Chapter 5
Daphne
The next morning, I arrived early, coffee in hand and notes tucked under one arm like a shield.
No heels today—just boots, black jeans, and a high pony that said don’t test me.
I was determined to keep my cool this time.
No tossed microphones. No dramatic exits.
No giving Kieren Walker the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten under my skin.
Again.
The PR rep met me at the entrance with her usual tight smile and a clipboard full of waivers no one actually read. “Just a heads-up,” she said as we walked. “Storm’s scrimmaging with the Vultures today.”
I blinked. “Kalamazoo?”
She nodded, grimacing. “Yep. Cross-town rivals.”
I took a sip of my coffee and muttered, “What is this, soccer Hunger Games?”
Because of course it was the Vultures.
The team everyone hated playing. Gritty, aggressive, full of cheap shots and bad facial hair. Their captain once got suspended for throwing a ball at a ref’s head. Another guy bit someone last season. Bit.
I followed the sound of whistles and shouting onto the training field, the air crisp and already buzzing with that strange blend of testosterone and early morning turf burn.
And there he was.
Kieren Walker.
On the far side of the field, earbuds in, stretching with his usual intensity—head down, jaw tight, eyes on the ground like the universe had personally offended him. His shirt clung to him in all the wrong—okay, fine, right—places, and his forearms flexed with every slow movement.
He looked like the personification of do not approach.
I told myself I wasn’t going to look at him.
I looked anyway.
He looked annoyingly good.
The kind of good that pissed me off because I knew he didn’t try. He just existed like that—scowling and infuriating and somehow still magnetic enough to make perfectly reasonable women say regrettable things on live television.
I turned away, pretending to jot something down on my notepad. I wrote the word “neutrality” in all caps and underlined it three times.
Today wasn’t about him.
Today was about the story. The full-access feature. Locker room dynamics. Player rivalries. Maybe a glimpse into what made this team work—if I could get someone other than Adam to stop trying to flirt and give me a quote with substance.
Still, my gaze kept drifting.
And Kieren, of course, didn’t so much as glance in my direction. Which annoyed me more than I cared to admit.
I didn’t want his attention.
But the fact that I didn’t have it?
That was a whole different kind of irritating.
I pulled out my phone and started recording notes, pretending my pulse wasn’t betraying me every time he shifted his weight or pulled his shirt over his head mid-stretch like this was a fitness ad and not real life.
Nope.
Not today.
I was cool. Collected. Professional.
And completely, absolutely not thinking about Kieren Walker.
At least, that was what I told myself.
I stood near the sidelines, arms crossed, notebook forgotten at my side as the scrimmage kicked off.
It was clear from the first whistle that this wasn’t going to be friendly.
The Vultures came in swinging—figuratively and, at times, almost literally. Aggressive footwork, elbows thrown just out of the ref’s line of sight, smack talk flying like it was part of the strategy. One of their midfielders clipped Adam five minutes in and didn’t even pretend to apologize.
West Michigan didn’t rise to it, but they didn’t back down either. The Storm played smart—tight formation, fast transitions, and communication that was more instinct than words. They moved like a unit that had something to prove.
And right at the center of it?
Kieren Walker.
Of course.
He didn’t yell like some of the other vets. He didn’t showboat or bark orders. He just commanded the back line like it was second nature. Shifting, checking angles, intercepting passes like he knew where the ball would be before it got there. Calm. Calculated.
Effortless.
It annoyed me.
He was good.
Still good.
Not just in the way fans remembered. Not a highlight reel from five years ago on loop. Right now. Present tense. Leading with every step and every read of the field.
I hated that I noticed.
Worse—I hated that part of me was glad.
Because the Vultures played dirty. And if anyone was going to shut them down, I’d rather it be the guy who could throw their entire momentum off with one well-placed tackle.
And Kieren? He didn’t just stop plays. He unraveled them.
At one point, their striker—a six-foot wall of muscle who looked like he bench-pressed smaller teammates for fun—charged down the left side. Kieren cut him off like he’d read the play two minutes ago, stole the ball clean, and spun away like gravity didn’t apply to him.
I caught myself staring. Again.
He passed off to Wyatt with a nod and jogged back into position without so much as a glance in my direction.
Which only made it worse.
Because I wasn’t here to be impressed. I wasn’t here to feel anything.
And yet—there it was.
Admiration. Annoyance. A traitorous flutter low in my stomach.
