Kulti

“My schnecke. My little snail, do you know that’s what it means? It’s a term of affection in my country. My love. My snail. I don’t want to waste more time. I have nothing to hide and neither do you.”

“You are the worst liar I have ever met,” he said. “Pull up your shirt or I’ll do it for you.”

“Are you going to boss me around even when we’re not on the field?”

He didn’t even blink before he answered. “Yes.”

“If you get kicked off the team, I wouldn’t have anyone else to play with.”

My little heart wrapped up that comment in cling wrap to preserve it forever.

The next two weeks of my life could be summed up in three keywords: physical and emotional hell.

In the words of my brother, I did it to myself. I brought the attention of a perfectionist down on me, and there was no one else to blame for 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.

The fact that Harlow both noticed and commented on Kulti’s big sculpted butt amazed and amused me. I snorted and then I snorted again as we both took a quick peek at his retreating buns. They were pretty perfect. Time and gravity hadn’t affected them at all.

for keeping my thoughts on the game and not on the dumb man people had called ‘The King’. Sure. He was ‘The King’ of every full-of-shit bastard on the planet.

They say not to make eye contact with dangerous animals so that they don’t perceive you as a threat, but I said screw it; I was no one’s bitch, especially not Kulti’s.