The Striker's Chance

by Rebecca Crowley

  Discovery Upsets League-leading Tammany in New York, the headline announced. In the photo Tyson grinned as he exchanged a high five with Kepler, whose back was to the camera. De Klerk, Daniels Extend Discovery’s Unbeaten Streak with Flawless Goals, the caption declared.

  Kepler skimmed the article and then reread more carefully to confirm his initial conclusion.

  Not a single word about Lucrezio or his relationship with Holly.

  A typical post-match summary, focusing on the cooperation between Tyson and himself. In the latter paragraphs the writer reflected briefly on Discovery’s turnaround season, asserting that while Kepler had come to the team as a highly publicized celebrity transfer, as the season progressed he’d shown himself to be someone who saw the value in developing the team around him.

  Though his was certainly the brightest star on the team when he joined Discovery several months ago, the article concluded, de Klerk, a selfless and inclusive leader, has changed Discovery from a fledgling side crippled by growing pains to a force to be reckoned with. The team’s ever-growing fan base can’t wait to see what the future holds for him here in Charlotte.

  Kepler stared at the article, stunned.

  He glanced at the rest of the pages in the section, but there was nothing more on the match. Finally he slumped back in his chair and crossed his arms, awash with a mix of confusion and hesitant relief.

  What did this mean? Was the transfer a rumor? Had the Recorder declined to buy Barstow’s pictures? Or was this just only a temporary stay of execution, and the paper was building him up only to tear him down even more spectacularly in a few days’ time?

  The shrill ring of the phone at his elbow cut into Kepler’s reverie and he snatched it up, glancing at the display. The number was unfamiliar, and he braced himself for a potentially uncomfortable conversation with a journalist.

  “Hello?”

  “Kepler? I didn’t wake you, did I?”

  Her voice ripped through him like a knife, leaving a searing wound in its wake.

  “No, Holly, I was already up.”

  “Have you seen the paper?”

  He tilted his chair back to balance on its hind legs. “I have,” he said, keeping his voice cool and detached.

  “They killed the story.”

  The chair landed on its front legs with a clatter. “They what?”

  “I pulled every string I had left at the Recorder until I could speak to the editor-in-chief,” she explained, her tone meek and humble. “I told him that Barstow’s context for the photo was faked, that we’d been having an early breakfast meeting and that I’d seriously consider litigation if he went ahead with an un-evidenced claim that could potentially damage both our professional reputations. He wasn’t buying it.”

  “What do you mean? They’re still going to print the photos?”

  “No, but not because of anything I did.”

  Kepler frowned at the kitchen table. “I don’t get it.”

  “Remember that girl from the school where you gave the soccer clinic? Whose name you passed on to Discovery’s youth coach.”

  “Yeah.”

  “He sent some tapes of her playing to various contacts around the country. In the last week she’s gotten offers of full-ride scholarships from five top boarding schools in as many states. They’re clamoring to get her onto their soccer teams and into the college divisions from there.”

  “Wow.” He couldn’t suppress his smile. Nothing made him happier than seeing someone with fresh, raw talent get the chance they deserved. “That’s great news, but I don’t see how it ties into Barstow’s story.”

  “Her dad is the janitor at the Recorder office.”

  His jaw slackened. “He is?”

  “For the last ten years. He raised her and her two sisters by himself, and three days ago he asked the editor-in-chief for extra hours so they could buy plane tickets to visit some of the schools.”

  Holly exhaled heavily before continuing, “The Charlotte Recorder will never print another bad word about you, Kepler, and that has nothing to do with me. You made your own good press this time. And I have a feeling you always will.”

  He smoothed the sheet of newsprint in front of him as he absorbed her words. “And the transfer?”

  “I honestly know nothing about it.” She sighed. “I can’t tell you if it’s true or not, and the editor didn’t mention it, so maybe Barstow had some bad information or was making it up all along.”

