Chapter 14
Kieren
We filed into the locker room tense, sweaty, and pissed off.
No music. No banter. Just the stench of frustration and a first half we’d barely survived.
I didn’t stop walking. Didn’t say a word. Just veered right and shoulder-checked Maddox as I passed, hard enough to make my point.
He staggered a step before turning, full of that shit-eating grin he wore like armor.
“You gonna flirt mid-match again,” I growled, “or you saving it for the locker room?”
Troy snorted. “You jealous or just obsessed, old man?”
I saw red.
Didn’t even think.
I lunged at him, fists clenched before I’d fully registered the motion. Didn’t care that he was half-smiling, didn’t care that the rest of the team was still catching their breath. I was going to drop him right there, cameras or no cameras.
Caleb grabbed my shoulder, Beckett got an arm around my middle. They dragged me back as I snarled, “Say it again, Maddox. I fucking dare you.”
Troy raised his hands like he was innocent, still grinning. “Damn, bro. Didn’t realize your girlfriend came with a leash.”
I nearly broke free.
And then Reid lost it.
A water bottle slammed into the whiteboard behind us, sending a spray of lukewarm water down the wall. The entire room flinched. Even Troy shut up.
Coach stepped between us, eyes blazing. “You want to throw fists? Do it after you stop playing like JV.”
Silence. Reid never lost his temper. I didn't think it was possible to phase him at all.
He looked around the room, daring any of us to open our mouths.
“This team is falling apart,” he snapped. “And it’s not because of a girl. It’s because every single one of you thinks you’re a solo act.” His eyes cut to me. “You want to keep your job, Walker? Act like a damn unit.”
Beckett let go of me slowly. Caleb stepped back. I didn’t move.
My chest rose and fell like I’d just run a full 90. Every muscle in my body was coiled tight. Every thought in my head was loud, messy, her.
Troy slumped onto the bench across from me like he hadn’t just poked a live wire.
I sat down hard.
Elbows on my knees. Breathing through my nose. Trying to pull the anger out of my blood like venom.
Because Reid was right.
We were playing like strangers. Like we didn’t trust each other to hold the line.
And maybe I was the problem. Maybe I couldn’t keep my head straight when Daphne was involved—when someone else looked at her like they thought they had a shot.
I exhaled slow.
Not because I wasn’t mad anymore.
But because I couldn’t afford to let it own me.
Not now.
Not when everything I wanted was riding on this season.
And her.
Coach Reid paced the front of the locker room like a storm brewing.
The silence stretched—thick, uneasy.
Then he spoke, low and sharp.
“You think I care about your drama? Your hurt feelings?” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to. “This isn’t high school. No one’s giving you a ribbon for pouting the hardest.”
He looked at Troy first. Then me. Then the rest of the team, his gaze dragging across each face like a scalpel.
“You think you’re the only one with something to prove? That your personal life gives you permission to half-ass a match? To throw punches before you even win the game?”
He stopped pacing. Folded his arms. Eyed us like he’d already buried better players.
“You don’t want to be here, walk. Door’s open.
No one’s forcing you to wear this crest. But if you’re going to step on that field with your name on your back, you give me everything.
I don’t care what fight you’re in, what girl you’re thinking about, or what grudge you’re still nursing.
” His voice dropped. “You want to fight someone? Fight for your damn team.”
Silence.
He turned and walked out, letting the door slam shut behind him.
I grabbed a water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink.
Didn’t even look at Troy.
He wasn’t worth it.
Not right now.
Because Reid was right. I’d been playing pissed off, not focused. Playing for a reaction instead of the win.
And I didn’t come here to let this season fall apart because I couldn’t get out of my own head.
So I shut it down.
The jealousy. The noise. The heat crawling up my spine every time someone mentioned Daphne’s name like she was a prize.
No more distractions.
Just the ball. The clock. The game.
Time to lock the fuck in.
We took the field again, but it was like no one knew how to move. No rhythm. No trust. Just noise and bodies crashing into each other, trying to force plays that weren’t there.
By the 60th minute, it was clear: we were off. Way off.
Troy missed an open net by overcorrecting on his plant foot. Beckett was barking at the ref like it was personal. Griffin lagged five paces behind every counter, like he was dragging weights around his ankles.
