The Striker's Chance (17 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“Well, this is one advantage to being in the cheap seats,” Kristin 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 worried 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.

“I know. I’m her assistant. I was at the game so she asked me to come down and see him while she drives over.”

The security guards seemed unconvinced, so Holly dug into her purse and pulled out her all-access pass for Charlotte Motor Speedway.

“See?” she said, handing it over. “This is my pass for the stock cars, I just forgot the one for Discovery.”

The two men in the center exchanged shrugs and stepped aside.

“Remember it next time,” the shorter one chided as he returned her badge.

“I will,” she promised and hustled down the hall to the dressing room.

She crossed the empty changing area in record time, skipping over discarded pairs of jeans and errant socks, and flung open the door to the medics’ area.

And on the other side, a sea of uniformed personnel turned to look at her.

“I, uh—”

But before she could complete a sentence, Hank ushered her back into the changing area, his normally genial face set and hard.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” he demanded, driving her back against the wall until the changing bench jammed into the backs of her thighs.

“I wanted to see Kepler.” Doubt crept into her mind for the first time since she’d jogged down the cement steps.

“You blank him for months,” he growled, “and now that he’s had a major head injury you think it’s a good time for a chat?”

She blinked. “Blank him? I didn’t—I thought he didn’t want to hear from me. Anyway, how do you—”

Hank rolled his eyes. “I told you, Dutch and Afrikaans are very similar. We can communicate. And believe me, Kepler needs someone to talk to.”

Her confusion must have shown, because he continued, “He’s the most self-isolating man I’ve ever met. When you came along and began to draw him out, I finally thought he was starting to emerge and build himself a community. Then you dropped him, like that.” He snapped his fingers.

Holly shook her head vigorously. “That’s not how it was, not at all.” She opened her mouth to relay the whole long, complicated tale, then thought better of it. “Can you ask him if he wants to see me? If he doesn’t, I’ll go, and I won’t come down here again.”

Hank crossed his arms as he regarded her from his substantial height. When he spoke, it was mostly to himself. “He never knows what’s good for him.” He glanced over her shoulder at the door to the corridor, and when he looked back at Holly his expression was resigned.

“He’s not here.” His eyes flicked left and right to ensure no one was listening to them. “They’ve taken him to Presbyterian Hospital.”

She clenched her fists at her sides. “Is he all right?”

Hank nodded. “He has to get checked out, but he’s okay.” He took a step backward, signaling the end of their conversation. “He won’t be in the ER long, so you need to hurry.”

“Thank you, Hank.”

He gestured dismissively and Holly reached into her bag, pulling out her car keys as she made her way back out through security.

She forced herself to keep to a brisk walk as she hustled through the stadium. As soon as she hit the door to the parking lot, however, she started to run as if her life depended on it.

* * *

“Pupils equal and reactive,” the ER doctor announced, switching off her penlight.

“Just like they were five minutes ago, and five minutes before that,” Kepler grumbled. “I’m telling you, I’m absolutely fine.”

“No, you’re concussed.” The doctor scribbled a note on a piece of paper. “Which is why we need to monitor you closely to make sure this doesn’t develop into anything more serious.” She looked at her watch. “They should have an opening for a CT scan in a few minutes. I’ll call upstairs again to let them know we’re ready.”

“I really don’t need a—” But the curtain slid shut behind her, and Kepler was left alone in the small exam area.

“Dammit,” he muttered, slamming his heels against the base of the examining table for emphasis. He blinked against the residual fuzziness in his vision and ran his hand across his aching jaw. His head was throbbing so badly that it made him feel sick, yet he yearned to get back out on the pitch to finish the game. These days it seemed like his only happy moments were those rooted in the release of physical exertion, in deafening cheers from the crowd, in the heady adrenaline of an aggressive tackle, in the single-minded pursuit of putting a white ball between two goalposts.