The Striker's Chance

by Rebecca Crowley

  Kepler lunged forward and, in an amazing feat of coordination, blocked Tyson’s ankle with his shin and heeled the ball backward between his own feet, then leaped back to retain control of it and ran it toward the goal.

  Tyson swore in frustration as he pursued his teammate to the penalty box, but by that time Kepler had shot the ball into the goal and was wheeling around to face him.

  Tyson leaned down to rest his palms on his thighs and Kepler patted his shoulder. She could see Kepler pointing between where they were and where they’d been, evidently explaining how the young forward could have played it differently, at which Tyson nodded thoughtfully.

  The assistant coach blew his whistle and motioned for the players to hit the showers. As Tyson and Kepler fell into step, Holly realized she’d picked the wrong tunnel. Although loathe to draw so much attention to herself in front of the rest of the team and the coaching staff, she had to catch Kepler before he disappeared into the changing room. She leaned over the railing and called his name.

  He turned at the sound, bid farewell to Tyson and jogged to where she stood.

  “I didn’t see you there,” he said breathlessly as he arrived on the other side of the clapboard siding. “How long were you watching?”

  From her position in the elevated stand of the front row, Holly looked down at him on the field. Sweat-soaked and flushed, he smelled exactly like a man who’d just finished several hours of hard physical training.

  And he was the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.

  “Only a few minutes, but long enough to catch your fancy footwork. Nicely played.”

  Kepler shrugged and cast a bashful glance at his feet before returning his gaze to hers. “Did you need me for something?”

  “I thought I’d give you a heads-up that the Chronicle article prints tomorrow. I got a peek this morning and was really impressed. You gave a great interview. I think you’ll be pleased with how it came out.”

  He snapped his fingers. “I meant to tell you, I had a word with Sven. He’s arranged free tickets for the kids for Saturday’s match.”

  She bit her lip in annoyance. “Damn, I wish I’d known that in time to get it in the article. That would’ve given it a real put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is hook.”

  “Yeah, well, what’s important is that they’ll get to see a professional game in a full-size stadium. That’s a good thing whether or not anyone knows about it.”

  “Of course,” she replied, distracted. “And you can mention it in the radio spot tomorrow. That’s why I stopped by, to let you know we’ve got you on one of the local morning talk shows.”

  “Whatever.” He waved his hand. “Just email me the details and I’ll be there.”

  “I will. You’re moving much better today than when I last saw you,” she offered. “How’s the leg holding up?”

  “It’s okay. I’ve had a couple of sessions with that Dutch sadist, Hank, and I met with the orthopedist again yesterday. He says—”

  He stopped himself suddenly, and his expression visibly cooled. He was withdrawing from her and pulling up that old guard. Holly could practically hear the steel door sliding into place.

  “It’s fine,” he said flatly. “He says it’s fine.”

  It was no less than she deserved. “That sounds good. Anyway, I’ll let you get back to the changing room. I’ll email those details, like you said.”

  Kepler nodded curtly, and then he was gone, pacing it across the field toward the opposite tunnel.

  Holly flopped back down in her seat and pulled out her BlackBerry. Might as well send him the information before she got caught up in something else and forgot.

  To: Kepler de Klerk

  From: Holly Taylor

  Subject: WCHR slot

  Hi Kepler,

  Per our conversation, you’ve been asked to appear on the WCHR morning drive-time show, Scott Sports, hosted by Phil Scott. They’ll need you there at 7:15 a.m. for a 7:45 spot. I’m happy to meet you there if you think it would be useful. Attached please find a PDF with a map and directions to their location.

  She let the BlackBerry rest on her lap as she stared out at the empty pitch. He wouldn’t ask her to join him at the radio station—he was far too independent for that.

  He didn’t need her. Maybe he never had.

  She reread what she’d written. Then she began to press the tiny keys with an anxious urgency, not wanting to give herself time to rethink her decision.

  On an unrelated point, I know you’ve mentioned wanting to meet some people from the local area. I’ve invited some friends over for a barbecue at my place on Sunday afternoon. It’ll be very casual and might be a good way for you to make some social connections in Charlotte. Let me know if you’d like to come.

  See you soon,

  Holly

  After all, what did she have to lose? She couldn’t humiliate herself any more than she had on Saturday.

  She gritted her teeth and hit send before she could change her mind.

  * * *

  The dressing room was noisy with the normal pre-match mix of excited joking and chatter as the players prepared for kickoff. A burnished wooden bench ran all the way along the room’s perimeter, where a series of equally glossy wooden doors each bore a player’s name. They’d filed into the room to find their uniforms clean and pressed, with their jerseys hung on their personal lockers. The initial tidy state that always greeted them on match days was already disrupted by discarded clothes and shoes strewn across the floor, and most of the doors now hung partially open.

  Some players seemed to crave attention right before the match, and they usually spent the dressing period wandering around, exchanging anecdotes and idle gossip with anyone who would listen. Others liked to tune everything out and wore headphones or retreated to the physiotherapy room to get some quiet.

