I hated it when people said that. “All right.” I psyched myself up to ask the question I couldn’t stop thinking about. The possibility of getting reamed was very real, but screw it, you only live once. “Why are your PKs sucking so much?” I went for it. I just blurted it out. Good God, I should have been proud of myself. “I don’t get it.”

In an ideal world, he would have yelled at me and said that I was a lowly peasant in his universe who had no right to speak to him, much less ask questions like that.

In the real world, he made a choking sound.

I gave him a side look to make sure he was still alive. He was.

Was his face red?

“No one can say you aren’t honest, can they?” he asked. Another choking sound—or maybe it was a snicker?—came out of him before he continued. “You can say I’m out of practice.”

All right, that was something. Not enough, obviously. “How long out of practice?” I was hesitant asking. I felt like I was trying to pet the mean dog on the other side of the fence.

He raised a hand and ran it over the short hair on his head. That hard jaw might have jutted out to the side, but I couldn’t be sure. The one thing I was sure of: he did glance over in my direction like he couldn’t believe I had the nerve to ask.

Honestly, I couldn’t believe I actually gone through with it. What I really couldn’t believe was that he replied.

“Do you know when I retired?” he asked in that strict voice with only the slightest hint of an accent. I remember hearing somewhere that he spoke four different languages fluently, or was it three?

Poop. Who cared how many languages he spoke?

Of course I knew when he retired, but I didn’t say it like that. I could be cool about it. “Yes.”

“That’s your answer.”

Wait.

Wait.

“You haven’t done what since you retired?” The question was careful.

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

Kulti’s mouth twisted to the side at the same time his nostrils flared. “I haven’t played since I retired. If you tell anyone—”

I almost slammed on my brakes.

Okay, I didn’t, but I wanted to. I couldn’t believe him. I eased the car to a stop at a red light as he finished his stupid threat that I chose to ignore. Slowly, incredulously I said, “You’re joking.” Who was I kidding? He didn’t have humor in his DNA.

Sure enough, he confirmed it. “I am not.”

“No.”

He arched a dark eyebrow. “I don’t lie.”

I let my head fall back against the headrest as I took in what he’d admitted. Two years. Two years! He hadn’t played in two years! “At all?” My voice was all low and whisper-like.

“Correct.”

Holy fuck. It felt like the world had been ripped out from under my feet. Two freaking years for a player like him? What in the hell was that?

I wanted to tell him something, to apologize or something, but I could only open my mouth and close it, good intentions present.

But I knew that my pity wasn’t what he’d want. If I had to bet money, I would have said that the longest length of time he’d ever taken off from playing was when he tore some ligaments in his foot but, I wasn’t about to bust out my Kulti-psycho-stalker-knowledge.

Keeping my eyes forward, I cleared my throat and then followed up by doing it again.

Because—two years! Two years!

Holy shit. How was that even possible?

I dwelled on the number one more time, and then locked it away to process it later in the privacy of my own home. Two years was a lifetime and yet it was more than long enough to explain why he had such a huge stick up his ass. The poor guy was like a eunuch. No soccer was pretty much the equivalent of losing your balls, at least that’s what I figured.