The Striker's Chance

by Rebecca Crowley

  He dropped onto the weight bench and Holly crossed the room to sit beside him.

  “What’s up?” she asked as he put his elbows on his knees.

  “This is too embarrassing.” He shook his head. “I don’t want to do it.”

  A celebrity confidence crisis. Now that was something she knew how to handle, even if it was erupting from the most unlikely of people.

  “Kepler, you’re a professional athlete. You have the kind of body most men can only dream about. And women want to dream about it—that’s why we need these photos. Trust me, there won’t be a critical thought anywhere near these readers’ minds when they see the spread.”

  “It’s not that.” His brow furrowed as he stared at the floor. “I’m a soccer player, not an actor or a model. I don’t trade on my looks. I get paid to play a sport, not to stand around with no clothes on.”

  “It’s only the shirt,” she coaxed. “And maybe we can get you in your regular shorts for these shots.”

  He sighed. “It just seems so...personal.” He looked up at her, his eyes big with pleading. “Please don’t make me do it.”

  Holly forced a brittle laugh in an effort to conceal the way his gaze sucked the air out of her lungs and made her breathless. “You know as well as I do that I can’t make you do anything you don’t want.”

  When he continued to watch her expectantly, she had to grit her teeth against the impulse to trail a soothing hand down his back, tell him he was the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen and suggest they sneak out the back door and go get a beer.

  Because his completely justified reluctance to strip to the waist for a national magazine filled her with respect for him. He was right. He had become famous for his talent, not his looks. And if it weren’t for LKC Energy’s grand ambitions—and hers, by extension—he could be left alone to work on his game rather than spend a rainy afternoon having his photo taken and drafting responses to the magazine’s banal questions.

  But she did want that job—wanted it more and more each day. And although she doubted Kepler would be thrilled at the idea of leaving Discovery so soon, she was sure an eventual transfer to a bigger club was in his long-term plan.

  The front door banged open and shut. Laurel diverted to where the stylist had set up shop in the changing room, but Holly knew she’d be back any minute. She had to talk Kepler out of his shirt. Fast.

  “I know it’s awkward,” she said with honest sympathy, “but you have to trust me. This magazine is read all over the country, and it offers us a massive step away from ‘that guy in the car accident’ and toward ‘the sexy striker from Charlotte Discovery.’”

  “Us?”

  A slip of the tongue. Holly felt her cheeks color. Although it seemed extremely unlikely that he could ever guess at LKC Energy’s offer, she decided it was time for some expert spin.

  “Like it or not, I’m invested in your career. Beyond that, I’m invested in you. I want to see you happy at Discovery, playing the sport you love with the reputation you deserve.”

  To her indescribable relief, he cracked a tiny smile. “And do you think a reputation as a sexy striker is one I deserve?”

  “My opinion isn’t what matters,” she replied, deliberately coy. “But I will make you an offer. Get these photos done, and we can draft your answers to the interview question over a few beers instead of in the reception area here. What do you say?”

  “I’m slightly offended you think I can be bribed with alcohol,” he replied, his playful expression belying his words. “But on this occasion I suppose I’ll let it slide.”

  Holly grinned as Laurel stepped back into the room.

  She slung her camera back over her neck. “Are we ready?”

  Kepler got to his feet, pulled the tight blue T-shirt over his head and flung it to the side. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Holly retreated behind the laptop and watched as image after image of his tanned torso filled the screen. Pure muscle. Yet his build was lean, with golden blond hair sprinkled across his chest and running in a tantalizing line south from his navel. When he pivoted according to Laurel’s direction, Holly saw he had the South African flag tattooed on the back of his left shoulder. Beneath it the word Ubuntu.

  Kepler glanced at her over that same shoulder, and she shot him a thumbs-up and an encouraging smile.

  He grinned back at her, and Laurel snapped like crazy. Holly looked at the image on the screen: tousled blond hair, perfect teeth, all that smooth skin and a warmth in those bitter chocolate eyes that hadn’t appeared in any of the other photos.

  This is it, she thought with a secret sense of triumph. We’ll get the cover for sure.

  * * *

  “Come on, Kepler,” Holly implored, but the smile that teased at the edges of her mouth gave her away. “You have to answer these seriously.”

  “I am,” he insisted, taking a swig of beer and leaning back in his seat. They were tucked into a booth at the back of a cozy, wood-paneled bar with a good selection of beers on tap and an unobtrusive jukebox. The summer drizzle had exploded into a relentless rainstorm, and slowly but surely the after-work crowd began to trickle in, shaking umbrellas and brushing water off their sleeves.

  She hadn’t closed his windbreaker as they’d raced in from the car, and when they first settled into the booth he’d gotten a peek at the outline of her bra through the damp, light-blue cotton of her blouse. It had dried now, he noted with some disappointment.

  He’d been mildly embarrassed about his moment of self-consciousness during the photo shoot, but she’d handled the situation with such empathy and understanding that he easily shook it off. As he looked at her across the table, he realized that was what made her a success in her profession. The image weaving and fabrications were part of it, sure, but more important was her calm strength. She gave the impression that she could take anything in stride without so much as a fluttered eyelash. A reassuring contrast to his own tendency to indulge in flashes of hot, rash temper.

