So… that was kind of disappointing for everyone who asked.

A small part of me was surprised the vultures hadn’t descended on his unmoving ass. If he ever needed the money, he could work as one of those living statues that painted their bodies in metallic colors and hung out in Times Square, letting people pay them tips to take pictures with them. His apathy was that bad.

But no one said anything about the press conference from hell, or brought up stuff about Eric and Kulti, and there weren’t any more questions about me rejoining the national team. Overall, there was nothing really for me to complain about. I could act like a normal human being with some dignity, not a stuttering idiot that a decade ago had a crush on the man that everyone was talking about.

So really, what was there to complain about?

* * *

On the morning of our individual photo shoots, I should have known how the interview was going to go when the first thing out of the journalist’s mouth was a mispronounced “Salome!” Suh-lome. Then even after I corrected him he still said it the wrong way. Which wasn’t a big deal; I was used to having someone butcher it. It happened all the time.

Suh-lome. Saah-lome. Sah-lowmee. Salami. Salamander. Salmon. Sal-men. Saul. Sally. Samantha.

Or, in the case of my brother: Stupid.

In the case of my little sister: Bitch.

Regardless, when someone continuously messes up your name even after you correct them… it’s a sign. In this case, it was a sign that I should have known this guy was a moron.

I had tried to get away from him. Usually I tried to sneak away, but lately there were so many of them, it was impossible. The minute I spotted the group of television reporters and journalists by the field where the photographs were set to be taken, my gut churned. I didn’t have a problem walking around in my sports bra in front of everyone and anyone. I could play games just fine in front of thousands of people, but the instant a camera came around when I wasn’t doing those things…

No. No, no, no.

So as soon as I spotted them, I started to circle my way as far from their location as possible. Let them get the other girls first. The furthest group from the entrance stopped Grace, the captain and veteran on the team. Thank you, Jesus. Then I saw another group swoop in on Harlow, and I felt a bolt of relief go through my stomach.

Fifteen more feet to go. Fifteen more feet and I’d be clear. My heart started beating that much faster and I made sure to keep my eyes forward. No eye contact.

Ten feet. Baby Jesus, please—

“Salome!”

Fuck.

I looked over and breathed a sigh of relief when the reporter shouting didn’t have a camera or a cameraman with him. He was a blogger. I could have kissed him.

The first few questions were normal. How my off-season had gone. How training was going. Who I thought were going to be our biggest competitors.

It was right around the time that I was finishing his last question, preparing myself to tell him that I needed to go, when I heard the reporters I’d bypassed start chattering loudly. Again it was no big deal. The journalist’s eyes started darting to the area behind me even as I spoke, watching and waiting for his next victim. There weren’t usually reporters or journalists waiting around before practice unless it was playoff time. At least that’s what it had been like before the former German superstar showed up.

Now apparently, they all had bottle vision whenever he was nearby. And from the look on the journalist’s face when he saw his next subject, I knew who had caught his attention.

Two eyes swung from whatever the journalist was looking at behind me… to me and then back again.

A strain of dread-like anger saturated my belly when Kulti walked by, waving off the three media people that were trying to get his attention by asking questions and shoving their cameras and recording devices in his face.