The Storm tightened formation as the Vultures pushed harder, getting sloppier in their frustration. The Storm didn’t rise to the bait. They held.
Kieren anchored them—silent, sharp, unshakeable.
It wasn’t just skill. It was control.
Control I wanted to crack.
Because for all his precision and power, there was something just beneath the surface. Something unspoken. Unraveled. The same flicker I’d seen in the interview when I asked about legacy.
And maybe… maybe I wanted to know what would happen if someone pushed.
If I did.
But for now?
I watched.
And damn it, I kept watching.
Because Kieren Walker wasn’t just still good—
He was everything the Storm needed.
And maybe… everything I couldn’t ignore.
By halftime, I finally remembered I was here to work.
The whole first half, I’d been more focused on watching than writing—more specifically, watching him. Kieren, moving like a machine rebuilt by spite and tape, commanding the field like he hadn’t lost a step. It was infuriating. And… unfortunately impressive.
I shook it off and made my way over to the bleachers, pulling my phone out to start setting up my camera for some sideline b-roll. The sun was creeping higher, the air sticky with February chill and tension, but I needed the footage. A wide shot of the field. A few reaction shots. Player close-ups.
Document the game. Tell the story.
Be professional.
I was halfway up the bleacher steps, camera bag slung over my shoulder, when I heard it.
Low voices. Laughing. Arrogant.
The kind of laughter that came with being twenty-one, overconfident, and lacking any sort of filter.
“Storm’s washed this year,” one of the Vultures players said. His voice carried—loud and smug. “That defender’s got arthritis or something.”
“Who, the one who got roasted by that reporter chick?” another added. “Brutal. Like, put that man on a PR stretcher.”
“I’d still hit it, though,” a third one chimed in, snickering. “She’s hot when she’s mad.”
I froze mid-step, my hand tightening around the camera grip.
The first speaker noticed me first.
He elbowed his friend, grinning. “Hey, you’re the girl from that clip! The one who verbally murdered the washed-up god. Respect.”
My jaw clenched. “Kieren,” I said coolly. “His name’s Kieren. And he’s twice the player any of you are on your best day.”
The air shifted.
Their grins flattened. The third guy—tall, smug, too much cologne and not enough brain—took a step closer like we were about to have a flirty exchange instead of a reckoning.
“Relax, princess,” he said, voice lowering. “We’re just having fun. You don’t have to defend Daddy Storm.”
My stomach turned, but I didn’t step back.
I’d dealt with guys like this before—on the sidelines, in locker rooms, even in press booths. Smirking, entitled, and certain the world existed to revolve around them. The second you pushed back, you were the problem. Too cold. Too sensitive. Too much.
I smiled, sharp and thin. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to be intimidated? Or just impressed you can string that many words together without spraining your ego?”
His smirk faltered.
“Let me give you a free PR tip,” I added, voice low. “You don’t earn respect by punching down. And you sure as hell don’t scare me.”
He stepped back—just slightly.
And I stepped forward, keeping my chin high and my spine straight.
Because I wasn’t about to be the girl who flinched.
Not here. Not ever.
Especially not in front of the man I’d just defended without thinking.
And maybe… that was something I’d have to unpack later.
But right now?
I had a camera to set up—and a story to tell.
I turned to walk away.
I’d said my piece, delivered the kind of cool, cutting line that would make my best friend proud. I wasn’t here to fight teenage egos in cleats—I was here to do my job. Capture the game. Write the story.
But the Vultures weren’t done.
The tall one—the same one who called Kieren Daddy Storm like he thought it was funny—snorted and muttered just loud enough for me to hear, “Bet she barks louder in bed.”
My feet stopped moving.
I didn’t turn around. Not yet. My hands clenched into fists around the strap of my camera bag, white-hot fury pulsing in my chest. I was used to offhanded comments, to being underestimated, to locker room boys who didn’t know the difference between a woman doing her job and a woman performing for their entertainment.
But this?
This was gross.
Before I could whip around and say something that would definitely get me banned from press access, I felt his presence first.
Too close.
The Vulture stepped into my space—shoulder brushing mine, smirk firmly in place, breath reeking of orange Gatorade and arrogance. “Aw, c’mon, princess,” he murmured. “Don’t pout. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”
I tensed, every instinct in my body screaming get out of his orbit, but I refused to back down. My chin lifted. My jaw set.
And then I heard it.
Not a shout.