I kept fighting—running harder, tracking back deeper, pressing higher—but no one was reading me. No one was where they needed to be. Every one-two pass I tried fizzled out before it even started.
Seventieth minute. Two-nil.
And we were losing more than just the match.
I felt it simmering in my chest. That old, familiar burn.
The kind that came right before people start whispering in press conferences and boardrooms.
“What happened to Walker?”
“He used to carry teams, now he just complains.”
“Can’t build around a guy who’s already burnt out.”
I clenched my jaw and glanced toward the sidelines. Daphne was still there—laptop balanced on her knees, brows furrowed behind those oversized sunglasses. She was typing something.
Probably writing that we looked like shit. Because we did.
I tried not to let it get to me, but it crept in anyway.
If this keeps up, they’ll start looking at me like the problem. Again.
My legs were moving on instinct, chasing loose balls, pushing forward, but every time I got possession, the momentum died the second I passed it off. We were like puzzle pieces from different boxes—forced together, corners fraying.
The final whistle cut through the tension like a guillotine.
Two–nil.
I dropped my hands to my knees, catching my breath as the scoreboard mocked us overhead.
Another loss.
The crowd cheered, happy the home team won.
Troy stalked past me without a word. Beckett kicked at a cone on the sideline. Griffin didn’t even lift his head.
I stayed there for a second, hands on my thighs, breathing hard and furious. Letting the weight of it settle on my shoulders like I could carry it if I just braced hard enough.
But the truth?
It wasn’t just mine to carry anymore.
And if we didn’t figure that out fast, this whole season was going to implode.
The second the final whistle blew, I knew someone was going to stick a mic in my face.
We’d lost. 2–0. Away. And I was already pissed off enough to chew steel. But rules were rules. PR obligations, brand appearances, all that bullshit. So I didn’t even make it to the tunnel before one of the sideline reporters came jogging up, camera crew in tow and mic at the ready.
“Walker!” the guy called out, practically glowing with smug energy. “Got a minute?”
Didn’t matter if I said no. He was already rolling.
He angled the mic up toward me, grin wide and teeth whiter than should be legal. “Rough game out there. You losing your edge, or just too distracted by your new girlfriend?”
My jaw locked.
I could hear the crowd still buzzing in the stands behind me, some of them probably waiting to see if I’d lose my shit. Again. Cameras were pointed straight at my face, ready to dissect every blink and breath.
I kept my tone clipped. “The only thing I lost was patience with lazy questions.”
His brows lifted. Like I’d just confirmed something for him.
“Sure about that?” he said. “Because it looked like you were babysitting half the match. Bit of a mess on the field today. Is Storm falling apart—or is it just you?”
I stepped closer.
The mic lowered instinctively.
“Say something useful,” I told him, voice low and tight, “or shut the hell up.”
That did it.
The sideline crew froze. Camera still rolling, but no one spoke. For a second, it was just the sound of my breathing and the pulse pounding in my ears. I knew I’d just handed them a viral soundbite. Again.
My temper had a way of doing that—especially when it came to bullshit like this. The guy didn’t even look rattled. He was probably thrilled. This was what they wanted. The headlines would write themselves.
I forced myself to step back, eyes scanning the sideline—and there she was.
Daphne.
She stood a few yards off with her press badge hanging around her neck and her laptop hugged to her chest, but she wasn’t typing. Wasn’t working. She was watching me.
And when our eyes met, she didn’t look mad. Or worried. Just…exasperated.
She mouthed something.
Don’t.
I exhaled hard through my nose, took the mic in my hand like I was about to answer a real question, and said, “Storm had an off day. It happens. But we take our hits and we come back stronger. That’s what this team does.”
Then I handed the mic back.
Because if I didn’t, I might’ve said something I actually regretted.
I should’ve walked away.
I gave the guy my soundbite. Clean. Professional. No explosions. No fines. No headlines.
But of course, he couldn’t help himself.
“So just to clarify,” the reporter said, leaning in like we were co-conspirators. “You’re saying the locker room drama has nothing to do with that performance? Are you considering retiring?”
I clenched my jaw so tight it hurt. “What I’m saying is—”
I cut myself off.
There she was, striding straight through the media scrum like it was part of her job. No hesitation. No nerves. Like the field, the cameras, the chaos—none of it fazed her.
