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other players burst in from the sidelines to take his place.
    Holly remembered the sight of him running down the pitch on his own, with a horde of his opponents barreling toward him, every single one intent on stopping him from taking another step.
    Without another thought, she scooped up her purse and slipped out of the room.
    * * *
    Kepler draped his forearm over his eyes as pain radiated through his leg. He was lying on his back on one of the examination tables in the medical room that adjoined the dressing room, and the fluorescent lighting seemed to glare accusingly at him from the ceiling overhead.
    “It’s just a strain,” announced Hank, Discovery’s perpetually cheerful Dutch medic and physical therapist. “Nothing that can’t be fixed with a little...gentle... manipulation. ”
    On the last word Hank used his grip on Kepler’s foot to shove his knee up to his chest, and Kepler gritted his teeth against the searing protest in his hamstring.
    He closed his eyes and attempted to concentrate on his mental post-match analysis. Normally he tried to relive as many of his moves in as much detail as possible and then compare what he remembered to what was visible on video.
    Except when he thought back on the match, all he could see in his mind’s eye was the ball sailing into Discovery’s net over and over again.
    The shame of defeat settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach.
    And the humiliation of having to leave his debut match on an injury... He cringed beneath his arm. He was supposed to be this legendary player descended from on high to bring European excellence to a budding American team, to rally its young players and to transform it from a raw mechanism into a fearsome, slick machine.
    What had he done instead?
    He’d fallen over and hurt himself.
    Maybe this had been a terrible idea, he thought as Hank’s fingers probed the muscles above his knee. Maybe he should have simply accepted that his career was over and gotten on with building a new life for himself in South Africa. He’d been surprisingly good at academics when he was younger—maybe it wasn’t too late to go to university?
    He was getting too old to keep starting over. New team, new city, new country—that was fine when he’d been in his late teens and early twenties and had the energy and inclination to explore and discover. In those days life had been one long adventure.
    Since the accident, though, he craved stability more than anything. He wanted to make real friends he could rely on. He wanted a house he could see himself living in for a long time.
    And while he was dreaming, he wanted someone to be in that house when he came home. Someone who didn’t care whether he won or lost his matches, or how big his contract renewal bonus was, or which sponsors he was negotiating with. Someone who loved him , not the media’s fantasy version.
    A knock on the door yanked him from his reverie as Hank called, “Come in.”
    At the sound of high heels clacking against the floor, Kepler peeked out from under his arm.
    It was Holly, looking impossibly fresh and summery in a light blue flowered dress, her brow creased as she took a few tentative steps toward him.
    Kepler groaned as he covered his eyes again. So unfair.
    “Not now, please,” he grumbled. He was sweaty, in pain, and he’d just played one of the worst games of his life. Discussing how they were going to handle his yellow card in the press—which is what he assumed was her purpose in visiting—was a long, long way down his list of priorities. He wanted to shower, pop open a beer and ice his leg, in that order.
    “How are you?” she asked uncertainly, just before Hank’s fingers dug into his aching hamstring. The sting was sudden and intense, and Kepler muttered a string of curses with a clenched jaw.
    “Nice talk in front of a lady,” Hank scolded playfully.
    “Don’t worry, I couldn’t understand a word.” Holly moved closer to stand by his head. He could smell her