Kulti 2, Sal 0. He was right again. Anything could happen. In eight months I would be twenty-eight and if I was really lucky and my body held out on me, I might have three or four years left in my career. Maybe more. Maybe. I didn’t want to put too much hope into longer than that; my knee and my ankle would be the ones making the decision, and there wasn’t much I could do to change their mind when they decided they’d had enough.

So.

Europe? New York was closer. Then again, New York was a decision being taken out of my hands and I was not a fan of that, not a fan at all. I didn’t want to go to there and it was mainly just to spite Cordero. Who the hell did I know in Europe, anyway?

Was I really using not knowing someone as an excuse to stay in the U.S. when that choice would have me playing under a woman that would make it impossible for me to do well? Was there even a choice, really?

Indecision filled my chest and shamed me. Was I going to let fear get the best of me and keep me somewhere I wasn’t going to be happy? Keep me with an organization that obviously didn’t want me anymore because I was friends with my coach? How fucking stupid would that be? If twenty-two-year-old career driven Sal Casillas could hear me now, she would kick my twenty-seven-year-old ass for being a pussy.

A tiny part of me realized that I didn’t need to rush into a decision yet. There were still four games left in the season, and if we moved on to the playoffs—when we moved on to the playoffs—there would be more games. I had time, not much but some.

Big Girl Socks on, I thought about it.

Screw it. There wasn’t a decision to make. I’d be an idiot if I stayed in the WPL and gave someone, who didn’t have my best intentions in mind, a key to my future. Wasn’t I? What would my dad or Eric tell me?

It only took a second for me to decide what they would say: get the hell out.

“You’re right,” I said and straightened my spine. “I have nothing to lose even if things don’t work out.”

I didn’t see Kulti roll his eyes. “Make a list of the teams you’re familiar with,” he said to Franz.

The demand got me thinking instantly.

“Hold on. I don’t want to get on a team because you ask someone for a favor. Tell me the names of the teams you think I could be a good fit for, and I’ll talk to my agent about seeing what she can do.”

I didn’t miss the look they shot each other.

“I’m serious. I don’t need this to haunt me down the road. I want to go somewhere where I’m needed, or at least wanted.” Because it was the truth. I hadn’t gotten to where I was by taking advantage of who my grandfather was, or who my brother was. I had worked too hard to avoid getting screwed over, like I was now, and I didn’t plan on letting it happen again.

They exchanged another look.

“I’m not joking. You especially, Pumpernickel, promise me you won’t pay someone to take me.” I cringed, realizing what I’d said and gave Franz an apologetic smile. “It’s a joke, I swear. I have nothing against Germans.”

“No offense taken.”

Kulti agreed to nothing.

I elbowed him in the ribs. “Rey, promise me.”

That time I did catch him rolling his eyes. “Fine.”

“That doesn’t sound like a promise to me.”

“I promise, schnecke,” he grumbled.

I totally caught the small smile that crossed Franz’s face as he heard the nickname Kulti called me. It was the first time he’d used that term in front of someone, and Franz’s smile said that it couldn’t have meant a bad thing. At least that’s what I was pretty sure of.