When we stopped in front of them, the man and the woman physically jolted when they realized who was standing next to me.

“Mr. Webber, Mrs. Pritchett, thank you so much for helping out. This is my friend, Mr. Kulti, he’ll be volunteering with the camp today,” I introduced them.

The two teachers just kind of stood there, and it was Kulti that nodded a greeting at them.

“If you can let me know where the goals are, I can start setting up,” I told Mr. Webber, the physical education teacher.

He was looking at Kulti as he nodded absently. “They’re heavy,” he warned, eyes still on the German.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I assured him, only just barely restraining myself from rocking back and forth on my heels.

“I’ll help,” Pumpernickel added, which finally got the teacher going.

Between the four of us, we pulled the soccer goals out and set them up. There were only two, but it was enough. The pre-signup sheet had fewer kids registered than the week before.

I was busy spraying lines on the grass when I spotted Kulti speaking to two female teachers who would be working the registration table. He was gesturing at something on the sheet and they were nodding enthusiastically, which didn’t say much because he probably could have been telling them that he pooped golden nuggets and they would have been excited, based on the way they’d been looking at him.

Hookers.

All right, that wasn’t very nice.

I finished spraying the lines just in time for the first of the kids to start showing up with their parents.

“Are you okay with doing this like we did last week? Only working together this time?” I asked Kulti once I’d approached the registration table where he’d been standing.

He tipped his short brown-haired head at me, his eyes directly meeting mine. “We make a good team, schnecke, it will be fine.”

So now he was back to calling me schnecke, whatever that meant.

I eyed him a little uncertainly.

In return, he punched me in the shoulder, which would have made me smile, but him dodging me at the last camp was still a little too fresh in my thoughts. The facial expression I made—a weak, watered-down smile you gave someone that you didn’t find particularly funny but didn’t want to hurt their feelings—must have said as much, because Kulti frowned. After a beat, his frowned deepened.

The German, who had reportedly gotten into a fight years ago when someone called his mother a whore, grabbed my hand, raised it and hit his own shoulder with it.

What in the hell had just happened?

Before I even had time to think about what he’d done, my oversized bratwurst took a step forward and he did it.

He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, bringing me in so close my nose was pressed against the cartilage right between his pectorals.

He was hugging me.

Dear God, Reiner Kulti was hugging the shit out of me.

I just stood there with my arms at my sides, frozen. Completely freaking frozen in place. I was stunned, beyond stunned. Stupefied.

“Hug me back,” the accented voice demanded from up above.

His words shook off my paralysis. I found myself wrapping my arms around his waist, gingerly at first, our chests meeting in a real honest hug. My palms went flat against the twin columns of his lower back, arms overlapping.

“Am I dying and I don’t know it?” I asked his chest.

He sighed. “You better not be.”

I pulled back and looked up at his face, completely unsure about what the hell had just happened. “Are you dying?” I blurted out.

“No.” Kulti held that same serious expression that was so innate for him; I wasn’t sure what emotion he was feeling. “I’m sorry that I hurt your feelings. I only stepped away because Alejandro is… competitive. He wants what he can’t have. It was my mistake inviting him.” He glanced up quickly before looking back down and adding in a lowered voice, “I’m sorry for all the problems my presence has caused in your life. Soccer has given me everything, but it’s also taken away just as many things.”