Jenny had sent me a text message letting me know that practice on Friday had been bombarded by reporters wanting the scoop on Reiner Kulti’s supposed DUI. I had just begun wondering why people would care when I reminded myself that I didn’t—I shouldn’t. Especially not after someone had been a massive asshole to me. For four days I stayed at home, and for three of those days I let myself fume over how he’d spoken to me. I made more money in a day than you do in a year for doing the exact same thing. Of course it pissed me off. The salary scale was a hard fact, as much as it sucked, but he didn’t need to be a pretentious dick about it. Then to top it off, although I hadn’t exactly expected an apology, I had definitely not gotten one. Not a text, not a phone call, nothing. So maybe I wouldn’t have been so bothered by the overabundance of media sectioned off from the soccer field if Kulti wouldn’t have been rude when I was only trying to be a good friend.