  “But they do want to sell me,” Kepler clarified. “You know that for a fact.”

  “Yes,” she agreed, guilt evident in her tone. “And I may have hinted at that to the editor-in-chief and fed him a series of ideas for stories on how essential you are to the team and how essential the team’s success is to the community. Everyone in Charlotte wants you to stay,” she said earnestly. “The only people trying to sell you are the ones sitting in a high-rise building in Manhattan. I can’t promise anything, but based on my conversation I think we can rely on the Recorder to lead the campaign to keep you at Discovery for at least one more season.”

  Kepler stared unseeingly at the table. He tried to process this sudden reprieve, quell his tumultuous reaction to her voice and keep his own manner calm and disengaged all at the same time.

  “And that,” Holly continued, “is my last act as your PR manager. I emailed my resignation last night. It included a paragraph on my ethical concerns about their plan to coordinate a player transfer without his knowledge. I’d had a few glasses of wine,” she added wryly.

  He could picture her playful expression, the cheeky glint in those bright blue eyes, and something deep inside his ribs twisted painfully.

  “Thank you,” he managed.

  “It’s no more than you deserve, and a lot less than what I owe you.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Yes I do, and you know it,” she insisted. “No one’s ever made me feel so cherished and sexy and—”

  Her voice trembled on the last word and she broke off, taking a slow, audible breath. Kepler clamped his hand over his eyes as though that could block out the image of her face, with her eyes welling but her expression resolved not to crumple, from his mind. He wanted to soothe and console her, to tell her that she wasn’t just beautiful, she was also smart and funny and so lovable, but the still-throbbing wound of her deceit held him back, like a raw, shiny scar pulling taut against the effort of motion.

  “And I should’ve been honest with you and not kept LKC Energy’s secrets. I’ve messed things up between us, and I’m sorry.”

  Kepler gripped the phone so tightly its edges dug into his fingers. He wanted so badly to tell her it was fine, he was over it, they could pick up where they left off and why didn’t she come over for breakfast since they were both up?

  But the words caught in his throat. It wasn’t fine, and he wasn’t over it. He’d shown her every closely guarded, intimate part of himself, and he’d been burned. He wasn’t ready to let her back in. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  “Thanks again for sorting out the article,” he said, drawing his defenses back around himself like a heavy, uncomfortable cloak. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see whether LKC Energy wants to keep me in Charlotte.”

  “I guess,” Holly echoed.

  “Anyway, I’d better get ready for my run. Bye, Holly.”

  Her voice was faint as she breathed the solitary syllable, “Bye.”

  He thumbed the button to end the call and slapped the phone onto the table with more force than necessary. Then he crossed his arms on the table and stared out the sliding glass door that led to the backyard.

  Birds were chirping their morning songs in the trees. The dusky light steadily gave way to bright, slanting sunshine. It was going to be another beautiful summer day in Charlotte.

  And Kepler couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so miserable.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Well, this is one advantage to being in the cheap seats,” Kr
istin remarked as a light autumn drizzle began to drift over LKC Energy Stadium, prompting those in the lower sections of the stands to pull up their hoods and yank their hats down on their heads.

  “Everyone in the corporate box will be dry,” Rick said wistfully. At Kristin’s sharp kick he blushed and turned to Holly. “Sorry.”

  She shrugged, hanging on to the artificially bright smile she’d been wearing since the beginning of the match as though her life depended on it. “You’re just being honest. The overhanging ceiling may keep us dry, but the view can’t compete with the box.”

  And it couldn’t compete with the TV close-ups that threatened to bring her to tears every week when she watched the games, which she had done religiously for the last couple of months. It was mid-October, and she already felt panicky about the impending playoffs and the end of the season that they signified. Although she hadn’t spoken to Kepler since that dawn phone call, the void he’d left in her life was softened by seeing him play. Once that was gone, she wasn’t sure how she would cope.

