The Striker's Chance

by Rebecca Crowley

  The Recorder spotted de Klerk glugging booze in one of Charlotte’s upscale nightspots, suggesting that while he may have left the high-stakes European leagues behind, he’s brought his debauched London lifestyle with him, the text declared. Struggling Discovery had to reach deep into the coffers to pay for the South African striker, and in anticipation of his debut this afternoon the question remains: Will his shots on goal be as accurate as his shots of tequila?

  Holly put her head in her hands as all the pleasure of her weekly breakfast with Kristin and her husband, Rick, drained out of her, stress and anxiety swelling up to take its place.

  She hadn’t spoken to Kepler since he’d snuck out of the banquet three days earlier. At first she’d been furious at his disappearance, but ultimately resisted the urge to march over to his hotel room and give him a piece of her mind. A decision grounded more in her fear of interrupting him midromp with some pliable undergraduate he’d picked up over a post-dinner beer than any professional judgment. She’d seen firsthand what little invitation was required for him to approach a woman and had no doubt he’d already begun sampling Charlotte’s female offerings.

  That she felt more strongly about Kepler’s romantic liaisons than she did his covert departure was alarming and undoubtedly influenced her reluctance to contact him. She’d justified her silence by reasoning that she shouldn’t breathe down his neck and that he’d be more compliant if he felt she trusted him.

  However, her reaction to the photo in the paper told her that not only had she dropped the ball as his PR manager, these three days out of touch hadn’t lessened her inappropriate interest in his personal life. The article certainly angered her from a PR perspective, but even stronger was her irrational jealousy that he’d been having fun without her.

  “It seems a little unfair to me.” Kristin jerked Holly out of her reverie. “The guy went out and had a few drinks—so what?”

  “He didn’t run out on his tab, or get into a fight, or drive drunk,” Rick contributed from his place by the stove, where he was flipping slices of French toast in a pan. “It’s a mean-spirited piece, for sure, but it doesn’t actually accuse him of anything.”

  Holly shook her head. “That doesn’t matter. It’s unlikely people will bother to read the text, let alone put effort into thinking it through between the lines. All of those wholesome, family-friendly sound bites I’ve been pushing to the news outlets have no impact compared to a huge photo and the word tequila.” She sighed. “Even if they do read the article, they won’t get past the tales of mischief the writer has been sure to put at the front.”

  The three of them fell into thoughtful silence, punctuated only by the baby’s coos and the sizzle of the French toast.

  Kristin circled the table to settle her daughter into her high chair. “So what can you do?”

  “Well, today’s game is almost sold out, so thankfully the article can’t do much damage from that end.” Holly considered her options, idly tracing the letters spelling Kepler’s name on the page. “Maybe I can get him to play, like, extra nicely?”

  Rick snorted. “De Klerk was notorious for his aggressive style at Archway, and they’re not exactly the gentlest of teams.”

  She perked up. “You knew about him before he came to Charlotte?”

  “Of course.” Rick slid French toast onto three plates, dropped sliced strawberries on top and carried them over to the table. “I started following the British leagues in college.” He shrugged as he doused his breakfast in maple syrup. “It’s a sport that’s simple to follow but hard to truly understand, and after a while I guess I got addicted.”

  “You know what Rick is like.” Kristin rolled her eyes. “As long as it has men chasing a ball across a flat surface, he’s interested.”

  Holly smirked at this incredibly apt description of Kristin’s sports-obsessive husband, who coached three different teams at the high school where he worked as a history teacher.

  “You know the rules, right?” Rick asked as he cut into his French toast with the side of his fork. “Of soccer?”

  “Sure,” Holly said vaguely, taking a bite of her breakfast.

  He raised a skeptical brow.

  “Okay, I tried to read the rules online, but it was boring. Anyway, everyone knows how to play soccer. You kick the ball in their goal, you get a point. They kick the ball in your goal, they get a point. What else is there?”

  Rick slapped his hand over his eyes in a gesture of disbelief. “And you’re in charge of one of the best goal-scorers in Europe?”

