The Striker's Chance (12 page)

She was an adult; she could handle herself. She’d have enough of a headache tomorrow morning. He didn’t want her to have the added stress of knowing he’d come into her house essentially uninvited.

He had his car keys in his hand and was about to call out his goodbye when Holly tripped over her own feet and stumbled hard against the edge of the coffee table, barely managing to stay upright.

Kepler sighed, pocketed his keys and stepped inside.

“Come on, doll.” He took her arm to steady her. “Where’s the kitchen?”

Twenty minutes later they were ensconced at her kitchen table with cups of coffee, glasses of water and a hastily assembled plate of cheese, crackers and grapes between them. Holly had kicked off her shoes and seemed to be sobering up, although the pointed questions she fired at him gave evidence that her guard was still down.

“Be honest with me,” she insisted. “There are tons of photos of you outside London nightclubs with random women on your arm. Do you really expect me to believe you didn’t sleep with them? That the press made that all up?”

Kepler scrubbed wearily at his eyes. Since he almost always had a game scheduled, it wasn’t often he had the chance to go out on a Saturday night. He was usually busy soaking his match-sore muscles in a hot bath and trying not to fall asleep in front of the eleven o’clock news. Tonight he’d been accosted by that friend of Gina’s before he’d even bought a drink, and now he was stone-cold sober and being interrogated by the woman he yearned for.

“I slept with some of them,” he admitted, wrapping his hands around the warm ceramic mug. “But not as many as you might think. That’s the truth.”

Holly’s eyes narrowed skeptically. He sighed.

“When I was living in Spain, I was totally intimidated by the social side of professional soccer. I was an inexperienced, immature, virginal eighteen-year-old from the back end of nowhere. The super-sexual Spanish women that hung around the athletes were, quite frankly, terrifying.”

Her cynical expression eased into a slight smile. “Virginal?”

“Oh yeah.” He nodded earnestly. “For some players, being thrust into this ultra-macho world at a young age turns them into oversexed, slobbering dogs. But I went the other way and was painfully shy around women. Painfully.”

“How old were you when you lost your virginity?”

“Old.”

“How old?”

Kepler winced. “Twenty-one.”

“That’s not so old,” she comforted, but he could tell from the twinkle in her eye that she didn’t believe her own words.

“It’s okay, I’ve come to terms with it.” He grinned. “And in the long run I’ve realized that I was right to wait until I was ready. Over time I learned I liked going out and having fun and being rowdy with my teammates, hence all the photos in the tabloids. But I’m very selective about who I go to bed with. With most of those women, the encounter never went further than the inside of a taxi.”

“You didn’t seem that selective in the backseat of my car,” Holly said with sudden aggression that took him completely by surprise.

“What do you mean, that wasn’t selective? It’s not like I’d just come from someone else’s backseat,” he countered, irritated at having to fight this battle again.

“I mean you barely knew me, yet you wasted no time in getting hot and heavy.” She crossed her arms.

“I knew you well enough to know how much I liked you, and that I had real feelings for you,” he said defensively. “I still do, but I have to tell you that I really don’t understand where you’re coming from. I think I’ve been pretty damn honest about my intentions. Then one minute you tell me nothing can happen between us, and in the next you’re jealous of a hundred imaginary women I’m supposed to have been with.”

He threw up his hands in exasperation. He hadn’t planned on telling her all this, but now that it was out in the open, he was glad.

“Leaving the professional conflict out of this for a moment, I wish you’d tell me straight. Are you interested in me or not?”

Holly’s pretty face crumpled, and for one horrifying moment Kepler thought he’d brought her to tears. But she pulled in a heartening breath and her big blue eyes stayed dry.

“Kepler, you’re one of the greatest guys I’ve ever met,” she said, her compliment undermined by the sadness of her tone. “Don’t get me wrong, at first I thought you were a total jerk, but once I got a few glimpses at the man behind the swagger, I realized you weren’t nearly as arrogant and self-centered as you seemed.”

He blinked, dumbstruck. “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” she replied. “The answer is yes, I’m interested in you. When we’re not at each other’s throats we’ve had a lot of fun together, and of course you were just voted top hottie in the bar by my sister. What girl can pass up credentials like that? But I don’t see how it can work. I’m your PR manager, you’re my client, and LKC Energy pays a lot of money to keep it that way. I would’ve said we could give it a try once the season had finished, but now—”

She stopped short, and her eyes went wide with alarm.

“What?” Kepler asked, annoyed both at her answer and her abrupt refusal to say more. “Why not try when the season’s over?”

“It’s...um...if LKC Energy wants to retain me to work with you again next year, you know, that would look pretty bad.”

He got the distinct impression there was something else she wasn’t telling him. Did she have some ex-boyfriend moving back to town? Was she secretly married? Had she accepted a job offer in another city and was just waiting for it to be finalized?

That last thought settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach. She was the only person he really knew in Charlotte. The only person he really
wanted
to know. What would he do with himself in this city if she were gone?

