The carpeted floors muffle my footsteps as I walk alone through these empty, lonely corridors. These generic hotel corridors, one and the other so alike that I sometimes forget where I am, the lamps mounted in wall sconces and ornately-framed paintings by the most obscure artists. The doors and their little gold numbers, the sound of service carts and the ever-polite hotel staff, bowing and smiling at every corner, polished-perfect images of corporate Japan bearing down on you with stifling intensity.

I decided to abandon the party downstairs because let's face it - what's the point? Everyone is trying to cheer up Oliver Kahn, trying to convince him that it wasn't his fault, that he shouldn't feel bad about himself, but how could he not? Before tonight his goal had proven so impenetrable that many thought they should give Robbie Keane a special award for being the only one who could score into our net. And we had faith in him, we had so much faith in him that on this night, the most important night of all, he would not let us down.

And he did. As good as a goalkeeper and a captain that he is, those goals ultimately came down to the fact that he just wasn't fast enough - and some guy named Ronaldo was.

They're trying to cheer him up with beer and music and merry condolences but he knows just as I know that he had let the ball slip, and so the World Cup isn't ours. And besides, how can everybody else seem to neglect that there's one more person that needs cheering up, maybe even more than Oliver?

Have they forgotten Miro? Have they not thought about how he feels? When this all started he looked right on track to contend for the Golden Shoes, and until tonight those hopes were still very much alive. And yet he couldn't do it. Just like Oliver, he failed to do what was expected of him. He's been struggling ever since we got to the second round, finding those goals so elusive, but he came into the match tonight so determined, so focused, and I really believed that he could do it. The whole of Germany believed that he could do it.

But he didn't.

I can't imagine how he feels like now. Oliver, at least, has dealt with plenty of ups and downs in his career that I'm pretty sure he will make it. But Miro...he is still young, still unsure of himself. The lanky immigrant boy from Poland I first saw in the training camp two years ago coming back to mind as I walk these corridors, that little bit of naivete and innocence that seem to never abandon him.

I reach his door and knock on it, waiting as I hear the lock being undone. He opens it, and suddenly I find myself looking into two beautiful, sad-looking eyes.

"Michael..."

"Hey, Miro." I smile. "How are you feeling?"

He shrugs. "Fine, I guess. Why aren't you at the party downstairs?"

"Same reason why you're not."

"Not really in the mood for celebrations, huh?"

I nod slowly, feeling his wide-eyed gaze firmly fixed on me.

"Is...is Oliver okay?"

"He'll make it." I assure him. "Can I come in?"

"Sure..." he steps aside and lets me in his room. "It's a bit messy, though."

"Miro, your room is probably a lot neater than mine and most of the others," I chuckle as I go in.

He motions me to sit on the chair near the window, and he settles himself down at the edge of the bed.

"So..." he begins.

"So...I thought I'd come here to see if you're okay."

"I guess I am," he looks at me, biting his lower lip slightly. "Can't say I feel too good about it right now, but it'll pass."

"Are you sure?"

Miro takes a deep breath and gazes upwards to the ceiling, his hands resting on either side of him on the bed. When he finally looks back at me, the expression I see in his face is exactly the same as the one he wore when he stepped off the field tonight, that look of regret and guilt rolled into one, and the same look he gave me as we sat on the bench and heard the final whistle blow.

"I'm sorry, Michael..." he mutters slowly.

"Don't be." I shrug it off.

"How can I not be?" he persists. "I don't know what happened to me. No matter how I tried, the break just wasn't there, the balls didn't come the way I wanted them too...and I just couldn't score."

"Miro, why are you apologizing to me?" I get off my chair and sit down beside him on the bed. "You tried your best."

"And it wasn't enough." Miro shakes his head ruefully. "Wasn't...enough."

I fling one arm across his shoulders. "Look, Miro..."

"Don't 'look Miro' me!" he snaps. "You can't make me feel better any more than they can make Oliver feel better."

"Can't blame me for trying, can you?" I say. "And that means I owe you an apology too."

His head snaps in my direction, and those large, woeful eyes are on me curiously. "You? You didn't do anything tonight!"

