Just to rub it in even more, our audience on the edge of the field began clapping.

Someone wasn’t amused. I’d actually say he looked a little pissed.

I liked it.

“Oye! Muchacha! Es el Aleman?” someone from the field yelled.

“Callate tonto!” someone else replied, telling the guy asking to shut up.

I eyed the sore loser in front of me, not knowing what to do. Now that I got a better look at the people on the sidelines, they were all Latinos, in their late twenties and older. The German didn’t say anything with his eyes or his body language.

“Amiga! Es Kulti?”

There were only about six of them…

I looked at Kulti again but the only thing he did was shrug, damn it.

“Si es,” I admitted. “Pero no le digan a nadie.”

The group erupted. “No chinges!” No shit was right.

The next thing I knew they were on their feet, hands on their heads, losing their minds. The guys went up to the German, speaking quick Spanish and watching him like they had never seen anything like him before.

It wasn’t until I heard the first one who had spoken, say, “No me digas!” that I heard Kulti reply in perfect Spanish, explaining that he was real and not a ghost, “No soy fantasma.”

The guys lost it again. “You speak Spanish!” one of them exclaimed in the same language.

The German shrugged and gave them an easy smile.

For the next couple of minutes, I watched as the strange men blasted off several questions, and they were answered in an accent that rivaled mine.

I’m not going to lie, not even a little bit. Besides a big butt, I had a thing for guys that spoke different languages. While Reiner Kulti was every bit as impressive of a male specimen as you could get physically, the way he spoke Spanish multiplied his attractiveness by about thirty percent.

Okay, thirty percent minimum.

But it wasn’t like I could or would think about that too much. He was my coach.

And I was his friend. Or something like that.

Chapter Sixteen

The first sign that something was off was when I spotted the three people on the edge of the field halfway through Pipers practice two days later. Two of them I recognized from the team’s office staff, and the other person, carrying a kit, was a stranger. It was only on rare occasions that management showed up during training, if there were photographers on the field or if there was an exhibition game going on, but never without a reason.

The second sign that something was up was when they approached Gardner. It was the way he reacted to whatever they were telling him that had me a little worried. He looked annoyed and possibly outraged. Easygoing and calm ninety-nine-percent-of-the-time-Gardner, angered?

Yeah. No.

Then the clapping started. The meeting of palm on palm that paused our warm-up. “Ladies, we’re taking it easy today.”

Easy?

Apprehension rippled down my spine.

“Apparently, we’re doing a round of drug testing today. It’s nothing to worry about. As most of you know, you are subject to random drug testing throughout the season. If we can have your cooperation we can get through this quickly, and after your sample is received you’re free for the rest of the morning,” Gardner explained, frustration tracing his words.

Random drug testing? The last time I’d been randomly drug tested had been back in college. The stipulation included in everyone’s contract was more of a blue moon-type occurrence. If they wanted to they could test you, but apart from the health exams and blood tests we took at the beginning of every season, I’d never heard of it happening.

So, yeah, that was freaking weird.