Chapter 4
Kieren
I was tying my cleats when the shouting started—again.
The locker room was already loud with post-practice energy and sweat, but now it was chaotic. And I didn’t even have to ask why. I knew exactly what clip they were screaming about. Again.
I kept my head down, pretending not to hear, fingers lacing through loops with practiced ease.
“Bro,” Adam said, loud as hell and twice as obnoxious. “She torched you. Like—scorched earth. Did you sleep with her and forget or something?”
That earned a round of wheezing laughs.
Adam, white-haired, pretty-boy menace with half the discipline and all the swagger—was grinning across the room like this was his favorite Netflix show.
“I’d fake-date her,” Beckett said, adjusting his compression sleeve. “Just for the content.”
Beckett Mason, the team’s youngest forward and biggest shit-stirrer, had the kind of chaotic energy that should’ve been illegal. He thrived off drama like it was protein.
“Only if it’s a triple date,” Derek added, laughing from the cold tub. Loud, tatted-up, too many earrings, too much cologne even after practice.
I didn’t respond.
Logan sat on the bench across from me, silent, sipping his protein shake like a monk observing chaos from the mountaintop. Stoic. Calm. Probably deadly in a dark alley.
“Man’s never gonna live it down,” Wyatt said, arms crossed, voice sharp. “You deserved it.”
That one stung more than I wanted to admit.
Wyatt—team captain, ex-military, annoyingly always right—didn’t waste words. If he thought I earned that public takedown, then hell, maybe I had.
I rolled my eyes and tossed a towel into my locker with more force than necessary.
“She’s annoying,” I muttered, standing up. “All teeth, no bite.”
The locker room howled again, as if I’d just thrown gasoline on the fire.
Adam clutched his chest like he was wounded. “No bite? She called you a defensive fossil with a god complex on national television.”
“She said you dodge questions like you dodge assists,” Beckett added.
“Dude,” Derek wheezed. “She said you’d have a ring if you passed the ball more. That’s a bite.”
I ignored them.
Sort of.
Truth was, I couldn’t stop hearing her voice, even now—cool, clipped, completely unbothered as she laid me out like it was just another Tuesday.
I hated that it echoed in my head.
I hated that she’d looked good doing it.
I hated even more that she’d hit too close to where it actually hurt.
But I wasn’t about to give the guys that satisfaction.
The locker room was still buzzing—mostly with Adam’s dramatics and Derek’s half-serious thirst tweets about Daphne Sommers—when the door opened and Coach walked in.
Reid Lawson didn’t raise his voice. He just stood there for a beat, arms crossed, gaze cold enough to freeze the whole damn room.
The noise died fast.
“Focus up,” he said, tone dry as sandpaper. “We’ve got a scrimmage in thirty. Media access is open. And Sommers’ll be on-site today, so keep your pants zipped and your mouths shut.”
A collective groan rolled through the room.
Adam dramatically slumped back onto the bench like someone had just canceled his birthday. “Coach, c’mon. I was gonna give her my good side today.”
“You don’t have one,” Wyatt muttered.
Derek snickered.
I didn’t say a word. Just dragged a hand down my face and exhaled slowly.
Great.
PR babysitting and babysitting rookies.
A perfect Thursday.
I leaned back against the locker, arms crossed, as Lawson started assigning squad pairings. The guys were only half-listening, probably already planning new ways to showboat while Sommers was watching from the sidelines with her carefully arched brow and that smug, unreadable expression.
She’d be there with a camera. Maybe a notepad. Definitely judgment. And probably already rehearsing her next zinger at my expense.
Because why not? This was her moment. She had the media darling glow and a mic that apparently doubled as a weapon.
Meanwhile, I was dragging thirty-four years of wear and tear across the field, expected to smile for the cameras and set a good example for rookies who still thought pre-season was “fun.”
Retirement was starting to sound romantic.
Quiet mornings. No cameras. No PR meetings. No post-game ice baths. No Sommers with her clipped tone and killer heels and questions I didn’t want to answer but couldn’t stop thinking about.
I rubbed the back of my neck and shook the thought off.
Not today.
Today, I had a scrimmage.
And a storm to ignore.
Scrimmage was underway.
The sun was brutal; the rookies were overeager, and my shoulder was already screaming by the second rotation. Reid had us in mixed squads, running full field with no mercy. Standard preseason punishment.
I was locked in. Focused.
Until I wasn’t.
She showed up ten minutes in—clipboard in hand, sunglasses perched on her nose, standing just off the sideline beside the PR rep like she ran the whole damn organization.
