The Striker's Chance

by Rebecca Crowley

  “Sven Brock only joined a few months ago, so hopefully he can make a difference. Regardless, I’m glad I’m only in charge of keeping one player looking good.”

  When the players returned for the second half, Kepler’s posture had noticeably changed. Gone was the excitable, energetic player whose clear emotional broadcasting had been a thrill to watch. Now his face was locked up tight, his body rigid and unyielding.

  “He looks pissed,” was Rick’s jubilant explanation as he returned to his seat holding a plate stacked high with mini hot dogs. “This ought to be good. Remember I said Kepler was known for his aggression in England? Did I tell you his nickname?”

  “Do I really want to know?” Holly asked, though she could tell from the delighted look on Rick’s face there would be no stopping him.

  “Killer de Klerk.”

  “Great,” she muttered as the players sprang into action.

  Within minutes it became obvious that Sven’s halftime speech had included instructions to get the ball to Kepler and help him find chances to score. Unfortunately it was also clear that, should his teammates fail to deliver, Kepler had decided to take the ball by any means necessary.

  As soon as one of his opponents took possession, Kepler was in his space, bearing down on him. In the second it took the white-shirted player to look around for someone who could receive a pass, Kepler’s feet were between his ankles. He flicked the ball up and out in a surprisingly graceful movement and began to run it down the field toward Ottawa’s goal.

  But before long, two Ottawa players ran up to challenge him and there were no Discovery shirts in sight.

  Kepler managed to shove his way out from between the two of them without losing the ball, but when he attempted to pass it to his nearest teammate it was quickly intercepted, and soon the action had returned to Discovery’s half of the field. For a moment he stood shaking his head, watching Discovery’s defenders haplessly chase their opponents.

  “Your boy Killer doesn’t look happy,” Rick announced with unnecessary glee. Alan cursed under his breath to Holly’s left. She crossed as many of her fingers as she could manage and stared intently at the pitch.

  Discovery’s goalie caught the ball and hurled it back down the field, where Kepler took possession and began another run into Ottawa’s half. His opponents were fast, but he was faster, and as he bolted toward the goal line everyone in the corporate box was on their feet.

  “Run, dammit, run,” Alan shouted beside her, and she leaped up along with everyone else.

  “Come on Killer!” Rick pumped his fist in the air. Holly had never been a sports fan, but she was completely swept up in the energy and adrenaline in the room. Kepler’s long, muscular legs were pumping toward the goal, and the Ottawa players thundered down the pitch in hot pursuit.

  He looks so alone down there, she thought with a sudden, piercing sadness. She fisted her hands in front of her chest and squeezed tightly, blood pounding in her ears as she watched the lone blue shirt race down the field.

  “You can do it,” she whispered.

  One of Ottawa’s defenders was catching up with him and moving up to Kepler’s elbow, but he was almost to the goal line, in perfect scoring position. The crowd in the stands was heaving as fans jumped to their feet. The stadium roared with shouted encouragement, everyone in the corporate box was screaming...

  ...and then the defender stuck out his leg, and Kepler went toppling head over heels onto the grass.

  The din of excitement in the box quickly turned to one of outrage. Kepler rolled onto his side with his leg pulled up to his chest, and the Ottawa defender threw his hands in the air in a show of innocence.

  “That was a clear foul,” Rick insisted, and Alan looked over Holly’s head at him for the first time during the match, as though only just realizing he was there.

  “If that’s not a red card, I’ll personally go down there and punch that ref in the face,” Alan said vehemently.

  She just wanted Kepler to get up.

  The referee reached the pair at the same time that Kepler waved away the medic who approached him from the sideline. He dragged himself to his feet, limped up to the Ottawa player and—to Holly’s horror—shoved him hard in the chest. His opponent stuck an angry finger in his face, and Kepler pushed him again before Tyson inserted himself between the two men and forcibly guided his teammate away.

