Chapter 3
Daphne
I walked into the Storm media room with my game face on—high ponytail pulled tight enough to give me a facelift, camera-ready makeup in place, blazer fitted, heels sharp. My smile was just tight enough to pass for pleasant if you didn’t look too close.
I knew the look. I’d perfected it.
Confidence as armor.
Poise as deflection.
Inside, I was chewing on nerves like they were gum I couldn’t spit out. Not because I was afraid of confrontation—I’d made enemies before. PR reps, coaches, even a retired player or two. Occupational hazard when your job was “hold powerful men accountable with a smile and a mic.”
But this one?
Kieren Walker?
He wasn’t like the others.
He was 6’3” of brooding storm cloud wrapped in muscle and resting scowl. A human glacier with a god-tier jawline and a reputation for treating interviews like root canals. If emotional availability were currency, he was broke.
And now I had to sit across from him with nothing but a notepad, a mic, and a smile that was rapidly turning into a grimace.
“Walker is already in the back, waiting,” the intern mumbled as he fiddled with the mic levels.
I nodded, only half-listening, already reviewing my questions in my head. Start soft. Ask about team goals. Ease into the spicy stuff about his rep.
My phone buzzed in my blazer pocket. I glanced at the screen.
If he growls, run. If he smirks, marry him.
I huffed a quiet laugh and typed back,
If I go missing, it was the smirk.
I tucked the phone away and adjusted my mic pack.
Any second now, Kieren Walker would walk through that door.
And I’d have to pretend I hadn’t spent the night freeze-framing his scowl on my living room TV.
This was fine.
Totally fine.
The door creaked as I stepped into the Storm’s designated media room, my heels clicking against the polished concrete like war drums. Everything in me was pulled tight—shoulders squared, chin high, smile pre-loaded and camera-ready.
He was already there.
Kieren Walker sat like he owned the air—sprawled out in the interview chair, one arm hooked over the back, ankle resting on his knee like this was a casual brunch and not a PR-mandated interview with the woman who’d called him a fossil on live television.
He didn’t stand. Didn’t offer a handshake.
Didn’t even blink like someone raised in polite society.
Just lifted one eyebrow and drawled, “Didn’t think you’d show up, Sommers.”
I didn’t skip a beat. “Didn’t think you’d be this… conscious.”
One of the assistants let out a choked laugh. Kieren didn’t smile, but the glint in his eye said he heard it.
I made my way to my seat, keeping my expression neutral as I clipped the mic to my blazer. My producer gave me a thumbs up from behind the camera setup. We were rolling in less than thirty seconds.
Cue lights.
Cue tension.
Cue every drop of professionalism I’d ever scraped together from the bottom of my espresso-stained soul.
“Thanks for joining us,” I said, voice steady. “Today I’m sitting down with veteran defender Kieren Walker to talk about the upcoming season, leadership in the locker room, and—”
“—Public shaming?” he interrupted, gaze steady. “Or is that in segment two?”
I gave him a tight smile. “Only if you misbehave.”
He didn’t laugh. Didn’t blink.
Just waited.
So I dove in.
“Let’s start with something simple,” I said, shifting slightly in my chair. “What’s the energy like going into this season? Any noticeable changes in team chemistry?”
He leaned back, exhaled through his nose. “You mean besides dodging flying microphones?”
My jaw tightened before I could stop it.
“Right,” I said coolly, flipping to my next cue card. “Well. Let’s pivot.”
He watched me like he already knew the list I’d prepared. Like he was two steps ahead and mildly bored about it.
“Do you think your leadership style has evolved over the years?” I asked, keeping my voice even. “Or is it still the same guy from a decade ago with a bigger spotlight?”
He smiled then.
Not big. Not friendly.
Just the edge of something sharp.
“Is it better than your journalism?” he asked. “Every day.”
I blinked.
Beside me, the camera operator shifted awkwardly, sensing the sudden dip in temperature.
I didn’t flinch. Just flipped to the next card.
Because this wasn’t my first time interviewing a walking ego.
But it might be the first time the ego fought back.
Fine.
Let him smirk.
Let him dodge.
I’d survived worse than cold answers and sharp cheekbones.
I was here to do my job.
Even if doing it meant dancing through fire.
My cheeks burned. Not from embarrassment—I’d trained that out of myself years ago. But irritation? That was alive and well.
I took a breath through my nose, careful to keep my expression composed. The camera was still rolling; the lights were still hot, and Kieren Walker was still watching me like I was the one sitting in the hot seat.
Fine.