Daphne Sommers.
I noticed her immediately.
And I couldn’t stop.
Her hair was pulled back in a high, sharp ponytail, not a strand out of place. All black. Boots. Lip gloss like war paint. She looked less like a reporter and more like an executioner who’d traded her scythe for a mic.
She looked like she came to bury a career.
Maybe mine.
I told myself I wasn’t watching her.
I told myself I didn’t care.
And then I missed the pass.
Caleb Ford, our veteran striker and low-key locker room dad—sent a clean through-ball my way. It skimmed right past my foot while I was too busy watching Daphne adjust her clipboard and say something to the PR rep that made her laugh.
The whistle blew.
“Eyes on the field, Walker!” Reid’s voice cracked across the pitch like thunder.
I muttered a curse and jogged back into position.
“Yeah,” said Griffin Nash, our other longtime defender—just loud enough for me to hear, “stop staring at your nemesis.”
“She’s not—” I started, then cut myself off.
Because what was I going to say?
That I wasn’t watching her?
That I hadn’t been thinking about her since the interview?
That I hadn’t frozen the frame on that smirk more times than I cared to admit?
She called me old.
She called me a god.
And somehow, she’d done both like she was daring me to live up to either title.
So why the hell did it feel like she owned my attention?
Every time I looked up, she was still there—unbothered, unreadable, scribbling notes like she wasn’t the reason I felt ten years younger and twice as unsteady.
I turned my attention back to the game, jaw clenched, lungs burning.
She wasn’t playing.
She wasn’t even trying.
And still—she was winning.
I didn’t know what bothered me more.
The fact that she’d turned my head in the middle of scrimmage…
Or the fact that I wanted her to do it again.
The thing about the game was—I still had it.
People loved to speculate. Commentators tossed around the word “decline” like it was inevitable, like the second you hit thirty, your legs gave out and your brain forgot how to track a play.
But on the field? None of that mattered.
I saw things before they happened. That was the difference. That was what you earned after a decade of top-tier football. I didn’t need to be the fastest anymore—I was the smartest. I could read a run two passes before it happened, see a gap forming in the formation like a crack in glass.
Caleb made a run down the right. The rookies were trailing him too late, watching the ball instead of the man. I shifted left, intercepted the pass before it could even hit midfield, and pivoted without losing momentum.
The ball stayed glued to my foot as I sent it up the line.
“On your left!” I shouted, and Adam cut in fast. Too fast.
I winced, but the kid adjusted last second and threaded it back to me with the kind of confidence only a second-year could fake.
I took it, flicked it forward, and dragged two defenders with me like a goddamn tractor beam.
Derek was yelling something ridiculous from the sideline, probably about my thighs or taxes—I didn’t care. I spun around the press, held the ball with a toe tap, and laid it off for Logan, who slotted it clean into the bottom corner like he was taking a breath.
Goal.
No celebration. Just a sharp nod from him and a few sarcastic claps from Beckett.
I jogged back to position, not even winded. My shoulder ached. My knee would probably need ice. But I was still damn good.
I wasn’t the youngest on the pitch anymore. But I was the anchor. The one they looked to when formations collapsed or passes got sloppy.
I saw every moving piece, and I knew how to bend them into place.
That was legacy.
That was leadership.
And yeah, it helped that I still had the best first touch on the team. Reid might never say it out loud, but he knew it. So did the guys.
Still, I caught myself scanning the sideline again.
She was still there.
Clipboard. Knee-high boots. That unreadable expression.
I hated that I noticed. Hated it more that part of me wanted her to see that goal. That control. That flash of brilliance.
Let her write it down. Let her spin it however she wanted.
I was still Kieren Walker.
Still the backbone of this team.
And anyone who doubted that?
They’d find out the hard way.
After practice, the rest of the guys hit the showers or peeled off toward the recovery room. I peeled off too—just in a different direction.
I told myself I was headed to the film room to break down scrimmage footage. Look at the press patterns. Study my own spacing. Pretend I didn’t miss that pass from Caleb because I was too busy watching a reporter’s mouth move on the sidelines.
The room was quiet, cool, the only sound the hum of the equipment. I slouched into one of the worn leather chairs, still in my training kit, damp jersey sticking to my back, sweat drying on my neck.
I should’ve pulled up this morning’s scrimmage footage.
Instead, I opened the raw file from the interview.
No editing. No cuts. Just me and her, sitting across from each other like two chess players pretending not to enjoy the game.