  “This is a nightmare.” Her eyes fell shut in despair as she snapped back into professional mode. Kepler had gone from victim to aggressor in less than a minute.

  “It was a dirty tackle,” Rick commented, and she opened her eyes.

  The ref reached into his pocket and raised a red card, sending the Ottawa player off the field. Alan clapped heartily, declaring his opinion of the defender in colorful terms.

  Then the ref reached into his pocket a second time, faced Kepler and produced a yellow card.

  The reaction of the crowd in the box was replicated on the field when Kepler threw up his hands in furious indignation. The ref shrugged and turned away. Kepler moved to follow him, poised for an argument, but as soon as he took a step his leg seemed to buckle beneath him. He grabbed Tyson’s shoulder for support.

  Her heart was in her throat as the medic jogged back onto the pitch. Had Sven sent Kepler out to play too early? What if his leg wasn’t fully healed yet? How badly was he hurt?

  Beside her, Alan put his head in his hands. “Ten million dollars we paid for him. Ten million.”

  On her other side, Rick had dropped back into his seat and was using his phone to take a photo of the food spread over the table against the wall.

  A quick peer through the window showed Kepler being helped off the field by the medic as one of Discovery’s other players burst in from the sidelines to take his place.

  Holly remembered the sight of him running down the pitch on his own, with a horde of his opponents barreling toward him, every single one intent on stopping him from taking another step.

  Without another thought, she scooped up her purse and slipped out of the room.

  * * *

  Kepler draped his forearm over his eyes as pain radiated through his leg. He was lying on his back on one of the examination tables in the medical room that adjoined the dressing room, and the fluorescent lighting seemed to glare accusingly at him from the ceiling overhead.

  “It’s just a strain,” announced Hank, Discovery’s perpetually cheerful Dutch medic and physical therapist. “Nothing that can’t be fixed with a little...gentle...manipulation.”

  On the last word Hank used his grip on Kepler’s foot to shove his knee up to his chest, and Kepler gritted his teeth against the searing protest in his hamstring.

  He closed his eyes and attempted to concentrate on his mental post-match analysis. Normally he tried to relive as many of his moves in as much detail as possible and then compare what he remembered to what was visible on video.

  Except when he thought back on the match, all he could see in his mind’s eye was the ball sailing into Discovery’s net over and over again.

  The shame of defeat settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach.

  And the humiliation of having to leave his debut match on an injury... He cringed beneath his arm. He was supposed to be this legendary player descended from on high to bring European excellence to a budding American team, to rally its young players and to transform it from a raw mechanism into a fearsome, slick machine.

  What had he done instead?

  He’d fallen over and hurt himself.

  Maybe this had been a terrible idea, he thought as Hank’s fingers probed the muscles above his knee. Maybe he should have simply accepted that his career was over and gotten on with building a new life for himself in South Africa. He’d been surprisingly good at academics when he was younger—maybe it wasn’t too late to go to university?

  He was getting too old to keep starting over. New team, new city, new country—that was fine when he’d been in his late teens and early twen
ties and had the energy and inclination to explore and discover. In those days life had been one long adventure.

  Since the accident, though, he craved stability more than anything. He wanted to make real friends he could rely on. He wanted a house he could see himself living in for a long time.

  And while he was dreaming, he wanted someone to be in that house when he came home. Someone who didn’t care whether he won or lost his matches, or how big his contract renewal bonus was, or which sponsors he was negotiating with. Someone who loved him, not the media’s fantasy version.

  A knock on the door yanked him from his reverie as Hank called, “Come in.”

  At the sound of high heels clacking against the floor, Kepler peeked out from under his arm.

  It was Holly, looking impossibly fresh and summery in a light blue flowered dress, her brow creased as she took a few tentative steps toward him.

  Kepler groaned as he covered his eyes again. So unfair.

  “Not now, please,” he grumbled. He was sweaty, in pain, and he’d just played one of the worst games of his life. Discussing how they were going to handle his yellow card in the press—which is what he assumed was her purpose in visiting—was a long, long way down his list of priorities. He wanted to shower, pop open a beer and ice his leg, in that order.

