When he closed his eyes and began grinding his teeth together, I wondered if I said the wrong thing. It wasn’t until he started scratching at his cheek and then erupted a second later, I figured the answer was: yeah. I had.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he burst out.

I took a step back and gave him a crazy look because seriously, what else did he want from me? “No.”

“I’m threatening to bench you, and you’re complaining about who overheard?”

I’d bet a dollar that my hair kind of blew back a little bit at his question, but I wasn’t going to puss out. No fear. “Yeah, I am. If I’m playing bad consistently, then I don’t deserve to start. That sucks, but I understand. I’m not going to argue with you over an obvious fact. What I do have a problem with, is you being rude to me in front of other people, and you were a dick to her. Jesus F. Christ. Manners, Germany, ever heard of them?”

Kulti didn’t hesitate to throw his hands up behind his head. The short brown strands crept through his fingers. “I want to shake you right now.”

“Why? I’m only telling you the truth.”

“Because—“ he snapped something in German I thought was the equivalent of ‘fuck’, “—you’re going to sit there and let me take this away from you? Just like that?” he growled.

“Yeah, I am. What do you want me to tell you? Do you want me to beg you? Get mad? Throw a fit and stomp off? I understand. I get it. I played one bad game; I’m not going to play two. That’s fine. It’s your tone and choice of where we’re having this conversation that I have a problem with.”

He might have started pulling on the shortest of short ends of his hair in what was a mix of annoyance and frustration. “Yes, goddamnit, get mad! If my coach had ever even hinted at taking me out of a game, I would have lost it. You’re the best player on the team—“

I’d swear on my life that my heart stopped beating. Had he just said what I think he said?

“You’re one of the best I’ve ever seen, period, man or woman. What kills me is that you are a complete fucking pushover who’s hung up on worthless words in front of a person that doesn’t matter.” His cheeks were flushed. “Grow some balls, Casillas. Fight me for this. Fight anyone that tries to take this away from you,” he urged.

His words went through my brain like molasses, clinging and slow. Yet I still didn’t understand. Then again, maybe I did. This was the same man that owned the field each time he went on. Most of the time, each of his plays had begun with him and ended with him. He was a greedy asshole with the ball.

And we were arguing over two completely different things. Dear God.

I took a deep breath and gave him a steady look. “Of course I freaking care about getting benched, but I also care about who you call me an imbecile in front of. Do you think I want a complete stranger thinking I’m some kind of doormat that lets you talk to me like that? I might be when we’re on the field, but I’m sure as hell not going to let you treat me half as bad as you just treated her, buddy.”

Kulti looked like I was speaking a completely different language, so I took advantage of it.

“This is a team sport. If I’m not playing my best, isn’t it better for someone who is playing better to take my spot?” Not that I wouldn’t fight for it, tooth and nail. I was going to get my shit together and get back into the game, so that no one would take me out. On the other hand, I didn’t feel the need to promise him that. I’d show him. Yet everything that he was telling me went against my natural instinct. This was a team sport, there definitely wasn’t an ‘I’ in soccer.