Chapter 13
Daphne
I woke to the smell of burnt hotel coffee and a painfully empty bed.
Figures.
Kieren was already gone—probably at breakfast with the guys or doing whatever weird veteran rituals he had before games. Foam-rolling in complete silence. Meditating like a monk. Staring into a wall and brooding. Classic.
I groaned, stretched, and rolled out of bed.
Tossed my hair into a messy ponytail and pulled on my Storm media jacket, zipped halfway over a tank top, then slid into black joggers and sneakers.
Credential badge clipped to my zipper. Laptop bag slung over my shoulder.
I grabbed my iced coffee from the mini-fridge and made my way toward the stadium.
The air outside buzzed.
It was that unmistakable game day electricity—loud, pulsing, alive.
A sea of Storm jerseys moved around me like waves.
Fans laughed and shouted, some already chanting, a few doing quick interviews for local news.
Cameras clicked. Kids wore face paint and plastic helmets.
The smell of fried food and cold beer wafted from every corner.
And then I saw it—his face.
Blown up on a massive banner hanging near the stadium entrance. Jaw sharp. Brow furrowed. Eyes locked in that impossible focus I’d seen maybe a dozen times now—but still hadn’t fully figured out.
My stomach fluttered.
Caffeine. Definitely caffeine.
I told myself it had nothing to do with the fact that I knew that expression. That I’d seen it in real time—when he watched tape, when he tied his cleats.
I sipped my coffee, eyes on the banner for one second too long.
This wasn’t real. We were just pretending.
Still, I couldn’t help but wonder if the guy up there—the one fans screamed for, the one who crushed bodies on the ice—was the same one who handed me his jacket without a second thought. The one who slept on his side of the bed but never complained when I stole the covers.
I didn’t know what today would bring.
The Uber ride was quiet—just the low hum of tires on pavement and the occasional tap of the driver’s blinker.
I sat in the backseat with my laptop bag clutched to my chest and my iced coffee sweating against my palm.
My Storm media badge hung around my neck, the lanyard twisted twice, like it always did when I was nervous.
I told myself it was just the caffeine, but I wasn’t buying it.
Outside the window, the city was already alive.
Fans were pouring in from every direction—jerseys, painted faces, camera phones.
Street vendors had set up near the stadium gates, selling bootleg shirts and overpriced hot dogs.
Someone started chanting near the corner, and I caught the driver glancing at me in the rearview mirror like he was waiting for me to join in.
I didn’t. I wasn’t here to cheer. I was here to work.
Mostly.
As we turned the corner, the stadium came into view—steel and glass and banners fluttering in the breeze. One of them had Kieren’s face on it. That same expression I’d seen a hundred times. Intense. Unreadable. A little broken, if you knew what to look for.
The car rolled to a stop outside the media entrance.
I thanked the driver, stepped out, and immediately regretted wearing joggers.
The air was already heavy with heat. My ponytail stuck to the back of my neck.
I tugged my Storm jacket a little tighter, slid my badge from under the zipper, and walked toward the gate.
The security guard barely glanced at me before waving me through.
Inside, the tunnel was cooler—darker, too.
The concrete walls soaked up the outside noise until it was just a dull hum behind me.
My footsteps echoed, soft and steady, as I made my way past equipment crates and cases labeled with STORM in black tape.
The smell hit next. That familiar mix of sweat, menthol, and whatever brand of cologne the rookies were obsessed with this month. Someone laughed down the hall. A stick cracked against something hard. Voices carried.
The guys were here. Which meant Kieren was too.
I adjusted my laptop bag and kept walking, trying not to picture him already in the locker room, pulling on his gear in that methodical, brutal way he always did. No hesitation. No emotion.
Just game mode.
I swallowed hard.
Time to do my job.
The tunnel was cooler than the outside chaos, but the concrete echoed with every step like it was trying to remind me I didn’t belong.
I tightened the grip on my laptop bag and adjusted my badge.
Game days were always like this—controlled mayhem, nerves hiding under professionalism, stories waiting to be written between the lines of the match.
I was halfway through the hallway when I rounded the corner and—of course—walked straight into Troy Maddox.
“Whoa,” he said, catching his balance with the kind of cocky ease only Troy could pull off. “Didn’t realize the media crew was packing heat this morning.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re blocking the tunnel, Maddox.”