He must have looked as distraught as he felt, because Holly reached across the table and gave his hand a quick pat.

“I know, it sucks. But it’s just how things have to be.”

“Okay,” Kepler managed hoarsely. He wasn’t a man used to rejection, especially not when he had genuine feelings for someone—which was almost never.

“You seem to be feeling better. I should probably head home.” He stood stiffly, still reeling from the unexpected turn this night had taken.

She nodded and silently walked him to the door. He dug in his pocket for his car keys, and she murmured, “Thanks for bringing me home. You’re a true gentleman.”

But still not enough for you.

“No problem. See you later.”

He was halfway down the front walk when Holly called his name. He pivoted eagerly. This was the moment when she changed her mind, when she invited him back in and told him they had to keep it a secret until the end of the season, but that he was worth way more than any PR contract.

“If you want to go back to the club, I’m sure the girls will still be there. I know Kirsty’s single, and I think Julia might be too.” She shrugged. “I’m just saying, I would understand.”

Kepler stared at her for a long, long minute, and ran through at least ten possible replies. Eventually he decided no single response could capture the resentment, disappointment and downright offense he felt in that moment.

He shook his head. Then he turned his back on her and walked away.

Chapter Eleven

Holly turned off the ignition and for several minutes simply sat in the parking lot of the indoor football field that doubled as a Discovery training facility.

It was Thursday afternoon, and she hadn’t been able to face Kepler since he’d left her house Saturday night. As soon as the taillights of his Jeep had disappeared, she’d collapsed on the couch and given herself over to hiccupping, self-pitying tears.

She wanted him more than she’d ever wanted anyone, and not just on a physical level. She wanted to wake up beside him, to watch him stumble around the kitchen with tousled hair as he put the coffee on to percolate. She wanted to walk with him hand-in-hand on the way to buy a present for his nephew. She wanted to slam through the front door after a stressful day and fall into his arms, not needing to say a thing, safe in the knowledge that he would always be there for her.

It was a nice fantasy, but that’s all it would ever be.

Sharon had called her that morning after reading a mock-up of the
Chicago Chronicle
article, which was scheduled to go to print the next day, leaving plenty of time for people to buy tickets for Saturday’s match.

Unsurprisingly, she had been delighted. And why shouldn’t she? Sensitively and honestly written, the article offered a touching human interest story without being melodramatic or clichéd. Kepler was articulate and thoughtful in the interview, and the photos were stunning.

After congratulating Holly on her triumph, she’d said that their analysts were already calculating a massive increase in his saleable value. At this rate, they might even be able to sell him to one of the wealthy European clubs, who would be much more willing to pay a high price than their American counterparts.

“You’ve got him on the boil, now you have to keep the heat high,” Sharon had urged. “We’re counting on you to make this investment come good. Then we’ll see which of our big accounts we can set you loose on up here in New York.”

Holly had put the phone down feeling utterly devoid of any of the elation or even vague happiness that such compliments would’ve given her even two months ago. Now she just felt like a liar and a traitor.

She’d sold Kepler out, and he had no idea.

She checked the time on her phone. Discovery’s training session should be ending in about five minutes. She hoped catching Kepler somewhere very public and at the end of a long day of practice would mean he wouldn’t have the time or inclination to press her into a serious conversation about what happened on Saturday.

It was cowardly, but then that seemed to be her modus operandi these days.

When she dropped into one of the seats in the front row, near the tunnel exit, the players were running an attacking drill on the pitch. Two of them stood side-by-side on the center line. One of Sven’s assistant coaches kicked a ball between them, and they had to run to try to take control of it and shoot it into the net. Whoever didn’t get the ball had to attempt to block his teammate from scoring.

Holly leaned her elbows on the railing as she marveled at the dexterity and grace even the rookie players displayed. She’d grown to love how a seemingly simple sport commanded such a complex range of skills, from speed to power to strategy. Rick told her that some people referred to soccer as “the beautiful game,” and with each match she watched she appreciated that more and more.

Kepler took his turn on the center line against Tyson Daniels. The assistant coach kicked the ball and Kepler was after it in a flash, effortlessly outrunning Tyson and sending it sailing into the net within seconds.

Tyson stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in a way that said he was clearly irritated with his own performance. Kepler clapped him on the back and indicated for them to go again.

They reset their positions, the coach set the ball in motion, and Kepler captured it just as quickly as before, except instead of racing for the goal he drove it back toward the center line, causing Tyson to pivot and sprint after him.

Kepler led Tyson back and forth in a zigzag toward the goal. At first Holly thought he was being deliberately cruel to his teammate and showing off his own clearly superior capabilities.

As they veered toward her, though, she could hear him shouting encouragement. “Take it off me, Ty. Go on, take it—I’m broadcasting my next move like a radio, come on!”

Tyson’s brow furrowed in concentration, his face taut, but in the next instant his toe tipped the ball up from the grass between Kepler’s feet.

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 be 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.