  “How are you?” she asked uncertainly, just before Hank’s fingers dug into his aching hamstring. The sting was sudden and intense, and Kepler muttered a string of curses with a clenched jaw.

  “Nice talk in front of a lady,” Hank scolded playfully.

  “Don’t worry, I couldn’t understand a word.” Holly moved closer to stand by his head. He could smell her freesia perfume. “What language was that, anyway?”

  “Afrikaans,” Hank supplied. “It has roots in Dutch, so de Klerk here can’t get away with too much foul language when I’m around.”

  Kepler ignored the physical therapist’s teasing. He concentrated on breathing through the twanging aftershocks running up and down the tendons in the back of his leg.

  “Interesting,” Holly mused. “Is Afrikaans your first or second language, Kepler? Do you usually think in Afrikaans or English?”

  What language he thought in ranked only slightly above PR strategy on his list of conversations he was in no mood to have. “What do you want?”

  “I had an idea,” she said, a touch defensively.

  Another wine-soaked dinner with the board? A handwritten apology for every person who attended the match? Or maybe a two-page magazine spread showing him and the bastard from Ottawa going out for lunch and having a bygones-be-bygones laugh about the fact that he could’ve re-broken Kepler’s damn leg with that illegal tackle.

  He sighed. Better get it over with. “Okay, tell me your idea.”

  She leaned her hip against the edge of the table and looked down at him with a thoughtful expression.

  “You’re not home yet.”

  His attention sharpened. She couldn’t mean—how could she know?

  “What did you say?”

  Just as she opened her mouth to speak, Hank rotated his calf at an angle that sent arrows of hot agony shooting through his muscles. Nearly blind with hurt, he couldn’t contain the harsh growl that escaped from his throat, and he couldn’t stop the impulse to grab Holly’s hand and squeeze as though it was an anchor in his haze of pain.

  Her hand was soft and cool, her fingers small and delicate in his grasp. Yet there was real strength in her grip, something steely and determined thrumming beneath the smooth skin.

  As the pain subsided enough for him to realize how inappropriate it was to have grabbed her like that, she squeezed back.

  Kepler glanced up and their eyes met. Hers were full of reassurance and calm, and his racing heart slowed to a normal rhythm. She smiled, and in that instant she was exactly what he needed: beautiful, soothing, solid. He knew he was staring at her dumbly, but he couldn’t look away.

  “Almost done,” Hank announced, and the moment was gone. Kepler sheepishly withdrew his hand and Holly looked at the floor.

  “Sit up, take a breather. I need to grab a sports bandage, then we’ll quickly do the other side. I’ll strap you up and then you’re free to go.”

  Hank whistled as he headed toward the supply room, and Kepler pulled himself gingerly into a sitting position, his legs dangling over the edge of the table.

  “You were saying,” he said haltingly, unsure how to proceed after what had passed between them—or at least what he thought had passed between them, “something about an idea?”

  “Oh, right.” She seemed to give herself a little shake. “You’ve been in Charlotte for a few weeks now and we’ve still got you stuck in that hotel. I don’t know whether you’ve thought about renting or buying somewhere, but if you wanted, I could take you around to look at some properties tomorrow.”

  Kepler was so taken aback that he struggled to gather his thoughts for a few seconds. He’d been sure she’d come to talk about the incident on the pitch, but she hadn’t even mentioned it. And now she wanted to take him house hunting?

  “I’d like that,” he said honestly, as much to himself as to her. “And I want to look at houses, not apartments. I want to buy a house.”

  “Whatever you want.” She nodded. “I’ll have a look at the listings tonight and plan out a route. There are usually lots of open houses on Sundays. I can pick you up after lunch, say two o’clock?”

  There was a time when Kepler would’ve automatically suggested he buy her lunch beforehand, with the intention of throwing in a few drinks and never viewing any properties, except maybe the inside of his hotel room. His pursuit tactics had never been particularly subtle.

