“You can and you will,” he said tenderly. “I can’t imagine how you’re feeling right now—“

Of course he couldn’t. He’d never been traded against his will and if he had, it had to have been for a better position and more money. For me, it was like getting dumped. Violated. Thrown away.

“—but you’re better than this. In two years you’ll be thanking them for being so stupid—“

His pep talk wasn’t helping. “I gave them the best years of my life,” I might have wailed, but hoped I didn’t.

“You have not. You haven’t even reached the peak of your career.”

I was inconsolable. Reiner Kulti was telling me I still had better years ahead of me, and it wasn’t making me feel better.

“Taco. Stop. Stop this instant,” he demanded in a grave voice.

I couldn’t. All I could keep thinking was that Houston was where I wanted to be. It’s the place I had made my home. If they had asked me first if I wanted to go somewhere else, it would be one thing, but these under-the-table deals were for the players you tried to get rid of so that they wouldn’t blow a gasket.

There was snot running down my nose and it made the German huff in exasperation and tighten his hold around me, his arms like a shield against the world. “I know this is my fault, and I swear I’ll make it up to you,” he murmured in that thick accent I wanted to wrap myself in.

“It’s not your fault,” I said muffled against him before changing my mind. “I don’t regret it at all. This is their fault for being so damn dumb. I’ve always done whatever they wanted me to do. I’m a team player. I don’t completely suck. I get to practice early and stay late, and this is how they repay me? By trying to send me to fucking New York? Where I’ll probably never get to play again?”

I sat up, not caring in the least that I had to look like a giant mess and sniffled at my friend. I was feeling the weight of a hundred galaxies on my shoulders, feeling my dreams on the cusp of slipping away. I knew I was being overdramatic, but it was all too much. “What am I going to do?” I asked him, like he had all the answers.

Kulti palmed my knees again. That handsome face that had aged gracefully was solemn, but he looked me dead in the eye as he spoke. “You’re going to keep playing. I promise you, Sal. I would never put your career at risk.”

I sniffled and made a watery noise in my throat, my shoulders shaking and warning of another round of tears.

The German shook his head. “No. No more. I won’t let you down; now stop crying. It makes me nauseous.”

That was almost funny. I wiped at my face with the back of my hand and he scowled, reaching back to pull a few pieces of toilet paper off the roll before handing them to me. “Control yourself,” he ordered.

I almost laughed. I sniffled and wiped at my face with the tissue he gave me. “You can’t tell me to ‘control myself,’ it doesn’t work that way.”

“You’re supposed to do what I say,” he said, snatching the tissue away from me and dabbing at my cheeks a little more forcefully than necessary with a frown.

That made me crack a small, pitiful smile. “Who said that?”

He met my eyes. “I did.”

I pressed my lips together. “That’s convenient.”

Kulti reached back and grabbed more toilet paper. “You’re a mess,” he said, continuing his cleanup process. “I didn’t take you to be a crybaby.”

“I’m not.” I tried to snatch the tissue away from him, but he held his hand out of reach. I stretched and he easily pulled his hand away further out of my grasp. “I can wipe my own face off.”