  For Kepler, his preparations in the dressing room were probably as close as he ever got to meditating. He didn’t consider himself particularly superstitious, especially compared to some of the European and African players he’d known over the years, but his pre-match rituals were nonetheless an important part of pulling his mind into the right place for the battle ahead.

  Everything had to be right, then left. Right leg into his compression shorts, then left. Right arm into the thin cotton undershirt he would swap out at halftime, then left. Same with his uniform shorts and jersey, which he tucked into his waistband from right to left.

  As he dressed he worked to still his mind despite the chaos of the changing room. He usually tried not to think about the game ahead, or any of the training exercises the team had been through. That tended to make him anxious, and he found it more effective to think about things totally unrelated to his profession.

  Typically his mind drifted to his family, especially his nephew. Then his thoughts often moved on to South Africa. At times he found his preoccupation with the place almost funny. Except for the year and a half after the accident, he hadn’t lived there since he was eighteen, yet just thinking about Port Elizabeth made him feel grounded and reassured.

  He thought about the sun setting over the bay. The bright orange flowers on the aloe plants. The flickering glow as lights came on in the container ships that moored in the harbor overnight.

  He pulled his sock over his right foot, and then his left. Holly’s face flashed into his mind, teasing him, and then lodged there.

  Against his better judgment, he had accepted the invitation to her barbecue. As much as it hurt to spend time with her, knowing he couldn’t have her, his desperation for her presence overruled his capacity for logic.

  He slid his shin guards into place between his socks and his legs then pulled a roll of tape from his locker. He yanked out a length of it, used his teeth to tear it from the roll and began to wrap it below the bottom of his right shin guard, over his sock. He counted the loops as he made them: one, two, three, four, five.

  Maybe if he showed her how easily he could fit into her life, that he could b
e just another guy at the barbecue, Holly would reconsider. Their relationship didn’t have to be a threat to her career if it could exist quietly beside it.

  He tore another strip of tape and wrapped it in the same place on his left calf. One, two, three, four, five.

  Then again, he could be the life of the party and that still wouldn’t necessarily resolve whatever her other issue was—the one he was certain she was keeping from him. Without knowing what it was he might be wasting his time trying to win her over.

  He yanked some more tape from the roll and repeated the process at the top of his shin guard, pulling the tape taut over the fiberglass guard and the sock covering it. One, two, three, four, five.

  No matter the outcome on Sunday, he had to try. She’d outright told him he had no chance the week before, but that hadn’t stopped him thinking about her more often than he didn’t, or reliving the few kisses and caresses they’d shared at the most inappropriate moments, or comparing every woman he saw to her and finding they didn’t measure up.

  He wrapped the tape around the guard on his left leg. One, two, three, four, five.

  Dammit, he was Kepler de Klerk, famed striker and international superstar. Since when did he take no for an answer?

  He pulled his unbranded cleat onto his right foot and tied the lace, securing it with a double knot.

  Since that no had come from Holly Taylor, apparently.

  He slid his left foot into its cleat and pulled the lace tight.

  A compromise, then. Sunday was the last chance. If she rejected him, then he needed to grow some self-respect and move on. He was likely to be in this town for a while and couldn’t spend all his time pining after someone who had made her preference very clear.

  Kepler smiled as he chucked the tape into his locker. He kissed his forefinger and then touched it to the photo of his parents he’d pinned up on the door, then to the photo of his brother and his family, and then to the miniature South African flag that hung beside them.

  He shut the locker door and headed out toward the tunnel.

  One last chance to score with Holly. And he didn’t intend to miss.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Please don’t be weird,” Holly begged Rick as he lit the grill. “I want him to have the chance to feel normal. A regular guy meeting some new friends.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Rick promised. He shook his head incredulously. “I can’t believe I’m about to hang out with Killer de Klerk.”

  “And definitely don’t call him that,” she instructed, before moving back to where her friends had gathered on her patio. It was a group of about ten people, half from her college days at Duke and half from the PR agency where she worked before becoming self-employed, plus assorted spouses and Kristin and Rick’s baby daughter. An easygoing, welcoming bunch of people. She hoped fervently that Kepler would feel at ease.

  As if on cue, she heard the muffled chime of the doorbell through the open windows. She hurried through the house with her heart in her throat, pausing momentarily in front of the full-length mirror in the entryway to give her outfit a final onceover.

  Earlier that afternoon she’d had to revise her look when she realized that she had unconsciously dressed more for a date than a Sunday afternoon barbecue. She’d ditched the dress and heels for short shorts and a nice T-shirt, swapped the impeccably smooth ponytail for loose waves over her shoulders and washed off almost every drop of makeup. As she studied her appearance one more time, she thought she looked fresh and natural, but definitely low-key.

  She opened the door and there he was, looking more like a surfer than a professional athlete in baggy shorts and flip-flops. He had a twelve-pack case of beer tucked under one arm and a bottle of wine in his other hand.

  “Kepler, I’m so glad you made it—oh my God,” Holly blurted as she looked at the label on the wine. She was no sommelier, but she was pretty sure it was at least a fifty-dollar bottle.

  “What?” he asked, and when she looked up she saw his distraught expression. She forced herself to swallow her shock and recover her smile.

