Chapter 1 #2
There’s telling the truth… and then there’s calling Kieren freaking Walker a “defensive fossil with a god complex.”
Again. Where’s the lie?
I swear, I was mid-bite of granola and almost aspirated.
You’re lucky I didn’t die dramatically on your behalf.
It’d be a noble death. I’d dedicate my next segment to you.
You’re seriously not worried about the fallout?
I glanced out the café window as a little kid tugged her dad toward the antique shop next door, face lit up with wonder. Peaceful. Normal.
Not really.
The guy ditched a pediatric cancer event.
And that's one thing out of the many.
People give him a pass because he’s hot and knows how to stop a ball.
It won’t amount to anything.
I dunno, Daph…
He’s got fans. An ego. Probably a press team frothing at the mouth right now.
Then they can froth.
I’m not losing sleep over it.
Three dots blinked. Paused. Blinked again.
Just… be careful, okay?
Men like him don’t like being called out. Especially not by women who don’t swoon at their cleats.
I didn’t respond right away. Just picked up my tea, sipping slowly, letting the warmth settle in my chest.
Quite frankly, I couldn't be bothered to care right now.
By the time I left Honey & Hearth, the sun was low, casting long shadows over the sidewalk and turning the storefront windows gold.
I walked the few blocks home, tea in one hand, second danish in the other, and let the quiet calm settle around me—brief, fleeting peace before whatever storm was brewing online.
My apartment was on the third floor of an old brick building with creaky stairs, thin walls, and neighbors who argued loudly about Jeopardy reruns.
Inside, it was warm and lived-in: worn couch, overflowing bookshelves, throw blankets I never folded.
A few of my old soccer medals hung on the wall above my desk—not out of ego, just nostalgia.
Framed photos lined the shelves: me and Mom in matching beanies at a Storm game ten years ago, Grandpa in his military uniform, unsmiling but proud, flanked by the flag he never let touch the ground.
The scent of vanilla from the candle I blew out this morning lingered faintly in the air.
It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine. My little corner of the world where I could breathe… at least until I opened Twitter.
I told myself it was just to check a headline. Maybe catch a cute dog video.
Big lie.
I was trending.
Not like “new feature piece went viral” trending.
Like… headline on fire, public opinion combusting trending.
#WalkerHater.
Oh no.
I stared at the hashtag like it might disappear if I blinked hard enough. It did not.
The top tweet had over twenty thousand likes and featured a slowed-down clip of me sipping coffee with the caption:
“when you casually end a man’s career on national television ???? #WalkerHater”
One user made a full-on TikTok remix—me calling Kieren Walker a “defensive fossil with a god complex” set to Beyoncé’s “Run the World (Girls).” It was honestly… kind of a bop.
Soccer Twitter had officially lost its collective mind. The comment sections were a war zone.
“She said what we’re all thinking. Facts are facts.”
“This brat doesn’t know anything about the game. Stick to fashion, sweetheart.”
“Kieren Walker could run me over with a cleat and I’d say thank you.”
“Not her coming for the king with a lip gloss and a latte.”
I scrolled. I laughed. I died a little inside.
My phone buzzed with a new notification: a DM request from someone with a Storm FC logo in their profile.
I opened it.
Just a single skull emoji.
No context. No message. Just death.
Another buzz. This time a text from my boss.
We need to talk. Tomorrow. 9am.
I let out a groan that started in my soul and flopped back onto my couch like I was auditioning for a soap opera.
Pillows flew. Tea nearly spilled. I stared at the ceiling and cursed the stupid defensive menace I roasted on live TV.
“Of course he’s trending with me,” I muttered. “Stupid cheekbones. Stupid left foot. Stupid… everything.”
I closed my eyes.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Maybe this would blow over.
Maybe I wouldn’t get fired.
And maybe, just maybe, Kieren Walker hadn’t even seen it yet.
I checked Instagram.
He had.
Because the last story on his feed?
A black screen. White text.
“Bet.”
