Chapter 10
Kieren
My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
I was halfway through foam rolling my quad, trying to ignore the ache in my shoulder from yesterday’s tackle, when it lit up again—for the tenth time in two minutes.
Storm Group Chat.
I sighed and tapped in, already regretting it.
Beckett: SOFT BOY WALKER ERA CONFIRMED.
Adam: Bro. You held her hand. Publicly. Is this a hostage situation?
Caleb: Let him live.
Asher: You smiled. People are calling it the Walker Renaissance.
I stared at the screen like I could will them all to spontaneously combust.
Idiots. Every last one of them.
I muted the thread and dropped my phone on the floor beside me. Closed my eyes. Breathed.
I could handle bruised ribs. A torn ACL. Hell, even that time I broke my wrist and played through it. But this?
Being turned into some soft-focus internet boyfriend?
It was exhausting.
The worst part?
I’d meant to hold her hand.
There wasn’t a camera in my head. No PR team whispering in my ear. It had just… happened. One second we were walking, the next I’d seen her fingers twitch, and I reached for her without thinking.
No script. No plan.
Just this quiet little pull toward her I couldn’t explain.
And now it was everywhere. Fan edits. Memes. A slowed-down video of me looking at her like she was the damn sun.
I scrubbed a hand over my face.
This was a disaster.
Not because of the trending hashtag or the team clowning me in group chat—but because none of it had felt fake.
Not to me.
And maybe that was the real problem.
The moment it had stopped being about salvaging my image, about doing what Cameron said would help the team… and started being about her?
I didn’t know how to walk that back.
I reached for my phone again. Against better judgment, I opened one of the videos. The one where she laughed, cheeks pink, eyes all bright. The one where I caught her hand in mine like it was something I’d done a hundred times before.
Like it was natural.
I hated how easy it looked.
I hated how easy it felt.
Because it wasn’t supposed to be easy. Not with someone like her.
But that didn’t stop me from watching the moment again.
And again.
And again.
Even after I’d muted the thread and told myself I didn’t care.
Even after I reminded myself it was just a game.
Because I knew the truth.
The moment I held her hand?
That wasn’t pretend. And I didn’t know what to do with that.
No.
I needed a distraction.
I wasn’t even thinking about her when I turned the TV on.
Just needed background noise. Something to fill the quiet while I made coffee and tried to pretend yesterday hadn’t happened the way it did.
The espresso machine hissed. The beans ground. I shuffled across the kitchen in socks, half-asleep, still sore from practice. Then the anchor’s voice hit me like a cleat to the ribs.
"In unexpected relationship news, West Michigan’s own Kieren Walker was spotted yesterday on what appears to be a romantic outing with sports reporter Daphne Sommers. Could this be the league’s most unexpected couple?"
I froze mid-pour.
No. Absolutely not.
But there it was. My face. Her face. On screen. Right next to each other like we were starring in some lifestyle segment about soccer’s hottest power couples.
“Let’s take a look at what fans are calling the most ‘soft-boy’ moment of the season, shall we?”
First clip: us at the taco shop. She was laughing—head tilted back, lips curled up in that way that made it impossible not to smile with her. I had. Stupidly.
Second: the field. She’d dropped her notebook and bumped into me. I’d said something. She’d shoved me. We both laughed.
Then: the hand-holding. The walk back to the car. My fingers brushing hers. Her hand sliding into mine.
And last: me smiling. At her.
I watched myself on the screen, and I barely recognized the guy.
I didn’t look guarded or bored or annoyed. I looked… soft. Open.
Happy.
The host laughed, something about “simmering chemistry” and “the way he looks at her like he’s already in love,” but I wasn’t listening anymore.
I rewound the segment.
Watched it again.
This time, I focused on her. The way she relaxed when she was with me. The way she didn’t flinch when I touched her. The way she looked up, just before our hands linked, like maybe—just maybe—she wanted it too.
My jaw clenched.
It wasn’t supposed to matter.
This whole thing had started as damage control. Optics. A PR strategy that spiraled into hashtags and fan edits and Cameron texting me at all hours with updates on how the League was eating it up.
But watching her now?
The way she trusted me, leaned into it without even realizing it?
It mattered.
