Chapter 2
Kieren
Ice hummed through the tub, numbing my shoulder and most of my will to live. The recovery room was empty—just me, the drone of the freezer motor, and a clock that ticked like it wanted to fight.
I preferred it this way. No music. No noise. Just the burn behind my eyes and the quiet ache in my body. After ten years in this league, you didn’t bounce back—you crawled.
My phone buzzed against the plastic bench.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. Then again. Then six more times.
With a sigh, I reached for it, wincing as my muscles protested. Maybe I thought it was an update from the physio team. Maybe I hoped it was my agent with a contract renegotiation or a sponsorship deal.
It wasn’t.
It was her.
Daphne Sommers. Journalist. Nuisance. That voice like sunshine through clenched teeth.
The clip was everywhere.
I tapped one post, volume low.
“Washed-up legend with a god complex.”
I stared at the screen. Blinked.
Smirked.
“Not wrong,” I muttered.
She always did have bite. Even three years ago, when she asked about my red card history on air like she was ordering her coffee—confident, casual, sharp enough to bleed.
I didn’t give her the satisfaction of a real answer then.
And now?
Now she’d lit me up like a bonfire in Times Square.
Another clip autoplayed—a remix, apparently. My voice spliced with hers, set to Beyoncé’s Run the World. The beat dropped right as she said “grumpiest man in the league.”
Someone added slow-mo footage of me glaring at the camera last season. They gave me laser eyes.
I nearly dropped my phone.
“What the hell,” I muttered, scrolling through the carnage.
One TikTok had me listed as MLS’s emotionally unavailable zaddy.
Zaddy.
I needed a drink. Or a lobotomy.
Storm HQ was already buzzing when I walked in. The scent of fresh turf, muscle rub, and bad decisions hung in the air like usual.
Cam spotted me first, grinning like a jackal. “Heads up! God complex incoming!”
“Make way for MLS’s emotionally unavailable zaddy!” Ry added, clapping his hands like I was royalty.
I kept walking.
Finn leaned against a locker, phone in hand. “Yo, Walker, real question—how bad would it be if you just dated her to shut her up?”
A ripple of laughter followed. I didn’t flinch.
“I don’t do girls with mics,” I said flatly, dropping my bag on the bench. “Too loud.”
That shut them up.
For a beat.
Then the teasing resumed, quieter this time, like they knew they’d poked just far enough and were smart enough not to keep digging.
I sat down, unlaced my boots, and tried to pretend I didn’t hear someone mutter, “She got under his skin.”
Because she had.
And not for the reasons they thought.
It wasn’t the viral video. Not the memes, not the remix with Beyoncé. Not even the “washed-up legend” line.
It was how accurate it was.
She went for the throat—and she hit.
My age.
My ego.
My reputation, clinging to relevance like a man dangling from a cliff with one good arm.
The fact that she could say it so casually—like it wasn’t personal, just true—itched under my skin in a way that no slide tackle ever had.
I wasn’t angry she’d said it.
I was angry because I’d heard it before.
In my own head. On the bad days. The quiet ones after losses or injury reports or mornings when my knees sounded like gravel.
She just gave it a voice. One that carried.
“Walker,” Coach’s voice cut through the noise, sharp as a whistle. “My office. Now.”
I stood, ignoring the looks as I followed him down the hall.
Coach Lawson didn’t waste time. Ex-military, no bullshit, the kind of guy who could say “you’re benched” with a look.
His office door closed behind me with a heavy click.
Cameron was already pacing when I walked into the office—muttering, waving his hands, and swiping his phone like it owed him money.
“Okay,” he said without looking up, “before you say anything, yes, I saw it. Yes, everyone else saw it. And no, you’re not allowed to disappear into an ice bath and pretend this’ll blow over.”
I dropped into the chair opposite Coach's desk and didn’t say a word.
“Do you have any idea how viral that clip is right now?” he asked, voice pitching higher. “I’ve gotten calls from three sponsors. Three. One of them wants to know if you’re planning to ‘commit aggravated assault with your words’ all season.”
I shrugged. “I haven’t ruled it out.”
Cameron stopped pacing long enough to glare at me.
“You’re trending for the wrong reasons, man. Again.”
“So?” I asked, dragging a hand through my hair. My shoulder twinged—still tight from yesterday’s match. “I’ve trended before.”
“For goals. For saves. For things that make you look like an athlete, not a Bond villain with abandonment issues.”
I snorted. “That’s specific.”
He held up his phone. “I just read it in the comments section, don’t flatter yourself.” Then he softened—slightly. “Look. I know you hate this crap, but the league wants better player-media engagement. You are the face of this team. That means damage control.”
