Kulti by Mariana Zapata

split second, I forgot who was in front of me.
    It was just long enough for me to ball up my fists, rage making me jut out my chin, and say “You—,” I don’t know what I was about to call him because I was so pissed off— so pissed off —I couldn’t think straight. But just as my hand began to make its journey toward the German’s face, I caught Gardner and a couple of the players that hadn’t left yet just behind him, walking toward their cars.
    And common sense mixed with that little voice in my head that kept me going when I felt like quitting this dream, reminded me to think about what I was doing.
    The air went out of my lungs like I’d just been punched. A vein in my temple throbbed in response. Don’t do it. Don’t you do it. The hair on my arms prickled up.
    Slowly, I let my hand drop to my side and made my mouth close itself.
    This dipshit wasn’t going to be the reason I had to sit out a season.
    He wasn’t.
    The urge to open my mouth and tell him to go suck a cock was right there , but I reeled it in slowly and steadily like it was a barracuda fighting for its life. But I did. I kept it deep in my chest, in my heart and locked it up.
    He wasn’t going to take this away from me.
    In what was probably one of the hardest things I’d ever done, I kept my middle fingers tucked in, my knee straight and away from the general vicinity of where a groin on a six-foot-two man would be, and pivoted around before sliding into my car. I closed the door without saying anything, made sure I wasn’t going to run over anyone, and backed out of the spot I was in.
    I didn’t look in my rearview mirror once. I was too pissed.
    I made it as far as the light before one single tear came out of my eye. Just one. How could he threaten me after what I’d done? I couldn’t understand. I took a deep, ragged breath and told myself that I wasn’t going to waste my tears on him. Whether it was humiliation or being insulted or plain being angry, it didn’t matter. His stupid-ass opinion didn’t matter to me. I knew who I was and what I was.
    He could go suck a big dick.
    And I hoped he gagged on it.
----
    “ A re you okay ?”
    I tied the knot on the big black bag I’d just finished dumping the grass catcher into. I nodded at Marc and gave him a tired smile. “I’m okay. Are you?”
    He pulled his hat off his head and ran a hand over his short black hair. “A little hung-over, but I’ve been through worse.” He fidgeted with the duffel bag he had thrown across his body before following after me. “Was, uh, everything okay last night?”
    “Yeah. He made it to practice this morning.” I said that so casually I thought I deserved a gold star. “Thanks again for calling me.”
    He shrugged off my thanks and picked up the edger waiting on the driveway. “What the hell do you think he was doing there anyway?” He asked the question quietly.
    “I have no clue.” He hadn’t said anything besides threaten me. Fantastic. “It seems pretty stupid to me, but at least we got him out of there.”
    Slamming the tailgate closed once we had all of our equipment back in the truck bed, Marc turned to look at me. “You did the right thing. Don’t worry about it.”
    The sudden urge to tell him that Kulti threatened my season loomed in my mouth, but I kept it there. All it had been was a threat. I told myself that I wasn’t going to give that cyst power over me.
    Plus, I had a nagging suspicion that I would never, ever acknowledge that I might still let out a tear or two if I repeated his words aloud. It was only because I didn’t have anything in my hand that I could afford to break that I didn’t throw it onto the floor.
    Wanting to throw something just wasn’t like me. I wasn’t this person. I couldn’t believe he was capable of bringing these emotions out of me. I wasn’t hot-tempered or emotional. Not anymore, at least.
    It was his fault. It was all Kulti’s fault.
----
    “ S alomé ! Salomé Casillas!”
    I