some of the guys weren’t even attractive, or had particularly nice personalities, but regardless after a game, they were swatting groupies off left and right. And Kulti, well Kulti was on a level of his own. I couldn’t imagine.

And for one brief second, something flared in the pit of my stomach. It was jealousy or something equally stupid, that I could blame on the thirteen-year-old Sal who still lived inside me someplace.

I stomped her back down to her little room under the stairs.

“In that case, I appreciate your slut-radar not going off around me.” I smiled weakly. Still feeling a little weird that I’d run into Amber and that he’d overheard her calling me a whore; I really wanted to get home. Gesturing toward the parking lot, I asked, “Do you need a ride?”

“My driver is here.” He pointed to a corner of the lot furthest away, in the same direction as my car.

I nodded at him and we started walking, looking back to make sure there weren’t any other Kulti fans standing around like there had been at our last home game. Parked a lot closer than he was, I pointed at my car. “If you’re free tomorrow, I can squeeze in a quick game if you promise not to play too rough or long.” I needed the rest.

“Where?”

It took a second for me to think of a field; the one that came to mind was a small one but it worked. I ratted off the name. “Need an address?”

He shook his head. “What time?”

We agreed that the earlier the better.

“Your foot will be fine?” he asked.

“As long as you don’t step on it,” I said, dropping my bag into my trunk. “Goodnight, Coach.”

“Gute nacht,” he responded, tipping his head as an indication for me to get in my car.

I got in and waved at him through the rearview mirror.

* * *

9:30?

It was 9:29 the next morning when I was pulling alongside the curb to Kulti’s home.

I was picking him up.

Poop.

I looked at house through my passenger window and took in the big new two-story construction. He’d sent me a message at eight in the morning, asking if I could come by to get him after all. I didn’t ask why he couldn’t have his fancy driver take him to the field, but did I wonder? Of course I did.

I was picking up The King from his house to go play soccer.

At no point in my life had I had any signs that this would ever happen. This was friendship or something like it. Even if it felt like driving to his house was more of a date than hanging out.

I got out and marched up to the door he’d walked up to on all those occasions I dropped him off. The house was big, but not obnoxiously large, despite the fact it was at least twice the size of the home I’d grown up in. But who cared? I’d been in bigger houses before.

Ringing the doorbell, I took two steps back and found myself clasping my hands behind me while I waited. Less than a minute later the door swung open and Kulti stood there, dressed in black athletic shorts and a blue T-shirt, holding a big glass of something green.