My throat convulsed and I hiccupped. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. Don’t do it, Sal. Don’t you fucking do it.

I managed to hold out thirty seconds before the next hiccup wrecked my upper body. It was followed by another and then another. By the fifth one, I hunched over and pressed my palms to my eye sockets. I didn’t cry hardly ever. When I was upset, I did other things to get my mind off of whatever was bothering me. There were very few things in life worth crying over, my mom had told me once.

Sitting on that tub, I really tried to tell myself that getting traded wasn’t the end of the world. I tried to convince myself I shouldn’t take it personally. It was just business and it happened, sometimes, to other people.

That only made me cry harder.

I was an idiot. A stupid fucking idiot.

When I thought about Kulti cashing in favors to get players to come to my camp and buying kids’ shoes and how he’d given me a freaking hug, it only made things worse.

I cried like a baby, a big silent baby that didn’t want anyone to hear her.

“Schnecke, did you—“ Kulti’s voice abruptly cut off.

In hindsight I would realize that I didn’t hear him come in because he didn’t knock. He just barged right in, sticking his big fat head in the room like there wasn’t a chance that I was on the toilet doing something he wouldn’t want to see. I was so caught off guard, I couldn’t muffle the next sob or bother to try and hide it.

I missed the horrified look on Kulti’s face before he came inside and shut the door

behind him. I didn’t see him drop to his knees or put his hands on my own, lowering his head so that his forehead pressed to mine.

“Schnecke,” he said in the softest, most affectionate tone I’d ever heard. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” I managed to blabber out. I was shaking and my upper body was convulsing with soundless cries.

“Stop with your lies and tell me why you’re crying,” he ordered even as he scooted forward and stroked a big hand down my spine.

“I’m not crying.”

“You are the worst liar I have ever met.” He moved to rub my shoulder. “Why are you upset?”

Every time he asked, I somehow managed to cry harder, my body shaking more; there were actual noises coming out of me. “It’s stupid.”

“More than likely, but tell me anyway,” he said in a gentle voice.

I couldn’t catch my breath. “They’re… going… to… trade… me,” I bawled to my freaking humiliation.

The hand on my shoulder didn’t let up its comforting circles. “Who told you?”

“Franz,” I said, but it really sounded like more Franzzzz-agh.

Something quick and vicious-sounding in German shot out of his mouth: a spit, a curse on top of a curse.

“He’s not lying, is he?” I asked his shirt collar.

Kulti sighed into the top of my head. “No. He wouldn’t say something unless he was sure,” he confirmed.

My heart and my head were both well aware that the signs had been there.

“Gardner warned me, but I didn’t listen,” I told him. “This is so stupid. I’m sorry. I know it’s not the end of the world and this is embarrassing, but I can’t stop crying.”

The big German I’d been in love with since I was a kid, put his arms all around me. And he shushed me. Literally, he said, “Shush.” Then he held me a little closer and said into my ear, “You’re better than this. Stop crying.”

“I can’t,” I whined for probably the first time in at least ten years.