“Right,” I said. “Smile. Give quotes. Take a selfie. Do my job.”
“Yes,” he said, like I’d finally understood long division. “Exactly that. Show people you’re not a moody cryptid who sleeps upside down.”
I leaned back in the chair, arms crossed.
I was too old for this.
Too tired.
I’d played for three clubs. Two countries. One World Cup. I’d survived turf burns, blown knees, and media storms bigger than this one.
And now, what? I was being asked to fix my image with a ring light and a hashtag?
This was the hill I was supposed to die on?
I let the silence stretch long enough to make him uncomfortable. Then said, flatly, “Retirement sounds nice.”
Cameron stopped cold.
His phone lowered.
“Don’t joke like that.”
But I wasn’t joking.
Not really.
Cameron didn’t speak for a long moment.
Just stared at me like I’d grown a second head.
“Okay,” he said eventually, slowly, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. “Let’s just… rewind. What are we actually talking about here? Are you serious? Like, serious serious?”
I didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
He dropped into his chair, the leather squeaking beneath him. “Jesus, Kieren.”
“I’m thirty-six, Cam.”
“You’re thirty-four.”
“Feels like thirty-six.”
“Still not thirty-six.”
“I’ve got more scar tissue than cartilage,” I went on, ignoring him. “My shoulder wakes me up at night. My knees make popcorn noises when I sit. I’ve got rookies who call me sir, and not in the fun way.”
Cameron winced. “I hate everything about that sentence.”
I exhaled, jaw tight. “I used to walk on the pitch like I owned it. Now I run out of gas by minute seventy and feel like I need a nap and a new spine.”
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “You’re in better shape than half the league.”
“Doesn’t matter if my head’s already halfway out the door.”
“Then why the hell are you still here?” he snapped, and the edge in his voice startled even him. “Because I’ve got sponsors breathing down my neck and the league calling for mentorship programs, and I’ve been telling everyone that Kieren Walker is the heartbeat of this damn team.”
I looked at him.
“I’m not the heartbeat,” I said, low and steady. “I’m the expiration date.”
Cameron raked a hand through his hair, frustration radiating off him in waves.
“You don’t get to bail now,” he said. “Not like this. Not when we need you.”
“Who’s we?”
“The league. The team. The next generation of kids who grew up watching you keep us in matches we had no business surviving.”
That one landed, sharp and precise.
He kept going. “You think this crap with Daphne Sommers is the problem? It’s a gift, man. You’ve been on mute for years. Now people are listening again.”
I frowned. “Listening to what? A narrative?”
“To you, if you’d just say something worth hearing.”
The silence that followed wasn’t comfortable.
I glanced at the window. Outside, rookies were jogging drills, laughing like this wasn’t a job with an expiration date. Like it wasn’t one pulled hamstring away from vanishing.
“She gets under my skin,” I admitted quietly.
“Yeah,” Cameron said. “That’s what makes it interesting.”
I shook my head. “She doesn’t pull punches.”
“Neither do you. It’s almost romantic.”
I shot him a look.
He held up his hands. “Kidding. Mostly.”
I stood, rolling out my shoulder with a grimace. “I’ll do your little PR circus. Smile, sign some cleats, whatever.”
“You’ll talk to her?”
“No promises.”
“Walker—”
“I said I’ll try, Cam. That’s all I’ve got right now.”
And for once, he didn’t argue.
Because even if I wasn’t sure what I wanted anymore…
I knew I wasn’t done yet. Not while she was still out there calling me a washed-up god.
Not while I still cared enough to prove her wrong.
I left the meeting with a jaw so tight I could’ve cracked my molars.
Smile more. Engage. Let the reporter who just roasted me on national television follow me around with a mic and a latte.
Great.
I shoved the door open with more force than necessary and stalked across the back hallway toward the pitch. I needed air. I needed to move. I needed—
“Shit—ow! Ow, ow—!”
I slowed instinctively at the sound, peering around the edge of the tunnel.
Out on the far side of the field, rookie midfielder Leo Santos was half-hopping, half-hunched, face twisted in pain. His ankle was already starting to swell, sock bunched awkwardly around it. Practice cones scattered like confetti around him.
The rest of the squad jogged past, a couple tossing quick glances, but no one stopped. They were rookies too. Hungry. Focused. Afraid to miss a rep.
I sighed through my nose and walked toward him.
Leo looked up in surprise. “Uh—Walker—sir—I’m good. Really.”
“You’re limping like a shot duck.”
“I just landed weird. It’s fine.”
I didn’t answer. Just veered into the med cart nearby, grabbed a wrap and a small pack of ice, then dropped to one knee beside him.
“Elevate it,” I said. “Don’t argue.”