“Coach Marcy took a position with the University of Mobile this summer, so upper management reached out to a few different people to fill in the assistant position she left us open with. We were lucky enough to get a commitment a few days ago. Reiner Kulti—who we all know needs no introduction—will be taking over assistant coach duties.”

There was a small collective of sucked-in breaths before Gardner continued. Were these people not checking their emails or at least watching some television? “Although I know you ladies are all professionals, I’m going to say it anyway: this is Coach Kulti. Not Reiner, not King, and if I hear any of you calling him Führer, you’re out of here. Understood? Sheena from PR will be in here to talk about what you can and can’t post on social media a little later, but please exercise sound judgment.”

I’d never call Kulti Führer to begin with, but with that threat, I didn’t even want to think about him just to be on the safe side. From the awkward silence that came over the group for the remaining speech, it was obvious everyone felt the same way. We were professionals. I’d never met a group of more competitive people in my life other than when I’d played on the national team.

It was like we were a class of kindergarteners, all sitting there staring absently and nodding as Gardner warned us of our possible demise.

Getting benched? For the season? Or even traded? Yeah, no. That sure as hell wasn’t happening.

I caught the tail end of his spiel as he pointed out the six newest additions to the team and then stated his expectations for what he hoped to accomplish—to find a winning combination of talent to take the team to the top for another year in a row. Something about access to the local college’s gym and a list of expectations when we were off the field were passed around. It was the same talk I’d heard every other time a new season started.

Except I’d never been threatened with getting kicked off a team for talking badly about a coach who made more money in a year that most of us would make in our entire lives.

I’d worked too hard and too long to let something so dumb ruin my career for me.

No, thank you and fuck that.

Gardner went on for a little while longer about what they would be focusing on during the six weeks between the start of training and the beginning of the season. He introduced the rest of the staff and eventually Sheena, the public relations person who had stood by while I made an ass of myself, took over.

It was all Kulti, Kulti and more Kulti.

“…presence is going to bring more attention to the team. We need to use the momentum of the press and public’s excitement to turn it around and focus in on our organization. It’s positive and it’s a valuable tool to keep the league growing…”

I knew it! I’d known they’d brought him in mainly for the publicity.

“…if you’re approached, turn it around and bring attention to the team or the league. Be excited…”

Be excited?

“…Mr. Kulti should be here tomorrow…”

Jenny kicked me beneath the table.

* * *

They weren’t kidding when they said the team would be getting more attention because of the retired German player. What was usually a quiet low-key event with players getting dropped off in minivans, was now an event saturated by rental cars and a few news vans. Freaking news vans. A small group of people were scattered through the lot as I pulled in. I recognized some of the girls as players, but the rest were strangers: journalists, reporters, bloggers and possibly even Kulti fans. At least I hoped it was more fans, but I wasn’t optimistic.

This wasn’t even the start of practice; it was our yearly fitness assessment before real training began just to see how everyone was doing. No big deal, yet there were so many people…