I adjusted the cue cards in my lap, fingers steady even though my pulse wasn’t. “There’s concern,” I said carefully, “that you’re past your prime.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then, slowly—so slowly—he leaned forward just enough for the shadows to shift across his face, his jaw catching the light like it wanted to be immortalized in marble.
He didn’t frown. He didn’t snarl. He just looked at me—bored, amused, dangerous.
“There’s concern,” he said, voice smooth as steel, “that you’ve confused sarcasm with talent.”
He paused.
Smiled.
“I guess we’re both disappointing someone.”
I swallowed the instinct to react. To rise. To bite back.
Instead, I gave a neutral nod, but my throat was tight and my brain was already halfway to writing a scathing follow-up article about men who mistake brooding for brilliance.
He reclined again, stretching one leg out casually like he hadn’t just gutted me in front of a crew of interns.
Asshole.
An absurdly attractive asshole.
His sleeves were pushed to his forearms, revealing veined, tanned skin and a forearm tattoo I hadn’t noticed before.
His hair—messy, like he’d run his hands through it in frustration—only made him look more smug.
And his mouth, God help me, had the kind of dry, slow smile that made smart women do very dumb things.
I hated that I noticed. Hated that I cared.
He raised an eyebrow again, clearly waiting for my next question—or maybe just watching to see if I’d crack.
“Anything else?” he prompted, voice low and unhurried.
I forced my gaze back to my cue cards, flipping past the ones I knew he’d laugh off and landing on one that felt safer, more neutral. Something about mentoring the younger players.
But instead, I looked up and said, “You’re good at this.”
He tilted his head. “At what? Infuriating people?”
“Yes,” I deadpanned. “That. But also… making them pay attention.”
Another pause. A long one.
He didn’t answer.
Just looked at me—really looked—and for the first time all interview, something shifted behind his eyes. It wasn’t soft. Not exactly. But it was less cold. Less defensive.
Like he hadn’t expected that.
Like he didn’t want to expect that.
“I’m not here to be liked,” he said, quieter this time. “I’m here to win.”
I nodded slowly.
Fair enough.
But as we sat there—staring, sparring, the camera blinking quietly between us—I realized something that made my stomach tighten:
He wasn’t just good at this.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
And I wasn’t entirely sure which one of us was playing the game better.
I inhaled slowly. Reset.
One more question. Just one. I could do this without flipping a table.
“So let’s talk legacy,” I said, voice even but cool. “What do you want your final season to be remembered for?”
He leaned back in his chair, slow and unbothered, arms folding like he was settling in for a nap. His gaze met mine—cold, sharp, and just a little amused.
“You came in here expecting to break me down, Sommers,” he said. “Get your viral sound bite. Want me to cry about aging out? Maybe shed a single tear for the highlight reel?”
“No,” I snapped, before I could stop myself. “I expected you to act like a professional for once.”
His brow ticked up slightly.
“Right,” he said. “Because professionalism is definitely what you were aiming for when you called me a ‘defensive fossil with a god complex’ on national TV.”
“I was doing my job.”
He shrugged. “Funny. I don’t remember ‘cheap shots’ being part of your job description.”
I gritted my teeth. “I came in to talk about the team. The season. Not to spar with someone who thinks brooding counts as a personality trait.”
He smirked, but there was steel under it. “I’m not the one who started this with a punchline and a primetime mic.”
And that was when it slipped—sharp, and low and faster than I could stop it. “Maybe if you passed the ball as much as you dodge interviews,” I said, voice like cut glass, “you’d have a ring on your hand.”
Silence.
Then—
Kieren laughed.
A real laugh. Not a smirk or a snort, but a full, amused, chest-deep laugh like I’d just told the best joke of the year.
“Cute,” he said, wiping a nonexistent tear from his eye. “You think I give a shit.”
And that was it.
That was the exact moment I ran out of patience.
I snatched off my mic pack; the Velcro ripping like a battle cry. The intern behind the camera let out a little gasp as I stood, gathered my cue cards, then promptly tossed them in the trash next to the exit.
I grabbed my coffee cup from the table—still lukewarm, untouched—and pitched that in too for good measure.
I didn’t say goodbye.
Didn’t thank the crew.
Didn’t look at Kieren again.
I just walked out.
My heels echoed down the hallway as I stormed toward the parking lot, pulse pounding in my ears and my jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Professionalism, my ass.
I’d tried.
And maybe I’d failed. Maybe I’d let him get to me.
But if Kieren Walker wanted a war?
He just got one.
The second the door shut behind me, I ripped off my press badge like it was covered in acid.