  “Okay, next one,” she said, shuffling the papers on which she’d printed the Women’s Wellness journalist’s emailed interview questions. “What’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever done for a girlfriend?”

  Kepler bit his lip while he considered his answer. “I think it would be a stretch to refer to any of the women I’ve been with as a girlfriend.”

  “They just want a cute anecdote. It doesn’t have to be technically accurate. Surely you’ve done something romantic at some point in your life?”

  He drummed his fingers on the table as he racked his brain, but he’d so rarely spent time with a woman more than once or twice that he struggled to think of something printable.

  Finally Holly rolled her eyes. “Forget it, I can make something up later.”

  “I’ll keep thinking about it. Next?”

  “What’s your favorite way to work out?”

  “That’s an easy one. Running.”

  She nodded, writing that down. “Care to elaborate?”

  He shrugged. “I can do it anywhere, in my own time, at my own speed.”

  Her head bent over the paper, her slender hand moving quickly.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Do you like to run, or play any sports?”

  She raised her face to his and as she wrinkled her nose he was struck, for the umpteenth time, by how beautiful she was.

  “I go to the gym three times a week, but only because I know it’s good for me. I don’t particularly enjoy it.”

  “Come for a run with me sometime,” he offered with a grin. “You’ll learn to love it.”

  “I doubt that.” She chuckled.

  He waved her on with his hand. “Next question.”

  “What does the word in your tattoo mean?”

  Kepler blinked. “What?” He leaned across the table, trying to snatch the paper from her hand. “How did they know—”

  She held the paper out of his reach, grinning playfully. “It’s my question, not the magazine’s.
You don’t have to answer, but I am curious.”

  He sat back and regarded her steadily. She had the mischievous sparkle in her eyes that he’d seen at the house in Ballantyne. He couldn’t get enough of this side of her—the cheeky, teasing, incredibly unprofessional side.

  “I guess you could say it’s an African philosophy. It essentially means ‘I am who I am because of who we all are.’”

  She quirked a brow in interest. “How did you choose that?”

  He paused before replying. He wasn’t sure he’d ever discussed his tattoo with anyone before. There were so many tattoos in the changing rooms of professional soccer teams that no one really noticed, and none of the women he’d been with had taken any interest.

  This is all part of shaking off that old charade, he reminded himself. Of letting people see the real man behind the bad-boy reputation.

  Her expression was patiently expectant.

  “I had it done when I signed with the club in Spain and moved to Europe,” he explained. “I suppose it has two meanings. It’s an expression of gratitude for the place that made me who I am and also a reminder of where it all started. Although considering how rarely I went back home in the few years before the car accident, maybe it wasn’t that effective.”

  “You didn’t go back for visits?”

  He shook his head. “Why spend the off-season being scolded by your mother in a town that barely has an airport when you could be gambling in Monaco or skiing in Argentina?”

  “Scolded for what?”

  “Unfortunately, this thing called the internet means that even my technologically challenged parents can read the British tabloids online.” He smirked. “I’d play a match on Saturday, go out that night, and by midafternoon on Sunday my mother would be on the phone, letting me know exactly what she thought of the photos from the night before.”

  Holly winced. “Harsh.”

  “Even worse than when I actually lived with them as a teenager. In those days I could get away with almost anything as long as I was home by curfew. I didn’t have to worry about the photographic evidence being splashed all over the web.” He clucked his tongue. “More often than not, I look at those old photos and don’t even remember the nights they were taken.”

  “It must have been tough to go back home after the accident.”

  “It was at first, although my parents were incredibly supportive amidst all the accusations. I sat in their garden for days when I got back, stuck in a plaster cast, waiting for my phone to ring with sympathy from all my so-called friends. It never did, and eventually it dawned on me that my mother’s cups of tea and my father’s cheesy jokes were worth a lot more than bottles of champagne and five-star hotel rooms. My thirtieth birthday party was held at my parents’ dinner table instead of on a luxury yacht in the Mediterranean, and it couldn’t have been better. I lost track of it for a few years, but I came back around to Ubuntu in the end.”

  Holly’s smile was full of warmth, encouragement and absolution.

  “Ubuntu.” She tried out the word. “I like that idea. It makes sense for someone who plays a team sport too. You can’t win the game by yourself.”

  He nodded, impressed. She’d nailed it. “Exactly.”

  They looked at each other, sharing a moment of mutual understanding. Then the front door slammed, and she glanced down at her hands.

  Kepler cleared his throat. “I think I’ll make a trip to the bar. Same again?” He gestured to her empty pint glass.

  “I really shouldn’t,” she began, but then cast a glance at the rain still pouring beyond the windowpane. “Okay. One more. I suppose we can always call a taxi.”

  He made his way to the bar, leaning his elbows on the polished wood surface, waiting for the bartender to finish the extensive drink order of a group of office workers. Apparently out to celebrate some big deal, if he interpreted their high fives correctly.