  “All right then, smart guy,” Kristin teased. “What else should she know?”

  “There’s all kinds of stuff,” Rick exclaimed, clearly delighted at the chance to expound on his knowledge. “The offside rule, yellow and red cards, tactical fouls, 4-4-2 versus 4-3-3 or 4-5-1 formations—I could go on and on.”

  Holly and Kristin exchanged a thoughtful glance.

  “What are you doing at five o’clock today?” Holly asked.

  * * *

  Kepler was so hopped up on nerves and adrenaline, his body practically vibrated as he made his way down the hall to Sven’s office.

  He hadn’t felt this much anxious anticipation for a match since—well, probably since his early days playing for Archway. He’d spent the last year facing the reality that he might never play professional soccer again, and although the offer from Discovery had given him a reprieve, he didn’t have room to relax. This was his last chance.

  The team was killing time between their warm-up and the match kickoff, and Sven had sent a message to the dressing room that Kepler should come to his office. He hadn’t changed into his uniform yet, and the slap of his flip-flops on the thinly carpeted floor seemed extra noisy in the empty corridor. Kepler knocked lightly on the door and then pushed it open without waiting for a response, assuming the manager was planning to give him one last pre-game pep talk.

  Sven was sitting behind his desk, his hands folded on the wood surface. Across from him sat Holly Taylor.

  The door clicked shut behind him, and Kepler had the sudden feeling that he’d walked into some sort of trap. He hadn’t seen Holly since the banquet, although he’d spent the following day waiting for her to call and scold him for slipping out. When the call never came, he interpreted her silence as an indication that she had other, more important clients to focus on.

  He should’ve been relieved to be out from under her scrutiny. He’d always hated the promotional responsibilities that came with being a professional athlete.

  Instead he’d been oddly disappointed.

  Even now, as her severe expression told him she hadn’t come to wish him good luck, he was glad to see her.

  “Have a seat.” Sven gestured to the chair beside Holly’s. Kepler dropped into it and crossed his arms expectantly.

  “Did you read the news this morning?” she asked.

  “Hello to you too, Miss Taylor. And no, I didn’t. Why?”

  “You featured prominently.” She passed him a newspaper, folded open to a page featuring a photo of him doing a shot.

  Kepler frowned as he quickly read through the article. He looked again at the picture, and then shrugged and handed the paper back.

  “It’s a lie. I don’t even like tequila.”

  “It looks pretty real to me.” Holly tapped the grainy photo. “Are you telling me this didn’t happen?”

  “Not that I have to justify my every decision to you,” he said, irritated as much by her distrust as by her micromanaging, “but no, it didn’t happen like this article makes out. After the banquet I went down to the bar to get a number for a taxi. Some guy in there recognized me and offered to buy me a drink. I didn’t want to stay long, but I was waiting for the cab and he was insistent, so I let him buy me one shot of whiskey. He must’ve taken this on his phone without my noticing.” He gestured to the picture. “Then the taxi came and I went back to my hotel. The end.”

  She gave him a long, evaluative look. “You snuck out
of a dinner with Discovery’s most important supporters and went to the bar with the sole intention of getting the number for a taxi company.”

  “Why is that so hard to believe?” He’d never complained when he’d received reprimands before, because they were always deserved. Now he’d genuinely been misrepresented in the press, and it infuriated him that Holly wouldn’t take his side.

  She glanced at Sven, whose expression was one of grim concern. Kepler exhaled in disgust.

  “This—” he snatched the paper from her hand, “—is fiction.” He crumpled the newspaper into a ball and tossed it at the garbage can on the other side of the room. It sailed in without so much as brushing the rim. “If I were you,” he continued, standing up so quickly that his chair rocked on its legs, “I might spend my time trying to figure out who that guy in the bar was and why he wants to set me up, rather than storming in here, making accusations hours before I have to be on the field.”

