So maybe it was a little unfair.

A little.

I mean, this was softball and we were soccer players. I’d been a tomboy most of my life, and I happened to be good at most sports. I’d never been a great student, I always chose practicing over studying, but you couldn’t have it all unless you were Jenny.

It just so happened that Kulti was good at catching and throwing a ball. Whatever.

I never played all-out during ‘fun’ games of any type; first, I couldn’t afford to get hurt and second, I didn’t like to dominate the games when I was fully aware that the people who played did it to unwind. They didn’t need my competitive butt ruining it. Even Kulti hadn’t run as fast as we both knew he was capable of, but at fifty percent, he was still leaps and bounds better than the average man. He ran slower, held back and I noticed that he really did try to give other people a chance.

But the point was he didn’t like to lose. I didn’t like to lose. So if people weren’t taking advantage of the opportunities opened up to them, well, one of us was going to do something about it. And for some reason, I was fully aware of where he was on the field constantly. He was catching balls and throwing them the entire game.

In the end, we won nine to zero.

Finally deciding to move Rey to the other team, I met those crazy eyes from our positions on opposite sides of the field. He didn’t have to say it and neither did I. This was going to be our rematch. Round two. This might have been a completely different game, but in reality this was going to be me versus him.

That fiery burn I got in my chest during games flared inside of me as we each locked gazes, and I shot him my own bring it smirk.

Was he going to make me eat dirt? Hopefully not.

* * *

“Son of a bitch,” I muttered to myself when Simon’s wristwatch beeped with the time.

Marc trotted up next to me, his face flushed and shocked. “Did we lose?”

I nodded slowly, halfway in a stupor. “Yes.”

“How?” he asked. We never lost, especially not when he and I were on a team together.

“It was him,” I answered. There was no need to point. We both knew who I was referring to.

We both just looked at each other and silently went off to cower in our disappointment. I grabbed my bat, tucked my glove under my arm and stretched. Halfway through a body settled onto the ground next to me, and I knew it was Kulti.

Asshole.

When he didn’t say anything, I felt my frustration race up. When I didn’t find it in me to say anything either, my anger just ticked up a little higher. Eventually he looked over and kept his expression blank. “A coach of mine used to say that no one likes a sore loser.”

My eyebrows went into a straight line. “I find it hard to believe that you listened to him.”

His brown eyebrows went up and a hint of an angelic, serene look took over his features. “I didn’t. I’m only telling you what I have been told, Taquito.”

What a smart-ass.

* * *

We were at the airport in Seattle on the way back to Houston, following our second game a few days later, when I spotted the crowd surrounding our sensation of a coach.

Not again.

I hadn’t said anything about the crowd around the Audi after the first game, and I hadn’t heard anyone else say anything about it either. To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought. Since then, I’d played softball with the German and even joked around with him for a little bit, at least as much as his dry humor was capable of.

On the other hand, nothing had changed while we were on Pipers time. He still ripped me a new one each chance he had. I hadn’t given him another ride home, either. The black Audi was always there after practice, its tint so dark I’d bet a dollar it was illegal.