I dressed like I was going into battle.
Not the usual blazer-over-jeans combo I pulled together most mornings with whatever was clean and didn’t smell like takeout.
No, this was war armor. Black pencil skirt, tucked silk blouse, heels sharp enough to draw blood.
I even straightened my hair—straightened, like it was prom—and did actual makeup with more than tinted moisturizer and lip balm.
There was no way I was showing up to that 9 a.m. meeting looking like I’d been crying over Twitter threads in sweats. Even if I had scrolled way too long, deep into memes and fan theories about whether I secretly dated Kieren Walker and this was all “a lover’s feud.” (Barf.)
I capped my eyeliner, caught my reflection, and paused.
This job wasn’t handed to me.
Eight years ago, my first big break was covering MLS full-time.
Before that, it was a long stretch of minor league games in empty bleachers, writing post-game recaps at midnight on bumpy bus rides, nodding along while some editor with coffee breath explained how I was “too emotional” in my reporting—when really, I was just accurate.
I earned my seat at the desk. Every uncomfortable press pass, every locker room interview where a player called me “sweetheart,” every story I had to fight to publish. I didn’t get here by being nice.
I got here by being right.
Accountability mattered. Stories mattered. And if a man in cleats with a six-figure temper couldn’t handle a little heat, maybe he shouldn’t have ghosted a charity event or walked out of my interview when I brought up his third red card.
Yeah. That happened. He stood up mid-question, muttered something about “tabloid trash,” and left me staring at an empty chair on live feed.
And I still suspect he tanked that charity match last summer out of spite. Because heaven forbid Kieren Walker show up and be decent.
The man was allergic to being nice.
And maybe—maybe—I was still mad about it.
But personal or not, I built my career on being blunt, funny, and fearless. I was the youngest woman to ever host the post-game desk segment for MLS. I’d gone toe-to-toe with legends.
This?
This was just another day in the office.
Except…
The drive to the studio felt longer than usual. Maybe because I actually obeyed speed limits for once. Maybe because my palms were sweating on the steering wheel and I couldn’t stop rehearsing worst-case scenarios like a doomsday prepper.
Fired. Suspended. Public apology tour with an HR-mandated smile.
By the time I pulled into the lot, my stomach was doing somersaults in business casual.
I parked, fixed my lipstick in the mirror, and took one long, steadying breath before heading inside.
Tom’s office was already open. He waved me in without looking up from his phone.
“You wanted to talk?” I asked, smoothing my skirt like it might soften the impact.
He glanced up, unreadable.
I braced for it.
“MLS loved it.”
…What?
I blinked. “Loved… what?”
“The interview. Your segment. The spice. The sass. The fact that Twitter turned into a cage match over whether or not Walker deserves basic human decency.” He set his phone down and gestured for me to sit. “You’re being reassigned.”
I didn’t sit.
“Reassigned?”
“Effective immediately. You’re embedded with the West Michigan Storm for the entire season. Full access—locker room, practices, pre-game, post-game. Whatever you need.”
My stomach dropped straight into my heels.
“Wait. Wait, wait—what?”
He looked entirely too calm for someone casually detonating my life.
“They think the chemistry between you and Walker is… well, their words were ‘combustible.’”
I stared.
“PR gold,” he added, like that made it better.
“Tom, I can’t work with him. He hates reporters. He hates me. You want me to follow around the man I literally called a defensive fossil on live TV?”
“That,” he said, folding his hands, “is exactly why you’re the story.”
I didn’t respond.
Because what was there to say? I’d gone into that meeting expecting a slap on the wrist. Maybe a quiet reassignment to something safe and boring, like injury updates or youth camps. I did not expect a season-long slow burn with the most media-averse man in cleats.
I walked out of Tom’s office on autopilot, phone buzzing in my bag, thoughts spinning like a kicked ball in a wind tunnel.
I just called this man a washed-up god on live TV. And now I had to spend the next six months following him around like a soccer groupie.
This was bad.
This was so bad.