"Exactly. I didn't do anything. I just sat at the bench uselessly while you were out there fighting and trying so hard with the others."

"But it's not the same!" he protests. "There was nothing you could've done, no way you could've played with us..."

"And I should have played." I cut him off. "I shouldn't have gotten myself that yellow card, knowing what it would mean for the finals, knowing what was at stake."

"Michael..."

"Maybe if I had been more careful, you know? If I hadn't tackled that poor kid..."

"He's also a dangerous kid, and you did what you had to do." Miro says. "You don't need to apologize to me."

"Then you don't need to apologize to me, either." I say to him. "Fair enough?"

Miro sighs in resignation, then looks at me with a thin smile on his lips. "Okay."

I really felt guilty when I saw him come off the pitch tonight. All the time he was on the field, after every missed chance, every foiled attempt, he always looked to me briefly, those sad eyes pleading with me for something. At times he looked apologetic, and as the seconds ticked by he became desperate - and so did I.

How I longed to be out there with him, playing with him, giving him the right touches and the right passes. But I'd already taken myself out of the equation three nights ago, and from that point on there was nothing more I could do.

"Michael?" he looks at me, my name a whispered hush out of those pale, pretty lips.

Your eyes, Miro. How they looked at me tonight in the stadium, how helpless they made me feel, and how they are looking at me now - caring and full of concern.

My face is hovering so close to his, and it feels like those beautiful eye are drawing me in, like magnetic pools existing in limpid blue. I feel his own breath on my face, the light shivering of his hands on the bed.

"Michael..."

Our lips brush against each other and I close my eyes, then let my instincts take over. I almost expect Miro to back away from me, but he didn't. So I lean in and kiss him in earnest, my nose brushing against the flesh of his cheek. Miro's lips respond to mine rather tentatively, still somewhat unsure.

When I release him, his eyes are as wide as they've ever been, and after a brief moment of staring at me he looks down, an expression of confusion on his face. Instantly I feel a little awkward - not to mention scared that I might have made a big mistake.

"Miro?" I try to reach for him. "I'm sorry, I..."

"Just give me one second, will you?" he holds up a hand to stall me.

Feeling uneasy all of a sudden, I just sit there and watch as he takes several deep breaths, blinking in rapid succession as if trying to figure out what had just happened. Please God, don't let him be mad at me, don't let him...

Finally he looks up and turns his head ever so slowly, those big, beautiful eyes searing right through me.

"Miro, I..."

He silences me by flinging his arm around my neck and kissing me again, this time with no hesitation. I take the opportunity to wrap my arms around his body and hold him close, our lips parting for only brief fractions of seconds and then reuniting. The wet noises of our kiss, the feel of him in my arms, the light scent of cologne on his neck and just his presence there...all of the night's frustrations and shattered hopes melding together into one.

Our bodies descend onto the bed, still joined, and I end up sprawled with him on top of me, his lips still tightly sealing mine. I let my arms wander around his body, feeling him through the fabric of his clothes, trying to picture what lies underneath.

Only the need for breath finally made us part, but as I look up to his face I no longer see the sadness and uncertainty I saw when I first walked through the door.

"Michael..." he says, his kiss-swollen lips smiling at me. "Thank you."

"For what?"

"Everything." he whispers against my face. "You got us this far, you know..."

"Hey, I couldn't have gotten us to the finals single-handedly, you know that. You contributed, what - five goals into the effort?"

His smile widens. "And thank you for that also. I couldn't have done it with you."

And I should've helped you do it again tonight, Miro. I should've been there. But I wasn't. And so here we are, two disappointed souls seeking comfort in each other.

"Four years from now...we'll win the Cup at home." I tell him.

"I hope so." he says, and he manoeuvres himself until he's lying beside me, not breaking eye contact the whole time. "And when the time comes...will you still be there for me?"

"I will." I lean in and give him a little kiss on his lips. "I promise."

Then he is smiling at me once again, his eyes regaining some of its long-gone cheer, and for those brief few seconds I can believe, just believe, that all is right with the world.