Chapter 13 #2
No distractions. No drama. Just professional reporting from a totally unbiased, emotionally detached PR rep.
Wearing her fake-boyfriend’s hoodie.
With his Spotify secrets locked and loaded.
The moment the Storm took the field, the stadium came alive—chanting, stomping, cheering so loud it rattled in my chest. I stood at the edge of the media platform, notebook in hand, pretending I was totally focused on the team dynamics, the formations, the plays.
But let’s be honest—I was watching him.
Kieren was sharp tonight. All clipped movements and cold intensity. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, and every step he took seemed calculated. Like he had something to prove.
Maybe he did.
I told myself it was for work—that I had to keep an eye on him because he was the team captain, the center-fullback, the face of the franchise. But that was only half true.
The real reason? He moved like he owned the field. Like no one could touch him. Confident. Controlled. A little angry in a way that made something low in my stomach twist.
It was hard to look away.
Across the pitch, Chicago was already asserting themselves.
Physical. Aggressive. Within the first five minutes, they had possession and were pushing hard.
Storm dropped into a defensive stance, and I could see Kieren barking out commands, pointing, adjusting the line like a general preparing for battle.
My fingers tightened around my pen as I tracked the motion.
He blocked a shot with his chest and didn’t even flinch. Just reset. Repositioned. That was the thing about Kieren—he never wasted movement. Everything he did was purposeful. Sharp turns. Calculated fouls. Timed slide tackles that made the crowd roar and the opposing striker curse under his breath.
God, he was good. Not just technically—but emotionally. He made the whole team feel like a brick wall.
And yet, I could see it—the fire under the surface. The flicker in his eyes every time Chicago made a play that got too close to the net. The tension in his shoulders when the ref let something slide.
He was playing tight tonight.
Tighter than usual.
I scribbled a note just to look busy:
Walker commanding defense. Clipped. On edge.
That was putting it mildly.
I opened the team’s stat tracking software on my laptop and pretended to check live updates, but my gaze kept sliding back to the pitch—to him.
It had been months since I stood on these sidelines. Months since I saw Kieren like this. And even though so much had changed, this part hadn’t. Watching him lead out there still felt… electric.
Like I was watching the storm before the thunder.
One of Chicago’s midfielders went in with a late challenge—too high, too rough—and Kieren shoved him off balance. Not enough to draw a card, but enough to send a message.
The ref blew the whistle. Warning only.
Kieren didn’t break eye contact with the guy. Not even when the crowd booed. Not even when the commentator made a snide remark about his “temper.”
I knew better.
He wasn’t reckless. He was intentional. Every move meant something.
Including that one.
My pulse ticked up, and I quickly glanced down at my notes again.
Walker: playing like it’s personal.
I tracked everything. Every shift in pace. Every reckless play. Every glance that wasn’t part of the official stats but still told the story.
Kieren picked up a warning in the twenty-third minute—late tackle, heavy contact. The kind that drew a sharp whistle and a talking-to from the ref. He didn’t argue. Just nodded once and jogged back, chest rising and falling like he was barely keeping himself in check.
I jotted a note in the margins of my spreadsheet:
“Too tight. Playing too close to the edge.”
Logan cut across the field on a sharp run.
It was smooth, precise, almost beautiful, and it gave me something to focus on for a breath or two.
The midfield passed clean, quick—until Beckett overran it and botched a clear opportunity.
The shot curled wide, and the groan from the crowd was collective.
Beckett ran both hands through his hair, frustrated, and I felt it in my gut too. They weren’t syncing up. Something about the team’s energy tonight felt off. Like they were playing through static.
Then Troy Maddox glanced toward the media platform.
And winked.
Dead at me.
I sucked in a breath through my teeth and immediately looked away, trying to pretend it didn’t happen.
I didn’t even need to check—I could feel the heat from Kieren’s stare across the field.
I glanced up in time to see the death glare aimed straight at Maddox, who only smirked wider and trotted backward, completely unfazed.
I muttered to myself, “Damn, I hate him.”
Tension ratcheted higher as the clock ticked toward halftime.
Chicago pushed hard, trying to close out the first half with a goal.
Kieren met them head-on, cutting off a pass, shoving the opposing forward just a little too hard in the scramble.
The whistle blew a beat later. No foul called, but it was a warning shot.
Tempers were simmering. One spark, and this match would ignite.
I sat back, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Walker: controlled violence. Barely. Maddox making it worse.
The first half ended with a frustrated Storm team walking toward the tunnel and an energized Chicago squad shouting and high-fiving each other like they’d already won.
Kieren didn’t look up.
Didn’t glance at me.
Didn’t even pretend to relax.
He disappeared down the tunnel like a man on a mission to tear something apart.
I stared at the screen for a long second. Then typed a line just for myself. Not for the official match report. Not for the team notes.
Just me.
Walker plays like he’s trying to outrun something. Or someone.
I didn’t know if that was me or his past or whatever twisted memory had its claws in him tonight, but I knew the look on his face.
It wasn’t just focus.
It was a man trying not to crack under pressure.
And failing.