Completely catching me off-guard, Kulti, my freaking German with supposedly no conscience, pressed his cheek to the top of my head and wrapped himself around me. He hugged me back. His body was hard and tense as he did it, but it was different. It wasn’t an angry hug; it was something else. It was like when I was a kid and would hug the crap out of my dog because I loved him so much.

Like that—but not.

When he finally pulled away, I glanced up. I didn’t take it personally that he wasn’t smiling down at me. He was just glaring, well really more like glowering, but whatever. I gave him another hug, and felt the weight of his arm settle over my shoulder.

It stayed there.

The other man was a goalie named Michael Kimmons. He was taller than Kulti and just a little older than me.

“Hey, it’s nice to meet you. Thanks for coming.” I thrust my hand out at him when I felt the German’s arm clamp down the instant I introduced myself.

“Mike Kimmons,” he said with a hard shake.

“Sal Casillas.”

“I know your brother Eric,” he threw in. “We play together.”

I nodded at him and smiled.

“You mentioned to me he plays, too. Where?” Franz asked in a curious tone.

“He’s on loan to Madrid right now,” I explained.

“I had no idea.” The second German nodded with a slight frown. Before he’d retired, he’d played for Madrid’s top opponent, Barcelona. “Do your parents play?”

“Oh no. My dad has asthma and my mom,” the gigantic bicep surrounding my neck like a boa constrictor bulged, “isn’t exactly a fan.”

For one stinking moment, I had the fear that Kulti would say something about who my mom’s dad was. One brief, painful moment I imagined him spilling the beans because it was something impressive to say in front of people who would think it was interesting. I really thought he might.

He didn’t.

He steered the conversation away. “We’ll split up into two groups,” he ordered and I let him, because it had become evident to me that he was starting to enjoy these days playing with the kids. It almost made me feel a little bad that there was only one camp left after today.

The day went fine. Mike Kimmons was a little too serious for the kids, but some of them recognized him and it made up for him not playing around with them much. Kulti offered to be paired up with him for some reason, and I tackled the other group with Franz.

Once the three hours had passed and most of the kids had left, Franz pulled me aside while Kulti continued taking pictures with a few straggling participants and their parents.

The older German gave me a serious look. “I overheard something while I was in Los Angeles, and I need to tell you.”

Fuck. Preparing someone for news was never a good thing. My Big Girl Socks went on. “Okay.”

He cast a glance in Kulti’s direction before hurrying through what he felt the need to tell me. “There’s a rumor you will be traded to New York at the end of this season.”

My ears started ringing. My stomach churned.

New York? With Amber? If that wasn’t bad enough, the team already had a solid popular starting line-up. I would never get to play.

Most importantly, I didn’t want to go to fucking New York.

Franz touched my shoulder. “I recruit for NL,” he was referring to the Newcastle Lions, one of the top men’s teams in the United Kingdom, “Think about what I told you the last time. If you decide you’d like to try something different—“ he shot me a look, “something better, I can help. I don’t understand how you’ve gotten buried in the system here, but between Reiner and I, there isn’t much we can’t do with our connections.”