Chapter 5 #2
Not a warning.
Just the thud-thud-thud of cleats hitting turf. Hard. Fast.
I glanced sideways.
Kieren was crossing the field.
Storming across it, actually—his entire posture coiled, shoulders tight, eyes locked not on me, but on him.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t ask what was going on.
He just reached the sideline, stepped up behind the Vulture player, and shoved.
Hard.
The guy stumbled backward with all the grace of a knocked-over trash can, arms pinwheeling before crashing into the bottom row of the bleachers with a metallic clang that echoed across the field.
Everything froze.
Practice stopped. Whistles blew. Teammates turned. Coaches shouted.
But all I could do was stare at Kieren—broad chest rising and falling, fists flexing at his sides, eyes still locked on the guy now sprawled in the dirt and looking stunned.
The Vulture scrambled upright, red-faced, looking ready to bark back.
Kieren finally spoke—calm, cold, dangerous. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
Six words.
That was it.
But they landed like a wrecking ball.
No posturing. No raised voice.
Just absolute finality.
I blinked, heart hammering. Heat rushed to my cheeks—not from embarrassment, not really, but from something I couldn’t name yet. Shock, maybe. Or the realization that despite everything—the interview, the tension, the unfinished business—he’d been watching.
He’d heard.
And he’d crossed the field for me without hesitation.
And for a moment—just a moment—I forgot why I ever hated him in the first place.
The second the Vulture player hit the bleachers, everything exploded.
“The hell is wrong with you?” the guy shouted, scrambling to his feet, brushing dirt and ego off his shorts.
Kieren didn’t flinch. He stood there like a loaded weapon—still, sharp, dangerous.
“Touch her again,” he said, voice like a gunshot, “and I’ll break your fucking jaw.”
Gasps. Whispers. A sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind me. Someone muttered “Jesus Christ” like this wasn’t just a scrimmage anymore.
“Kieren—” I stepped forward, heart racing. “Kieren, stop. It’s fine.”
He didn’t move.
Didn’t look at me.
His fists were clenched at his sides, white-knuckled, whole body wound tight like he was ready to swing again if anyone so much as breathed wrong.
The Vulture took a half-step forward, puffed up like he was going to make it a fight, but three Storm players materialized before he could even blink.
Caleb got there first, throwing an arm between them, blocking Kieren’s path. “Walker, no.”
Asher followed, voice low but firm. “You made your point. Let it go.”
Adam flanked the other side, one hand on Kieren’s shoulder like he was trying to ground a live wire.
Kieren barely registered them.
He was still locked in—eyes dark, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a sprint. Fury radiated off him, thick enough to choke on. Not loud. Not theatrical.
Just volcanic.
“Kieren,” I said again, quieter now, closer. “I’m fine.”
He looked at me then—really looked. And for half a second, the rage cracked.
Something flickered in his eyes. Not regret. Not quite.
But fear, maybe.
Reluctance.
And just like that, the adrenaline hit me. Not from the Vulture’s bullshit. Not from the shove.
But from him.
From knowing he’d lost control—for me.
Before I could say another word, the sideline doors slammed open and Coach Reid Lawson came charging across the field, face thunderous.
“Walker!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Locker room. Now.”
No one argued. Not a single soul.
Kieren’s jaw tightened. He gave the Vulture one last lethal look before jerking out of Adam’s grip and stalking off the field, muttering something under his breath I couldn’t catch.
The PR rep appeared at my side, wide-eyed and already on her phone.
Reporters would pick it up.
Fans would dissect it.
The league would absolutely have something to say.
But all I could think about was the way Kieren’s voice had cracked when he said it—“Touch her again…”
Like he meant it.
Like he’d do worse.
And maybe I should’ve been furious.
Maybe I was.
But under all the shock, the noise, the tension thick in the air—
I wasn’t scared.
Not even a little.
Which, frankly, was probably the most terrifying part.
I found him just past the tunnel.
The concrete swallowed the noise of the field, replacing it with the dull hum of overhead lights and the sharp echo of my boots on the floor.
Kieren stood near the locker room doors, hands on his hips, pacing in short, angry bursts.
His helmet dangled from one hand, still clenched like he wanted something to throw.
He looked up the second I called his name.
I didn’t soften.
“What the hell was that?”
His jaw ticked. “He was touching you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Kieren didn’t flinch. “Didn’t like the way he was talking. Didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”
I stepped in closer, still holding my stupid empty coffee cup like it might somehow anchor me. “You don’t get to punch people because you’re having feelings.”
His eyes snapped to mine. “They weren’t feelings.”
I raised a brow.
He exhaled through his nose, sharp and frustrated. “He was looking at you like you were nothing.” His voice dropped—quiet now. Low enough that I almost missed it. “You’re not nothing.”
I didn’t move.
Neither did he.
The words sat between us, too big for the tunnel, too loud for the silence.
For once, Kieren Walker wasn’t smirking. Wasn’t posturing. He wasn’t being the storm-eyed golden boy or the cocky bastard I’d spent a week dissecting in article drafts.
He was just… raw.
Breathing hard.
Wound tight.
And looking at me like I’d asked him to bleed for it.
“I didn’t need saving,” I said, voice thinner than I meant it to be.
He didn’t blink. “Didn’t say you did.”
Gosh.
That should’ve made me feel better. Like he was backing off. Like I still had control of this narrative.
But it didn’t.
It made my stomach flip and my thoughts spiral and my pulse beat a little too fast in my throat.
I didn’t know what I felt. Not exactly.
But I knew standing here—so close I could see the sweat drying on his neck, the tiny scar above his brow, the way his fingers twitched like he wasn’t done fighting—I was about three seconds from doing something stupid.
So I turned.
Walked back toward the bleachers before I said something I’d regret.
Before he said something I couldn’t write off.
My steps echoed sharper now.
Each one fueled by adrenaline and confusion and a very real, very inconvenient truth.
I was glad he punched that guy.
That was the problem.
I’d just reached the tunnel’s edge when I looked down at the cup still in my hand. The coffee I’d brought this morning with all the na?ve hope of staying neutral.
Now cold. Spilled.
“Dammit,” I muttered, half under my breath. “I liked that coffee.”