  “I bet you could get us good tickets for the car racing now that you’re working with them again,” Kristin said encouragingly, shifting her daughter on her lap. “Right?”

  “Sure,” Holly said with too much enthusiasm, and they all lapsed into a brooding silence. Kristin and Rick were the only ones who knew the full story of her departure from Discovery, including her relationship with Kepler. Working with the race car drivers was not much of a substitute, although at least she was just responsible for simple, straightforward promotions rather than the sort of targeted artifice working with LKC Energy entailed. She’d only let her friends convince her to attend the game today because she knew they were worried, and now she bet they were regretting it.

  They should’ve left her to wallow, she thought grimly. Watching Discovery with a couple of cold beers was probably the highlight of her week, and now she was stuck up in the nosebleed section having to be polite and craning her neck to see the JumboTron.

  It was just after halftime, and Discovery was tied with Boston 1-1. The seats spread out in front of her were full of blue shirts with “de Klerk” printed across the back, although the smattering of “Daniels” amongst them was a testament to the evolving partnership between the two forwards. Discovery’s strong hold on the number-two slot in the conference rankings and record ticket sales seemed to have convinced LKC Energy to hang on to their South African striker, whose frequent appearances in the bleachers at youth league soccer games were becoming a fixture of the local press.

  Things couldn’t be better for Discovery’s star player, Holly mused as the tempo of the rain increased. She wondered who they’d hired as his new PR manager. Probably a tall, leggy blonde who wore a lot of low-cut tops.

  Right on cue, Kepler’s image flashed on the JumboTron, and a cheer went up from the crowd. The sight of him made Holly’s heart still in her chest. Play paused while Boston made a substitution, and Kepler stood with his hands on his hips, his shoulders rising and falling with the force of his breathing. Rain darkened his blue shirt and made it cling to his torso, his hair was disheveled, and when he glanced toward the camera those wide-spaced, deep brown eyes seemed to stare straight into her soul.

  The image on the screen changed to the substituted player running onto the pitch, and her heart lurched back into a ragged, uneven beat.

  Would she ever get over him? Beside her Rick clapped in excitement at the restart of play. Kepler had clearly moved on—why couldn’t she?

  “Will they keep playing in this?” Kristin asked as the sound of rain on the roof grew even louder.

  “Definitely.” Rick nodded. “It’s unusual for soccer games to get called for weather.”

  Boston’s subbed-in forward was full of energy and leading his tired teammates to renew their attack on the opposition. He quickly took possession and began to push into Discovery’s half, but Kepler and Tyson were hot on his heels. The Boston forward was soon caught up in Discovery’s ever-improving midfield, and as his teammates piled in to support him a knot of men formed on the pitch.

  “Come on Discovery,” a man shouted a few rows ahead, prompting a wave of cheers and exhortations from the surrounding seats.

  “That’s it Killer, take it off him,” Rick muttered, and a second later Kepler burst from the crush with the ball at his feet.

  The crowd whooped and cheered, but within moments the opposing team was all over him while Tyson jogged not far away, trying to shake the man covering him so he could take a pass from Kepler.

  People were rising to their feet all around her, and Holly knew she had to stand up too if she had any hope of seeing the JumboTron. She was shoving her bag under her seat when a collective, horrified gasp rose from the stands.

  She bolted upright. The JumboTron showed a cluster of players huddled together. Rick’s face was stricken, his hand covering his mouth.

  Holly grabbed hold of his forearm to get his attention. “What happened?”

  Kristin peered around her husband, her child in her arms. “Kepler was kicked in the head. It looked pretty bad—he’s out cold.”

  Holly’s blood turned to ice as the group of players turned toward the approaching medical team, gesturing for them to hurry up. As they stepped aside to make room she could just make out Kepler’s figure lying prone on the pitch, with Tyson kneeling beside him.