  “Nothing.” She gestured through the house to the patio. “Come on in.”

  Kepler took a tentative step inside but lingered near the doorway as he peered past her. “How many people are here?”

  “About ten, but I’m not really expecting many more.” She took the wine bottle from his hand and started down the hall.

  “And they’re all your friends? Do they all know each other?”

  “I guess it’s kind of a mix.”

  As he drummed his fingers on the case of beer, still not moving any further into the house, the realization hit her.

  Discovery’s world-famous, top goal-scoring, all-mighty striker was shy.

  She didn’t need to question him; she immediately understood the difference between loud, dark, anonymous nightclubs in the company of his teammates and an afternoon barbecue with a small group of people.

  She smiled reassuringly as he shifted the case on his hip. “Everyone is really laid back and friendly, and they’re all excited to meet you.”

  Kepler nodded, and Holly led him out to the patio, silently praying that her friends would treat him just like anyone else.

  The small backyard was full of the sound of laughter and the smell of charcoal when they stepped through the sliding glass door from the kitchen.

  There was a slight hush as they emerged onto the flagstone and all the guests turned toward the new arrival, but she preempted any awkwardness by announcing, “Hey guys, this is Kepler—he brought beer,” and then guiding him to the cooler and helping him stack the cans inside. By the time they shut the lid and stood, everyone had eased back into the rhythms of their conversations.

  As he glanced around nervously, his hands shoved into his pockets, she spotted Kristin retrieving her daughter from where the baby had crawled across the grass and repositioning her on the play mat she’d set out on the flagstones.

  Holly shoved a beer into Kepler’s hand and led him over.

  She introduced Kepler and Kristin, and explained that she and Kristin had gone to college together.

  “Nice to meet you, Kepler. How do you like Charlotte so far?” Kristin asked in her typically cheery way.

  “It’s fine,” he mumbled as they settled into their seats, then seemed to frantically second-guess his answer. “I mean, it’s nice. It’s different.”

  “Fair enough.” Kristin shrugged off his stuttering as she leaned down to redirect the baby onto the mat.

  “Is this your daughter?”

  Kristin nodded. “This is Samantha. She just turned seven months old and gets into absolutely everything.”

  To Holly’s astonishment, his eyes lit up. “I remember when my nephew was that age. He’s almost two now, and he talks up a storm.” He paused before adding bashfully, “I have some pictures of him on my phone, if you want to see.”

  “I’d love to,” Kristin said, casting an endeared glance at Holly as he pulled his phone from his pocket.

  Holly looked on happily as Kepler flicked through the photos and Kristin asked the occasional question or made a comment. She could count on her best friend to put anyone at ease, even an incongruously timid sports star. What would she do without her?

  Everything, once she moved to New York.

  As Holly looked around at the people filling her backyard, she was rocked by the revelation that soon this would all be gone. No more running down to Kristin’s to borrow milk for her morning coffee. No more lazy weekend afternoons sunning herself on a lounge chair while she read the newspaper. She’d even miss her monthly cocktail dates with her sister, who despite her irritating traits was always good for some giggly gossip.

  As was her routine whenever she began to feel doubt about her decision, Holly tried to conjure exciting images of what her new city life would be like. But her mind was blank, save for feelings of loss and devastation.

  So deep in her reverie, she didn’t register the sound of the wi
ne glass shattering on the pavestones or the collective gasp as the pieces flew in all directions. It wasn’t until Kepler moved from his place beside her that she tuned back in. She had just enough time to piece together the situation—Kristin holding up his phone for a better look at a photo, Samantha’s pudgy hand about to close on a jagged piece of glass—to understand why he was leaping forward and sweeping the baby off the ground with the speed and ease of a man with recent experience of snatching a child away from imminent danger.

  “Good reflexes,” Kristin commended heartily as Kepler passed the baby to her mother. “You’ve got the makings of being a great dad someday.”

  “That day is probably a long way off,” Kepler replied self-effacingly, and then excused himself to help with the wine glass cleanup.

  Kristin spun on Holly with mischief in her eyes. “The man can move. And you didn’t tell me he was so hot in person. You should go for it—he’s clearly into you.”

  Holly blinked. She hadn’t breathed a word about her feelings for Kepler to anyone, not even her best friend. “What gives you that idea?”

  Kristin quirked a brow. “Please don’t tell me you’re so buried in your work that you haven’t noticed. The way he looks at you when he thinks you won’t see him, the way he hangs on your every word—the man is smitten. It’s obvious to anyone with two eyes in their head.”

  As Holly watched him dump a handful of shattered glass into a plastic trash bag, Kristin continued, “Seriously, why don’t you go for it?”

  Because I get paid to do his PR. Because I’m moving away. Because I’ve been lying to him. All of the usual reasons rattled around in Holly’s brain, but they suddenly seemed small and petty.

  She took in the scene around her. A beautiful, blue-sky summer day with a cooling breeze. She had her best friend and closest confidante at her side, holding the daughter Holly had the privilege of watching grow on an almost daily basis. Kepler had moved over to the barbecue to discuss the finer points of grilling with Rick, and although his posture was still slightly stiff, she could see that he’d relaxed significantly.