Her eyes locked on mine. And even from five yards out, I felt it. That heat. That pull.
“Daph—”
She didn’t stop.
Didn’t say a word.
Just stepped up, grabbed me by the front of my jersey, and kissed me.
Hard.
The whole stadium vanished.
I froze for a heartbeat, caught completely off guard—but then I was kissing her back like I’d been waiting my whole life for this moment.
My hand found her lower back, pulling her closer like I needed her against me. My other slid into her hair, angling her just the way I liked, and I deepened the kiss before I could think better of it. Not too much. Not obscene. But enough.
Enough that every camera caught it.
Enough that no one could mistake this for anything other than real.
She tasted like nerves and adrenaline and something sweet I couldn’t name. Her fingers curled tighter in my jersey and for one wild second, I didn’t care that we were still on the field. That my teammates were watching. That the world would break this down in slow motion from every angle.
I kissed her like she was mine.
Because in that moment, she was.
Flashbulbs exploded like tiny lightning strikes around us.
A couple reporters actually gasped. One camera jolted upward like the guy behind it had just forgotten how to function.
My pulse was still pounding from the words I’d just thrown like knives—and I was one second away from storming off the damn field.
Eventually, she pulled back. Barely. Just enough to speak against my mouth.
“You can thank me later,” she whispered. “For saving your PR disaster.”
I huffed a breath that could’ve been a laugh. Or maybe a groan. I wasn’t sure.
“You think that helped?”
“Please,” she said, a little breathless, a little smug. “They’ll turn it into a love story.”
And then she stepped back, smoothing her hair and tossing a look at the stunned reporter like he was the unprofessional one.
“That’s your sound bite,” she said, her voice breathless and furious and steady all at once. “Walker played his ass off. And anyone with working eyes knows it.”
My throat tightened.
She turned to me then, fully. Her eyes were sharp and cutting, like she wasn’t afraid to throw herself between me and the chaos, even if it got her scorched. “You done here?” she asked.
I couldn’t breathe for a second. Couldn’t think.
“…Yeah,” I muttered, the word rasping out of me.
Before I could say anything else, she grabbed my hand—fingers laced with mine, firm and certain—and started walking. Through the gawking press. Past the crew. Down the tunnel.
I followed.
Not because I didn’t know where I was going, but because for the first time in weeks, someone had chosen to stand next to me when I was a mess. Not just tolerate me. Not just cover me in an article or manage my damage.
She walked fast, silent, until we were clear of the cameras and the echo of crowd noise. The tunnel swallowed us in shadows, and I felt the first real breath expand in my chest since the whistle blew.
I looked at her.
She still hadn’t let go.
And for once, I didn’t feel like the problem. I didn’t feel like the villain. I just felt like a man who’d fought like hell—and had someone fighting beside him.
I couldn’t speak.
Not yet.
My whole body was buzzing—adrenaline still thrumming through my veins, but it wasn’t from the game anymore. It was her. Her mouth. Her words. That wildfire kiss in front of cameras, in front of everyone—not out of panic, but out of something raw. Something real.
She didn’t hesitate. She stepped in like it was second nature, like defending me was in her blood. And that kiss?
That wasn’t for PR.
Not for me. Not for her either—I’d stake my career on it.
The noise behind us faded the farther we got from the field. Just the echo of our footsteps down the tunnel and the sharp rhythm of my heartbeat in my ears. Daphne’s hand was still wrapped in mine—warm, strong, steady—and I didn’t let go.
I couldn’t.
We turned the corner, the locker rooms ahead. She started to slow, and I finally found my voice.
“What was that?”
She glanced over, face unreadable, but I saw the flush on her neck. The tremor in her breath. “PR move,” she said with a shrug, like she was talking about a press release and not the fact that she’d kissed me like I was the last man on Earth.
I stopped walking.
Pulled her to a halt with me.
“Liar,” I said quietly.
My voice came out low. Rough. Not angry—just sure.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t deny it. Just looked at me for a second too long, like she was daring me to push it further… or maybe hoping I would.
And hell, I wanted to.
But right now, I didn’t need her confession.
Because I’d already seen the truth. Felt it in her kiss. Heard it in her voice.
She could lie to herself all she wanted.
I wasn’t buying it.