More than I wanted to admit.
And maybe that was the real problem.
Because she was supposed to be safe. Unreachable. Untouchable.
But now I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Her hand in mine.
That laugh.
That smile.
The way she looked at me like I wasn’t just some headline.
Like I was hers.
I stared at the screen a moment longer, then turned the TV off.
Silence filled the room again.
But now, it was louder than ever.
The espresso had barely hit my bloodstream when my phone buzzed again.
Cameron.
Because of course it was.
League loved the photos. Media’s obsessed. That dinner thing tomorrow—bring Daphne. Make it look casual. Low PDA, light banter. You know. Try to look like you don’t hate everyone.
I stared at the screen, then slowly typed back:
I do hate everyone.
The reply came instantly.
Not her, apparently.
I groaned and dropped my forehead against the fridge door before slamming it shut harder than necessary. The magnets rattled. One fell. I let it.
This was spiraling. Fast.
It was supposed to be a week. Maybe two. Just long enough for the headlines to die, the fines to fade, and the league to stop treating me like a walking PR disaster. Smile a little. Pretend to be charming. Walk around holding hands with someone the media liked more than they hated me.
Simple.
But nothing about Daphne was simple.
And worse—nothing about this felt fake anymore.
I should’ve shut it down yesterday. After the tacos. After the walk. After the way her fingers slid into mine without hesitation, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It was too easy. All of it.
The banter. The rhythm. The way I didn’t have to explain myself around her.
Now Cameron wanted us at some league-sponsored dinner, sitting side by side while half the board judged my worth based on how many times I made her laugh?
Perfect.
I rubbed a hand over my face and glanced back at the TV. The screen was dark now, but the image was still burned behind my eyes—her laugh, her smile, the way she looked at me like I wasn’t just tolerable, but wanted.
Which was the worst part.
Because I was starting to want her back.
And if I wasn’t careful, I was going to forget the cameras were ever there.
I opened my phone again. Pulled up our last text thread. I hadn’t messaged her since last night. She hadn’t messaged me either.
Still, my thumb hovered over the keyboard.
I hated this.
I hated how badly I wanted to see her again.
And I hated that Cameron was right.
Not her, apparently.
Another buzz.
This is seriously going to help talks with Hayashi.
I blinked at the screen. That name again.
Cam, again.
I don’t understand the logic.
Don’t worry your grumpy little head.
I stared at the text a second too long, then tossed my phone on the counter before I broke it. Again.
Kakashi freaking Hayashi.
Every conversation since preseason had revolved around him.
The soccer-god golden player from Kyoto. A player who practically bled clean image and legacy appeal. He was the league’s wet dream—World Cup winner, charity ambassador, fluent in five languages, photogenic in every damn angle. And he was this close to signing with West Michigan.
But the deal was fragile. He wanted a squeaky-clean environment. No locker room drama. No PR disasters.
And I’d been the PR disaster last season.
The suspensions, the fines, the post-match interviews where I said shit like “We played like trash because we are trash.”
So yeah. The front office had reason to worry. And Cameron, in all his suit-wearing brilliance, decided the best way to salvage my image was to give me a romantic storyline.
Enter Daphne Sommers.
Smart. Grounded. Ethical. Everything I wasn’t.
And apparently, everything Hayashi wanted to see in a team’s culture.
Because God forbid one of us had a slightly messed-up past or a temper on the pitch. Couldn’t have any edge when you were selling jerseys and family-friendly halftime shows.
I ran a hand down my face.
This wasn’t just a PR stunt anymore.
This was my career on the line.
Hayashi signed with us, the team got a championship-caliber player; the league got their poster boy, and I—if I kept smiling next to Daphne like a golden retriever in love—got to keep my job.
And if I screwed it up?
If I let my real feelings slip out—my real attraction, the way she made my chest feel like it wasn’t all stone and scar tissue?
I’d lose everything.
Because the second this looked real, the second I made it personal… was the second it stopped being something I could walk away from.
I stared at the message app like it might type itself.
This shouldn’t be hard. It was just a text. A question. A fake girlfriend logistics thing.
Still, I rewrote it twice before finally sending:
Team dinner tomorrow night. You in?
Her reply was immediate.
That’s your invite?