  Before she could process what was happening the replay was on the JumboTron, showing the incident with frightening detail. It looked like one of the Boston players slid on the wet turf and fell into Kepler’s path. Another Boston player extended his leg to kick the ball, and as Kepler’s foot caught beneath the first man’s calf and he went toppling over, the second player’s outstretched boot caught him square in the side of the head. The replay showed Kepler collapsing onto his side and remaining there, his body terrifyingly still.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, tightening her grip on Rick’s arm as two more medics jogged onto the field with a stretcher. Her knees were weak, and her stomach flip-flopped with anxiety. What if he had brain damage? What if he was paralyzed? This beautiful, amazing man with whom she’d spent so much time, irrevocably changed by one misplaced kick...

  She squeezed her eyes shut against her escalating thoughts, which were becoming too horrible to entertain even for a second.

  “Look, he’s moving.” Rick pointed to the distant patch of the field visible from their seats. “He’s trying to sit up. He’ll be fine.”

  The JumboTron flickered to show Kepler waving away the medical team, rising tentatively to his feet and swaying once he was upright.

  “He’s the toughest player in the league,” Rick asserted. “He can take anything from anyone, no problem.”

  But Holly knew how far from the truth that really was. She knew the ache in his leg kept him up at night, as he inadvertently twisted himself up in the sheet trying to find a comfortable position in a half-awake haze. She knew his lower back was so stiff in the morning, he absentmindedly kneaded it with his knuckles while he stood waiting for the coffee to percolate. And she knew his hamstring still troubled him enough to make him wince as she’d lowered herself onto his hot arousal, and that in the middle of their lovemaking he’d had to drag himself into a sitting position and guide her hips forward to take the weight off the protesting tendon.

  “Sorry,” he’d murmured as his hands had resettled on her waist. “Is this okay?”

  “‘Okay’ doesn’t apply to what we do,” she’d purred, relishing the slight tickle of the hair on his chest against her swollen nipples. “This is practically cosmic.”

  Tears welled in her eyes as she thought of all that she’d shared with the man who waved to the wildly applauding crowd as he made his way off the field, leaning heavily on the shoulder of Hank, the Dutch medic.

  When the field was clear and the ball put back into play, Holly turned to Rick and Kristin.

  “I have to go to him.”

  The couple exchanged worri
ed glances.

  “Honey,” Kristin ventured, “I don’t think they’ll let you.”

  “He probably has to go to the hospital anyway, just to get checked,” Rick offered. “But he’s in the best possible hands. Maybe you’re better off trying to call him later this evening, if you want to make sure he’s all right.”

  Holly shook her head. She knew what she had to do, and she should’ve done it weeks ago.

  “Thanks for bringing me today,” she said as she slung her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll see you later.”

  If her friends protested, she didn’t hear it. She raced down the concrete steps and into the stadium’s interior, grateful she was wearing jeans and ballet flats instead of the skirt and heels that had been her business uniform when she’d attended games previously.

  The first security checkpoint, at the entrance of the hallway to the business offices, was quickly dispatched with. One of the guards not only recognized her, he remembered that she’d helped to arrange tickets for his out-of-town family when they’d visited.

  “Go right on in, Miss Taylor,” he said with a wink. “I hope we’ll see you back here next season.”

  She knew the second checkpoint—in the corridor leading to the dressing room—would be the hardest to talk her way through. She squared her shoulders and walked briskly as she approached the line of burly security guards, none of whom she knew by sight. She hoped she looked like she belonged here. After all, until very recently, she did.

  “Excuse me, gentlemen,” she began in a crisp, businesslike tone. “I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my pass. I do Kepler de Klerk’s PR and I need to get in to see him right away.”

  One of the central men shrugged and seemed about to let her through when a shorter man beside him frowned and crossed his arms.

  “Isabelle Bradshaw does Kepler de Klerk’s PR.”

  “Isabelle Bradshaw?” Holly demanded, furious that the account had gone to one of her main rivals. Then she forced herself to calm down.

  Remember your central purpose. She revived her professional smile.