Chapter 3 #2
“He’s not even charming,” I muttered under my breath as I stormed down the hallway, heels clicking like gunshots. “Or smart. Or remotely attractive. Not at all. Not even a little—”
I stopped mid-rant.
“Shut up, Daphne,” I hissed to myself, pinching the bridge of my nose.
A rookie—looked barely twenty—passed me carrying a duffel bag twice his size. He slowed, eyes wide like a kid who’d just seen a celebrity lose it in the cereal aisle.
“You good, Sommers?”
“Fine,” I said, voice bright and brittle. “Fantastic. Best interview of my life.”
He nodded slowly and gave me a well then look before hurrying away.
I shoved open the exit door and let the blast of cold air slap some sense into me. By the time I reached my car, I wasn’t just angry—I was feral. I threw my gear bag into the passenger seat and climbed in, teeth clenched so tight my jaw throbbed.
I didn’t even start the engine.
Just sat there, fuming.
I opened my tablet, pulled up the footage, and hovered over the delete icon.
I wanted to erase it. Every second. Every smirk. Every clipped answer, every dig. I wanted to wipe the entire thing from existence and pretend Kieren “God Complex” Walker had never spoken a word to me.
But I didn’t press delete.
Instead, I hit play.
Again.
I told myself it was to fuel the righteous fire. Give myself one last reason to hate him. Justification for the snatched mic, the trashed coffee, the way I stormed out like a woman in a breakup montage.
The first few minutes were exactly as I remembered. Cold. Combative. Electric with the kind of tension that couldn’t be edited out.
But then—
I saw it.
The flicker.
It happened right after I said the word prime. His mouth tightened. Just a little. Barely noticeable in the moment, but obvious now that I was looking for it.
And when I brought up legacy—his whole posture shifted. Like someone had pulled the floor out from under him and he was trying to pretend he was still on solid ground.
It wasn’t much. Just a shadow behind the eyes. But it was there.
The brush of vulnerability.
And suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so victorious.
Maybe I’d gone in swinging. Maybe I’d been so focused on the sound bite, on the viral moment, that I hadn’t stopped to ask whether I was throwing punches or pressing on bruises.
I closed the tablet and stared at the dashboard, my heart still hammering—just not from anger anymore.
Kieren Walker was still a jerk. Still defensive. Still exhausting.
But maybe that interview hadn’t been about ego.
Maybe it was about fear.
And maybe—I hadn’t just walked into an interview.
Maybe I’d walked into a man unraveling at the seams.
And I hadn’t even realized it.
By the time I got back to my apartment, my makeup was smudged, my ponytail was falling out, and my heels felt like medieval torture devices.
I kicked the door closed behind me, tossed my keys in the dish, and immediately beelined for the couch. My bag slid off my shoulder and hit the floor with a dramatic thump. I collapsed onto the cushions like I’d just returned from war.
Because I had.
Verbal warfare, anyway.
God, Kieren Walker was impossible.
Not difficult. Not mildly annoying.
Impossible.
I was still running through every awful thing he’d said when my phone rang.
My producer’s name flashed across the screen.
I winced. Sat up. Answered.
“Hey.”
“I watched the footage,” she said, her voice unreadable.
I braced myself. “Do I still have a job?”
There was a pause.
“Depends.”
I closed my eyes. “Oh, no.”
“Can you do it again next week?”
I blinked. “Wait—what?”
“Another sit-down. Same setup. Maybe pre-game or post-practice. Think of it as a recurring segment.”
I let out an incredulous laugh. “Why would I ever want to do that again?”
She didn’t miss a beat. “Because everyone else does. The league saw it. The sponsors saw it. And the fans? They’re losing their minds. Twitter thinks you two are either going to murder each other or make out in the locker room.”
I groaned. “That’s disgusting.”
“It’s engagement, babe,” she said, way too chipper now. “They think you two have chemistry. That it’s electric.”
“More like toxic.”
“Tomato, tomahto. You’re trending. And not for being a disaster, for being compelling. Sharp. Real. And let’s be honest—Walker hasn’t been this interesting since the last time he got a red card and shoved a ref.”
I dropped my head back against the couch and sighed. “This feels like punishment.”
“This is TV. You want to play in the big leagues, Sommers, you take the hits. Besides… you’re the only one he doesn’t stonewall completely. That means something.”
I didn’t answer.
Because part of me hated that she was right.
Kieren hadn’t walked out.
He hadn’t shut down completely.
He’d challenged me.
Met me blow for blow.
And maybe—just maybe—he’d seen me, not just the camera.
I was the one who left.
Like a coward.
“Let me know by Monday,” my producer added. “The league wants to promote it as a weekly segment.”
She hung up.
I dropped the phone on the coffee table, leaned forward, and let out a strangled noise that fell somewhere between a growl and a whimper.
Then I flopped back onto the couch, grabbed the nearest throw pillow, and hurled it over my face.
“I hate this job,” I mumbled into the fabric. “I hate this man. And I definitely hate how fast my heart was racing the whole time.”
The pillow muffled my groan as I stared at the ceiling.
This was going to be a very long season.