He leaned against the wall like he had nowhere better to be. His Storm hoodie was half-zipped, revealing the kind of abs that were definitely not regulation issue. Sunglasses tucked into his collar. That permanent smirk on his face.
“You showing up to make sure Walker doesn’t get himself sent off again?” he asked, all teasing charm. "Or are you just rooting for your man?"
I gave him a dry look. “I’m here for the journalistic integrity, obviously.”
“Uh-huh.” His gaze dipped just enough to make my skin crawl, not because he was gross—but because he was calculated. “If you get bored, my hotel room’s two floors up. I’ve got leftover room service and great taste in movies.”
I opened my mouth, ready to fire off a snarky comeback, when a shadow cut across the tunnel.
Kieren.
He moved in without a word, stepping between us like he’d been summoned. His shoulder clipped Troy’s—not enough to start a fight, but enough to make it clear this wasn’t a casual meetup.
Troy raised both hands, grinning. “Damn, bro. Didn’t realize the girlfriend came with a guard dog.”
Girlfriend. My stomach flipped—because that wasn’t the part that Kieren reacted to.
“Back the fuck off, Troy.”
His voice was low. Controlled. But there was steel behind it.
Troy laughed, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “Relax, Walker. It was a joke.”
Kieren didn’t move.
Neither did I.
Troy finally stepped back with a wink. “See you on the field, sweetheart.”
He disappeared down the tunnel, all swagger and zero shame.
I let out a slow breath. “You know he’s harmless, right?”
Kieren’s jaw was tight. “He doesn’t act harmless.”
“He flirts with anything that breathes.”
“He doesn’t get to flirt with you.”
That shut me up. For a beat too long.
I tried to recover with a smirk. “So, I’m off-limits now?”
He looked at me then—really looked at me. “You always were. If you're mine, you're mine. That's it.”
I blinked, unsure if that was a line, a warning, or something else entirely. Before I could ask, he was already turning toward the locker room.
And I was left standing in the tunnel, pulse hammering, wondering when exactly Kieren Walker had stopped pretending not to care.
The media platform sat just above the Storm’s sideline bench, a narrow stretch of space with an unobstructed view of the pitch and absolutely no insulation from the elements—or the drama.
I set my laptop bag down and pulled out my notes, pretending I wasn’t still replaying what just happened in the tunnel.
Kieren had gotten between me and Troy like he was born to do it, like his only job today wasn’t shutting down midfielders, but defending me from snarky innuendos and smirking soccer stars.
I exhaled slowly, adjusting the strap of his hoodie around me. I’d thrown it on without thinking, but now it felt like a neon sign.
I pulled out my phone and texted Nora.
Kieren got jealous and threatened to knock Troy out.
She responded within seconds.
Oh no. How will you survive the possessive soccer god syndrome?
I hate you.
Sure. Say that while wearing his hoodie.
I rolled my eyes, fighting the smile that threatened to break across my face. She wasn’t wrong.
The buzz of the stadium grew as kickoff approached.
Fans were already on their feet, chanting, waving flags, a sea of navy and silver moving as one.
It was the kind of energy that made your skin tingle, even if you weren’t the one playing.
I pulled my laptop onto my knees and clicked open the notes document for the week’s report.
Player performance, team dynamics, possible narratives for the press release—my usual beat.
Not “jealous Kieren gets in a locker room brawl because Troy Maddox dared to flirt.”
The commentary team in the booth above was already going, their voices filtering down through the speakers, half-lost in the noise of the crowd. I wasn’t paying attention—until I heard my name.
“—and with Daphne Sommers back on the sidelines, the Walker romance saga continues,” one of them quipped, followed by chuckles from his co-host.
I didn’t look up. Just muttered under my breath as I typed: “If I get called ‘Storm’s sweetheart’ one more time, I’m leaking his Spotify history.”
A snort came from a photographer nearby, who clearly overheard me. I didn’t clarify. Let them guess what kind of embarrassing playlists Kieren Walker had queued up. (I knew for a fact there was an entire folder labeled Sad Brooding Guys.)
The players were already taking the field, and I caught sight of Kieren jogging to back of the field, expression cool, focused—nothing like the man who’d stood in front of me minutes ago like he wanted to tear Troy’s head off.
God, he was so composed in front of the crowd. So calm. You wouldn’t know he was chaos under the surface unless you were close enough to see it.
And somehow, I was.
I straightened, fingers poised above the keys.
Back to work.