CHAPTER NINE The Secret He Remembered

Alexander read Isabella's message three times.

We need to talk. It's about something that happened at Westbridge seven years ago.

He sat alone in his apartment, still wearing the grey T-shirt he had changed into after training. The television played silently in the background, and the untouched dinner on the coffee table had gone cold.

Seven years.

He had hoped that part of his life would remain buried forever.

He typed a response.

What have you heard?

Her reply came almost immediately.

Someone told me to ask you about the player who left Westbridge seven years ago.

Alexander stared at the screen.

He knew who she meant.

Daniel Mercer had been seventeen when he joined Westbridge's youth academy. He had been fast, talented, and fiercely determined to become a professional footballer. Alexander, then nineteen, had been one of the older academy players who helped him settle into the club.

They had trained together, shared meals, and talked about their futures as though nothing could prevent them from becoming football stars.

Then Daniel disappeared.

One Monday morning, he had failed to attend training. By lunchtime, the club announced that he had left for personal reasons.

Nobody questioned the statement publicly.

Within weeks, his name vanished from the academy's website.

Alexander had asked their coach what happened.

He had been told not to concern himself with matters beyond his responsibilities.

At the time, Alexander had been too young and too focused on earning his place in the first team to challenge the decision.

He had regretted that ever since.

He picked up his phone.

Meet me tomorrow. I'll explain what I can.

Isabella responded with a simple:

Where?

He suggested the café where they had met before.

She agreed.

Alexander put down his phone and rubbed his hands over his face.

He had spent seven years telling himself that Daniel's departure was none of his business.

Now the past was returning, and Isabella was standing directly in its path.

He could warn her to stop.

He could tell her that some questions would only hurt people who had already suffered enough.

But he knew she would not listen.

And, if he was honest with himself, he no longer wanted her to stop.

The following afternoon, Isabella arrived at the café ten minutes early.

She had spent the morning researching Daniel Mercer.

There were photographs of him in old academy team pictures, a brief profile on a forgotten football website, and a single local newspaper article announcing that he had been released by Westbridge.

After that, nothing.

No professional appearances. No interviews. No public explanation.

It was as though he had vanished from football entirely.

Alexander entered wearing a dark jacket and a cap. When he spotted her, he approached the table without his usual teasing smile.

“Have you eaten?” he asked.

Isabella blinked.

“Is that your first question?”

“You look tired.”

“I'm investigating a seven-year-old mystery. Tiredness is part of the job.”

He pulled out the chair opposite her.

“Have you eaten?”

She sighed.

“Not yet.”

He ordered two sandwiches and coffee before sitting down.

“I can order my own food, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why did you order for me?”

“Because if I waited for you to finish arguing, we'd be here until tomorrow.”

She tried not to smile.

Failed.

Alexander noticed.

“There it is again.”

“What?”

“That smile.”

“Don't get used to it.”

“I'll try to recover from the disappointment.”

For a few minutes, they talked about ordinary things. Isabella told him about an editor who believed every article needed a dramatic headline. Alexander described a training session in which Daniel had accidentally kicked a ball through a window.

Their laughter surprised them both.

Then the food arrived, and Alexander's expression became serious again.

“Daniel Mercer was one of the most talented young players I've ever known,” he began. “He was seventeen when he joined the academy. I was nineteen, and I helped him settle in.”

“Were you close?”

“Close enough that I noticed when he stopped smiling.”

Isabella put down her cup.

“What happened?”

Alexander looked out of the window.

“I don't know everything. That's the truth. But a few weeks before he left, Daniel came to me after training. He said someone had accused him of taking money from a sponsor.”

“Was he guilty?”

“No. At least, I didn't believe he was.”

“What did he tell you?”

“He said he'd discovered payments being made through a company connected to the club. He thought someone was using his name to cover something up.”

Isabella felt her pulse quicken.

“Meridian Sports Advisory?”

Alexander nodded slowly.

“I didn't know the company name at the time. Daniel told me he had found records he wasn't supposed to see. He wanted to report what he'd discovered.”

“Did he?”

“I don't know. Two days later, he was gone.”

Isabella reached for her notebook.

“Did you tell anyone?”

“I told our coach. He said Daniel had made a mistake and the club was handling it privately.”

“And you believed him?”

Alexander's jaw tightened.

“I was nineteen. I wanted to believe him.”

The answer was quiet and painfully honest.

Isabella put her pen down.

“I'm sorry.”

He looked at her.

“Why?”

“Because you've been carrying this around for seven years.”

He gave a humourless smile.

“I wasn't carrying it. I was avoiding it.”

She understood that feeling more than she wanted to admit.

“Do you know where Daniel is now?”

“No. I've tried searching for him, but he changed his number and disappeared from social media.”

“Would you help me find him?”

Alexander studied her.

“I thought you would ask that.”

“Will you?”

“Yes.”

She had expected resistance.

Instead, he had agreed without hesitation.

“Thank you.”

He leaned back.

“But I need you to promise me something.”

“What?”

“If we find him, you won't pressure him into speaking before he's ready.”

Isabella considered the request.

“I won't publish anything he tells me without verifying it. And I won't reveal his identity without his consent.”

“That's not quite what I asked.”

“It's the promise I can make as a journalist.”

He nodded, accepting the distinction.

“Fair enough.”

Their eyes met.

Something had shifted between them.

They were no longer simply a journalist and a footballer exchanging information. They were two people trying to understand a past that had hurt them both in different ways.

Outside, the rain began to fall.

Alexander glanced at the window.

“Do you need a lift?”

“I can take the underground.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because it's raining, and I'd rather not watch you walk away into it.”

Her heart gave an inconvenient little flutter.

“You're always this charming when you want something?”

“Only when I'm trying to impress someone.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Then his smile widened.

“Relax, Isabella. I'm joking.”

“Good,” she said, gathering her bag. “Because it almost worked.”

He laughed as they stood.

For the first time, she left their meeting feeling lighter than when she had arrived.

But as Alexander watched her walk toward the door, his smile faded.

Daniel Mercer had not simply left Westbridge.

He had been silenced.

And Alexander was beginning to suspect that the people responsible were still inside the club.