The applause of the children and the flashing cameras felt like a mockery. Leo stood frozen on the spot, the echo of the ball crashing into the net still ringing in his ears. He had scored, but the victory tasted like ash. The look on Coach Thorpe's face—not approval, but deep, analytical confusion—was a verdict more damning than any failure.
The ride back to the training complex was shrouded in a thick, uncomfortable silence. The other players treated him with a new, wary distance. He was no longer just a fallen star; he was an unpredictable entity. Vance, for his part, had stopped his open mockery, but his glances were now those of a hunter studying a strange new prey.
Later, in the sanctity of the "Mind Room," Leo tried to replicate the penalty. He fired shot after shot into the virtual net, but they were all brute force, wild and uncontrolled. The desperate, focused will that had powered the real-life kick was gone, replaced by the same frantic anxiety. The simulator's feedback was merciless.
< < [Analysis: Penalty Kick - Current Iteration] >>
< < Power: 98% | Precision: 32% | Technique: 15% >>
< < Deviation from Kaelan Valtieri Baseline: 84.7% >>
Deviation. The word glared in his mind. He wasn't converging with Kaelan; he was diverging. Creating a new, cruder style that was raising alarms.
His phone buzzed, shattering the silence. The name on the screen sent a fresh jolt of panic through him: Elara.
The photo attached to the contact was of a woman with laughing eyes and windswept, auburn hair, her head resting on Kaelan's shoulder. His girlfriend. Of course. The real Kaelan would have a girlfriend. A supermodel or a pop star, no doubt. Another layer of the intricate web he was trapped in.
He stared at the buzzing device, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow. He couldn't answer. What would he say? How would he sound? But ignoring it was just as suspicious.
Swallowing hard, he accepted the call, activating the video.
"Kaelan! Finally!" Her voice was a warm, melodic contralto, laced with concern. She wasn't a supermodel; she was striking in a more real, intelligent way, with a smattering of freckles across her nose and kind eyes that were currently pinched with worry. She was in a brightly lit art studio, canvases visible in the background. "I've been so worried. I saw the news about the crash. Why didn't you call me?"
Leo's mind went blank. He forced Kaelan's lips into a smile. "Elara. Hey. I'm… fine. Just a bump on the head. Didn't want to worry you." His voice was stiff, the accent wavering.
Her head tilted, her expression shifting from concern to curiosity. "You sound different. Are you sure you're okay? The news said the other driver was in a coma. That's horrible."
The mention of his own body, of Leo Mears, was a punch to the gut. "It's… a mess," he managed, looking away from the screen. "Doctors say he's stable." The lie felt like acid on his tongue.
There was a pause. He could feel her gaze even through the screen.
"You're being weird, Kae," she said softly, her tone gentle but probing. "It's me. You don't have to put on the 'invincible Valtieri' act. Talk to me."
Talk to you? he screamed internally. I'm not him! The man you love is trapped in a coma in my broken body! The confession burned in his throat, a toxic secret he could never utter.
"It's just the concussion," he mumbled, falling back on the excuse. "Everything feels… foggy. Even… us." He gestured vaguely between the camera and himself, a desperate, clumsy attempt to explain his emotional distance.
Elara's face fell, just for a fraction of a second, before she masked it with a understanding smile. But the hurt was there, shining in her eyes. "Oh. I see. The doctor did mention there could be… emotional effects." She leaned closer to the screen. "Listen to me, Kaelan Valtieri. Fog or no fog, I'm here. We're here. You don't push me away, understand? I'm flying back from Lisbon tomorrow. I'll be there for your first game."
The conviction in her voice, the unconditional love he could feel radiating from her—it was a weight he couldn't bear. He was stealing this, too. Stealing her concern, her love, her loyalty. He was a thief in the temple of someone else's life.
"I… I have to go. Training," he stammered, desperate to end the conversation before he broke down. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Okay," she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "Be careful with yourself, Kae. I love you."
The words hung in the air, a challenge and a condemnation.
"You too," he choked out, and ended the call.
He slumped against the simulator, his head in his hands. The guilt was a physical force, crushing him. He wasn't just fighting for his survival; he was actively destroying the real Kaelan's relationships, his career, his love life. With every clumsy interaction, every unconvincing lie, he was chipping away at the man's entire world.
A new, more profound terror took root. It wasn't just about being found out. It was about the wreckage he would leave behind. The broken trust in Elara's eyes, the confusion of his teammates, the ruin of a legacy.
He was so absorbed in his spiral of self-loathing that he didn't hear the soft click of the study door opening.
"Interesting."
Leo jolted upright, his heart leaping into his throat. Coach Thorpe stood in the doorway to the Mind Room, his sharp eyes taking in the chaotic whiteboards, the powered-on simulator, and Leo's undoubtedly guilty expression.
"The doctors said rest," Thorpe said, his voice dangerously calm as he stepped inside. "They said quiet. But here you are. In his room." He gestured at the whiteboards. "Kaelan never let anyone in here. Called it his 'laboratory.'" He picked up a marker, examining a complex equation about angular momentum. "So, care to tell me what you're really doing in here?"
Leo's mind raced, but came up empty. There was no lie that could cover this.
Thorpe's eyes finally settled on him, no longer just confused, but piercingly intent.
"That penalty today," he said, taking a step closer. "Kaelan Valtieri doesn't smash the ball. He caresses it. He convinces it to go where he wants. What you did was pure, unrefined force. It was effective, I'll give you that. But it wasn't his."
He was now standing directly in front of Leo, his gaze boring into him.
"The hands in my office. The passing drill. The penalty. It's like… watching a brilliant actor who's forgotten his lines but is trying to improvise the entire play based on the summary he read once." He crossed his arms. "The doctors say 'post-concussion syndrome.' David says you're 'recovering.' But I've coached you since you were a teenager. I know every twitch, every tells, every damn thought that goes through your head on that pitch."
He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper.
"So, I'm only going to ask you this once. And I want the truth."
Leo felt the world shrink, the walls closing in. This was it. The exposure.
"Who," Thorpe asked, his words deliberate and sharp as shards of glass, "are you?"