  Imagine a life like that, sitting at a desk all day and getting excited about making a sale or closing a negotiation or whatever these people spent their lives doing. He’d stick with scoring goals in front of roaring stadiums instead.

  As long as his body allowed it.

  He shifted his weight as he thought about what Holly had said during the photo shoot. She was right. He needed this opportunity with Discovery to distance himself from the recent past, even if it was uncomfortable at times. If he could scrape through another couple of seasons in Charlotte, he could bank his earnings and figure out something for the longer term. This seemed as good a place as any to finally start putting down some roots—especially if he had someone like Holly by his side.

  The bartender turned to him at the same moment a woman from the office group sidled up to his elbow.

  “What’ll it be?” the bartender asked.

  “I’m having vodka and cranberry juice,” the woman murmured at Kepler’s elbow. He looked at her for the first time. She was a few years his junior, with thick black hair and extravagant breasts that managed to make her boxy gray suit look downright provocative.

  There was a time when he would’ve immediately added her drink order, emphasized that the vodka should be top-shelf and thrown in a bottle of champagne for good measure.

  Now he wished she’d move out of the way so he could get back to Holly.

  He glanced over his shoulder and met Holly’s gaze from across the room. She had her chin on her hand and her face was glum, as though she’d seen the woman approach him and assumed it would be a long wait for her drink.

  She was still hung up on his past exploits, and he supposed he couldn’t blame her. For all his frank admissions a minute earlier, his record was genuinely spotty, and the British tabloids had taken particular delight in exaggerating his every romantic misstep.

  Time to show her he meant business.

  “Two of these, please.” He indicated the relevant tap and pulled his wallet from his pocket.

  The woman beside him pouted, and he realized then how drunk she was.

  “I don’t drink beer,” she sulked.

  “I do.” He passed the bartender a few bills and headed back to the booth where Holly was watching him approach. Instead of resuming his seat, he slid in next to her.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he interjected as she opened her mouth to speak. “You think I was interested in that woman at the bar, but when I looked back and saw you watching I decided not to go for her. Is that right?”

  “Actually, no. I was thinking you would come back here, give me my drink and then find an excuse to return to the bar and hit on her.”

  He winced. “You certainly have a low opinion of me.”

  “That’s not true.” She sighed. “I do like you, Kepler, it’s just—”

  “Good.” He slipped his arm around her and drew her into him. “I like you too.”

  He brought his lips to hers, brushing her mouth gently, giving her plenty of chances to stop him if, in fact, this wasn’t what she wanted. At first she stiffened in his grasp, but within moments she relaxed against him and met his kisses with increasing pressure as she flattened her palms on his chest.

  The scent of freesias engulfed and intoxicated him as he tightened the arm that encircled her waist. Kissing her was like cracking open the door of her buttoned-up, prim façade and peeking into a store of hot, wild passion. Even just imagining what Holly would be like in bed made him lightheaded. With that image in his mind he renewed his assault on her mouth, raising his hand to stroke her cheek as he pushed his tongue between her strawberry-sweet lips.

  Her responding moan was so primal, it felt like his entire blood supply drained into his throbbing groin. She crossed her arms behind his neck as she scooted into his lap, and he slid his hand under the loose, soft material of her skirt to caress the outside of her thigh.

  She pulled back to look at him, her lips swollen from his attentions. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Without another word Kepler slid from the booth and led her to the door, keeping a tight
hold on her hand as though she might vanish into thin air if he let go.

  When they reached the exit, they looked out at the torrential rain and the parking lot, now a minefield of puddles. A flicker of lightning and then a low rumble of thunder announced that the weather would only get worse.

  As Holly pulled on his Archway windbreaker, he glanced at her thin, ballet-slipperlike shoes. Then he squatted and tugged her onto his back.

  Her laugh echoed through the lot as he dashed across the pavement, the pressure of her breasts against his back and the wrap of her legs around his ribs spurring him on. She pressed the automatic unlocking button on her keychain seconds before he reached the white Toyota, and within minutes they were tucked into the backseat, Holly straddling his lap as rain pelted the windows.

  Clamorous, volcanic desire made Kepler’s hands shake as he undid the never-ending row of buttons on her blouse. When he’d opened it down to her ribs he gave up, no longer able to delay his insistent need to feel her flesh against his. He shoved his hand into her bra and cupped the soft mound of her breast, his thumb instinctively circling the eager, tight nipple he found there.

  He was desperate to taste her, to roll his tongue around that taut peak. But as he mentally worked through the logistics of removing her bra and flipping her onto her back in the confined space of the backseat, Holly reached between them. With movements reflecting his own sense of urgency, she lowered the zipper on his jeans and reached inside, closing her small hand around him with confidence and zeal. His self-control lurched dangerously toward the edge of his grasp.

  Her mouth sought his, and he gave it willingly as their tongues met and collided in an increasingly frantic rhythm. He slid his hand beneath her skirt and pressed it between her legs, finding the silky material of her panties soaked through. She squeezed him through his boxers, and he shoved the sodden gusset aside, plunging his finger into the glorious, decadent wet.

  She shuddered deliciously in his embrace and caught his lower lip between her teeth before pulling back, giving him a knowing nod.