  But then, was he even in pursuit right now? There was something alluring about Holly as a person, no doubt about that. However, when in her professional guise, she could be incredibly annoying. Plus her mission to make him over as some kind of cuddly, kid-friendly soccer hero flew in the face of his desire for authenticity.

  For once he wanted to be himself—nothing more, nothing less. But her job was to dress up the truth, to paint over the rough spots and make everything look perfect.

  She was stunning. Intriguing. And not at all the woman he needed right now.

  “Two o’clock is fine,” he said, his tone already more guarded. “I’ll meet you out front.”

  “Great,” she chirped. “I’ll see you there. And I hope your leg feels better in the meantime.”

  “Thanks,” he said as Hank emerged from the supply room, bandage in hand.

  Hank made a circular motion with his finger, and Kepler obediently stretched out on his stomach, his long frame leaving his feet hanging over the end of the table.

  He dropped his head onto his folded arms. He didn’t look at her or say goodbye, but he listened intently as the click of Holly’s high heels receded toward the door and finally disappeared.

  Chapter Four

  Mixed emotions tumbled through Holly like clothes in a dryer as she pulled up to a stoplight down the street from the hotel. She shifted the car into neutral, grateful for the extra seconds to think.

  Last night this had seemed like a brilliant idea. She’d gleefully flipped through house listings, pulling together a schedule and even noting a few of the best restaurants and stores near each property. She’d gone to bed full of positivity, convinced this was just the thing to help Kepler settle in and become part of the team. The happier he was, the easier it would be to publicize him. Plus, she was excited to spend more time with him.

  And that was the problem.

  She’d tossed and turned for what felt like hours, unable to get their encounter in the medical room out of her head. Her mind spun with flashes of memory. The hard contours of his muscled legs. Golden hair curling on tanned skin. The rough, dry feel of his hand on hers, the power in his long fingers. Those depthless dark eyes gazing up at her, searching for something with such desperation that her heart threatened to split in two.

  When she�
�d woken that morning and stared at the midsummer sun filtering through the curtains, she was suddenly full of reservations.

  She was excited to spend time with Kepler—too excited. Her interest in him was becoming increasingly personal. That wasn’t only inappropriate from a career standpoint—Discovery paid her to do his publicity, not go out on dates—it was also unfair to him. Whether or not he agreed with her particular strategy, it was down to her to revamp his public image and salvage his career. This was his one and only shot at a career in the American leagues. She owed it to him not to be distracted.

  He’s out of bounds, she’d reminded herself sternly while gathering her hair into a high, smooth ponytail. She would be friendly and polite today, but nothing more.

  “Nothing more,” she repeated aloud as the light changed to green, and minutes later she pulled up in front of the hotel.

  Kepler stood outside, and as soon as she laid eyes on him she realized this professional-distance plan would be harder than she thought.

  He was lounging against one of the pillars by the entrance, looking sun kissed and delectable in tan cargo shorts, sunglasses and a dark blue T-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders.

  He acknowledged her arrival with an unsmiling nod, pulled open the door and dropped into the passenger seat, which he immediately adjusted to accommodate his long legs. Holly could smell the cedarwood and citrus in his aftershave, and she tightened her grip on the steering wheel as though that might strengthen her resolve.

  “How’s the leg today?”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s fine. Is this your car?”

  “Yes.” Kepler made no further comment, and she suddenly felt self-conscious about her perfectly respectable four-year-old Toyota Corolla. “I suppose you’ll need to buy a car as well,” she said, eager to break the uncomfortable silence. “You do know how to drive, right?”

  “Of course I know how to drive,” he shot back, his tone harsh and offended.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Holly paused to rethink her phrasing. How had this excursion gone so wrong so quickly? Maybe she really had imagined their moment of connection yesterday, because it seemed like Kepler was back to his rebellious, hostile self.