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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.”
    “Sven Brock only joined a few months ago, so hopefully he can make a difference. Regardless, I’m glad I’m only in charge of keeping one player looking good.”
    When the players returned for the second half, Kepler’s posture had noticeably changed. Gone was the excitable, energetic player whose clear emotional broadcasting had been a thrill to watch. Now his face was locked up tight, his body rigid and unyielding.
    “He looks pissed,” was Rick’s jubilant explanation as he returned to his seat holding a plate stacked high with mini hot dogs. “This ought to be good. Remember I said Kepler was known for his aggression in England? Did I tell you his nickname?”
    “Do I really want to know?” Holly asked, though she could tell from the delighted look on Rick’s face there would be no stopping him.
    “Killer de Klerk.”
    “Great,” she muttered as the players sprang into action.
    Within minutes it became obvious that Sven’s halftime speech had included instructions to get the ball to Kepler and help him find chances to score. Unfortunately it was also clear that, should his teammates fail to deliver, Kepler had decided to take the ball by any means necessary.
    As soon as one of his opponents took possession, Kepler was in his space, bearing down on him. In the second it took the white-shirted player to look around for someone who could receive a pass, Kepler’s feet were between his ankles. He flicked the ball up and out in a surprisingly graceful movement and began to run it down the field toward Ottawa’s goal.
    But before long, two Ottawa players ran up to challenge him and there were no Discovery shirts in sight.
    Kepler managed to shove his way out from between the two of them without losing the ball, but when he attempted to pass it to his nearest teammate it was quickly intercepted, and soon the action had returned to