  “No one’s making accusations,” Holly said, just as Sven stood halfway up from his chair and gestured for Kepler to take his seat. Kepler shook his head. He knew it was ridiculous, but he was barely clinging to his autonomy, and even agreeing to sit was too much of a concession.

  “To be fair, it doesn’t say he was drunk,” Sven suggested.

  “No, but that’s the implication.” Holly’s expression was thoughtful. “The article is attributed to an anonymous source, but you’re pretty sure the photo came from the guy who bought the drink. Do you remember what he looked like?”

  Kepler shrugged. “Maybe a year or two older than me. Glasses, receding hairline, slightly pudgy, quite short.”

  “Then again, I suppose most people seem short when you’re six-two.” Her tentative smile was a peace offering, and he felt his posture relax. Her attitude could be extremely frustrating, but he didn’t need any more enemies. Plus, a growing part of him hoped they could be even more than friends. But he clamped down on that unhelpful line of thinking before it could go any further.

  “From your description, I think I know who the culprit is,” Holly said with a slight weariness. “When I first graduated from college I worked for a brief time at one of the newspapers here in town. There was a reporter on staff named Evan Barstow. I accidentally got him fired, and he’s hated me ever since.”

  “Accidentally?” Sven repeated.

  “We were supposed to attend a briefing by the governor together, only he didn’t show. When I went back to the office I told my manager that he’d missed the meeting. I hadn’t known that he was having problems with alcohol, had done this twice before and was on a three-strike warning.”

  Kepler winced.

  “He’s a freelance reporter now, and he crops up periodically to write something nasty if he gets wind of who I’m working with. It’s usually little more than harmless gossip or a negative review, though, and he’s never gone as far as setting something up to create a story where none exists. What’s he playing at?” she mused, mostly to herself.

  “That’s your job to figure out, not mine.” Kepler instantly regretted the edge to his words. He looked to Sven. “I’m going to get changed. If you need me for anything else, you know where I’ll be.”

  His long strides had taken him halfway down the hall when he heard the office door slam and the dull thud of high-heeled shoes scurrying behind him.

  “Sorry, Kepler, another couple of things.” Holly hustled up to him, flipping through pages in her notebook as she moved.

  The narrow hallway was lined with thick, white cinderblock walls, and the small space suddenly felt intimate and isolated. He caught a whiff of her perfume as she bent her head over her notes. It reminded him of the freesias that grew in his mother’s garden. Something stirred to life deep within his core, something primal and ravenous, and he fisted his hands at his sides in an effort to keep himself together.

  “The main sponsor, LKC Energy, says you won’t wear their shoes.” Holly read from the page, totally oblivious to the internal battle Kepler was fighting.

  “Check my contract,” he said tightly, willing her to hurry up. If he stood here any longer he might lose control entirely. “I wear my own cleats, always have.”

  “Why is that?” She turned her face up to him, and the sight of those clear blue eyes was almost his undoing.

  “Superstition,” he admitted. “I need my feet—I can’t sell them out. That means no sponsorship advertising on my spikes.”

  She smiled, and his stomach clenched.

  “I really do need to go,” he told her, spinning on his heel.

  “Wait, one more thing,” she called, and Kepler turned with gritted teeth. “I know you’re used to playing in England, but this is June in North Carolina. It’s hot and humid out there, so take care of yourself.”

  His expression softened into a reluctant smile. “I’m from Africa, remember? I think I can cope.”

  “Of course,” Holly said with slight sheepishness. “Anyway, have a great game.”

  “I’ll try.”

  He never thought he’d be excited to trade the scent of a beautiful girl for a sweaty changing room. It took everything in him to keep to a walk and not bolt from the most perplexing, intriguing and exciting woman he’d ever met.

  Chapter Three

  “I should’ve known,” Holly murmured to herself as she watched Kepler walk onto the pitch wearing unbranded cleats decorated with the South African flag.

  “What did you say?” Rick asked around the shrimp cocktail he’d been shoving into his mouth.

  “Do I need to remind you that you’re here to help me understand the game, not stuff your face for ninety minutes?”