I exhaled through my nose. Of course it wasn’t enough for her. She wanted full sentences. Punctuation. A parade, probably.
Do you want it with flowers and glitter?
I want it with actual manners. Try again.
I could practically hear the sass through the screen.
I rubbed the back of my neck, rolled my eyes, and typed slower this time, even though I was already regretting it.
Would you like to attend the Storm team dinner with me tomorrow at 7?
There he is.
A pause.
She didn’t answer right away. The typing bubble popped up. Disappeared. Came back.
I sat there longer than I should’ve, waiting. Thumb hovering. Chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with cardio.
It was stupid. She was going to say yes. Of course she was. We had a deal.
But part of me didn’t want her to say yes because of the deal.
I wanted her to say yes because she wanted to go with me.
Because last night meant something to her, too.
Finally, the message came through.
Pick me up at 6:45. And if you’re late, I’m posting that photo of you trying to eat a taco in one bite.
I smiled.
Worse—grinned.
And I didn’t even try to stop it.
My phone buzzed just as I was pulling a shirt from the closet.
What’s the dress code? Are we doing ‘fake girlfriend, but fashionable’? Or ‘date-night-in-January chic’?
I smirked.
She always had a way of making things sound casual even when I knew she’d spent twenty minutes thinking it through.
It’s at that place downtown with the open-air patio. Upscale casual but it is January.
The typing bubble popped up instantly.
Translation: don’t embarrass you?
I didn’t think. I just typed.
You couldn’t if you tried.
Sent it.
And then I stared at the screen like it might explode.
Because… what was that?
I wasn’t the guy who said things like that. I wasn’t the guy who flirted, even fake flirted, unless it was part of the script we’d agreed on.
This wasn’t part of the script.
I didn’t delete it.
Didn’t correct it, either.
Just set the phone down on the dresser and stared at my reflection in the mirror. My jaw was tight. Shoulders tense.
I tried to tell myself it was just the pressure. The team. The dinner. TheHayashi talks looming in the background.
But it wasn’t.
It was her.
She was under my skin, in my head, and I hadn’t even seen her today.
The screen lit up again. Her reply.
Flattery noted. Hope your team likes red lipstick and sarcasm.
I smiled.
Again.
This was getting dangerous.
Because pretending was supposed to be easy. Controlled. Strategic.
Instead, I was catching myself thinking about her laugh. Her stubborn jaw. The way her voice always softened when she talked about her work, even when she tried to act all steel-spined and unaffected.
And the worst part?
I liked it.
All of it.
Too much.
I tossed my phone onto the bed and let it land face-down on the comforter.
Didn’t need to look at it again. Didn’t trust myself to.
I leaned against the wall, arms crossed, head tipped back as I stared up at the ceiling like it might offer answers. Or maybe just quiet the noise in my head.
I should’ve felt dread about tonight.
The cameras. The forced smiles. The teammates who were already placing bets on how long we’d last. The executives watching from behind the scenes. Hayashi’s people lurking in the shadows, analyzing every move I made.
But instead?
All I could think about was her.
She’d be there.
Daphne.
In whatever version of lipstick-and-sarcasm armor she chose to wear tonight. Tossing barbs at me when no one was listening, and laughing like she didn’t know how easily that sound could undo me.
I wanted to hear her laugh again.
I wanted to say something stupid just to make it happen.
The truth landed in my chest like a weight I hadn’t seen coming.
I didn’t feel dread.
I felt… anticipation.
And that was the problem.
This was supposed to be damage control. A distraction. A fix to keep the board happy and the press spinning the right narrative until we landed Hayashi and reset the season.
It wasn’t supposed to feel real.
She wasn’t supposed to feel real.
But every time I saw her—every time she rolled her eyes at something I said, or touched my arm without thinking, or called me out on my crap without hesitation—I forgot we were pretending.
I forgot this had a deadline.
I pushed off the wall and ran a hand through my hair, trying to shake it off.
Get your head on straight, Walker.
This wasn’t real. Couldn’t be.
But as I looked at the clock and realized I was counting down minutes until I’d see her again, one thought refused to leave me alone:
Fake dating was supposed to be damage control. So why did it feel like the one thing in my life that was actually working?