  He grinned. “I’ve never been in a corporate box before. It’s awesome.”

  Alan Brady pulled one of the stool-mounted leather chairs over to the window that looked out over the playing field.

  “That was a less-than-favorable bit of coverage we had in the Recorder this morning,” he said quietly, with menace in his tone. Holly remembered Kepler’s warning and felt a fresh wave of gratitude for Rick’s presence.

  “I’ve already discussed this with Kepler. It was a malicious fabrication,” she assured him. “I’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  “I have every faith in your talents,” Alan replied with a slight leer, and she deliberately fixed her attention to the grassy pitch below them.

  The announcer introduced each of the players lined up on the field as the JumboTron flashed their picture. “And wearing number nine, Charlotte Discovery is pleased to welcome Kepler de Klerk!”

  For an agonizing second Holly held her breath, but as the crowd erupted into cheers and applause she exhaled gratefully. His reception proved that the Recorder article couldn’t have done that much damage.

  “Ottawa FC are having a tough season so far,” Rick murmured at her elbow, having been warned there would be very important ears in attendance that might not appreciate any less-than-positive commentary, even if true. “They have a lot of new young players, and the team hasn’t really come together yet. Their defense is much worse than their offense, and with a striker like de Klerk on board, it shouldn’t be difficult for Discovery to find opportunities to score.”

  “But it sounds like Discovery also needs to keep them out of their own side, if their offense is strong?”

  Rick nodded. “Exactly. Kepler’s a forward, and Tyson is your second-best.”

  “You don’t sound optimistic.”

  “It’ll be an interesting game.” He took a hearty bite of a beef slider, preventing her from interrogating him any further.

  The referee blew the whistle, setting the game underway. Kepler took immediate possession of the ball and began pushing into Ottawa’s half of the field.

  Holly clapped her hands together in excitement, but within seconds her enthusiasm waned as his sky-blue jersey was obscured by the arrival of several white-shirted Ottawa players.

  “He’s looking for someone to pass to, but there’s no one to take th
e ball.” Rick pointed to each Discovery player in turn. “See? He’s way over there, he’s back here, and I have no idea what he’s doing over there.”

  Kepler tried for a long pass to the nearest player, but it was quickly intercepted by an opponent. As Ottawa ran back down the field toward Discovery’s goal, Kepler threw up his hands in frustration.

  The following forty-five minutes of the first half proceeded much the way they’d started. Kepler repeatedly captured the ball only to lose it in passing, most of the action occurred dangerously close to Discovery’s goal line, and when the ref blew the whistle for halftime, Ottawa had scored three times.

  The first time the ball hit the back of Discovery’s net, Kepler slapped his hands over his eyes in irritation. The second time, he gesticulated angrily at his teammates. As the ball sailed past Discovery’s goalkeeper the third time, he stood motionless, arms crossed, his face a study in barely restrained rage.

  As the team filed off the pitch for the halftime break, Alan shook his white-haired head at the window.

  “Our star isn’t shining quite like we’d hoped,” he grumbled, stalking toward the bar.

  “That’s unfair,” Rick muttered beside her. “Kepler is a striker. He’s a big, tough guy, a powerful force to have up front, and he’s unbelievably accurate. If he gets the ball near the goal line, chances are good he’ll put it in the net.”

  “But they barely even played near Ottawa’s goal,” Holly said as she came to comprehend Rick’s point.

  “Exactly,” he nodded. “He’s only one man. He can’t stave off an entire team from pushing into Discovery’s half. He’s one of the best at what he does, but he can’t do it alone.”

  She gazed out at the empty field, pondering Rick’s diagnosis. “I think Alan was hoping he’d be a magic bullet.”

  “I think Alan doesn’t know much about managing a successful soccer team,” Rick said derisively. “It’s not like furniture or clothing—you can’t buy one really expensive piece and hope it outshines the cheap ones that surround it. Discovery are like headless chickens down there. And the real shame is that they’ve got lots of raw talent but zero leadership.”