Chapter 15
Daphne
My phone rang before I’d even finished my first cup of coffee. Cam’s name lit up the screen, and I already knew it wasn’t going to be anything good. Or at least, nothing peaceful.
“Morning,” I answered, voice still scratchy with sleep.
“Daph,” he said, chipper—too chipper. “Good Morning MLS wants you.”
I blinked, sitting up straighter on the couch. “Wants me for what?”
“Light segment,” he said, like that explained everything. “You know, rising female voices in the league, your pivot from operations to media, viral moments… stuff like that.”
I closed my eyes. “You mean the kiss.”
“It’s not about Kieren,” Cam said quickly.
I snorted. “It’s always about Kieren.”
There was a pause, and I could practically hear him weighing his next words like a tightrope walker over glass.
“Look,” he said finally, “this is a good thing. The clip’s everywhere, but your reactions? The way you handled the post-game interview? It’s PR gold. You look grounded. Like you know exactly what you’re doing while the boys melt down on camera.”
“Glad I could be the calm in the storm,” I muttered, taking a sip of my now-lukewarm coffee.
“I’m serious, Daphne. This is good for you. A chance to remind people you’re more than some sideline accessory. You’re sharp. You’re strategic. You’re the one holding the damn narrative together. And obviously, it's a good way to control the narrative."
Flattery. I knew the game.
But he wasn’t wrong.
If I didn’t step in, someone else would. And they’d paint me as the lovesick girl caught between two athletes, not the woman who’d built her own career long before either of them kissed me in a hallway.
Still, the idea of sitting under hot studio lights while a host gently prodded me about that moment made my stomach twist.
I sighed, already regretting the words before they left my mouth. “Fine. But I’m not gushing over him.”
“Wouldn’t expect you to,” Cam said, satisfied. “Wear something killer.”
I hung up, tossed my phone aside, and leaned back.
It wasn’t about Kieren.
But it always would be.
And no matter how put-together I looked on camera, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the rest of me was still unraveling.
I stared at my closet like it might grow legs and walk me out of this.
What did one wear for a segment where the world would be dissecting not only your career… but your kiss?
Not that I’d planned it.
But the internet didn’t care about plans. The internet cared about freeze frames and slow motion, and the exact moment Kieren Walker’s hand curved around my jaw like I was something precious.
I settled on a navy-blue wrap dress. Structured, clean lines. A neckline just low enough to whisper confidence without begging for attention. Hair down, but polished. Makeup that said “poised professional,” not “caught in the middle of a sports soap opera.”
As I slipped on my heels, I checked my reflection. Not for flaws. For armor.
This wasn’t for me. It was for the Storm. For Cam. For all the girls watching who were told to pick a lane and stay in it.
The rideshare showed up five minutes early. Probably a good thing.
The city blurred past the tinted windows as we drove—glass buildings and digital billboards flashing highlights from last night’s match. They cut away just before the kiss. But it still hung there, like a shadow behind the lights.
At the studio, I was ushered into hair and makeup again—even though I’d already done both myself—and handed a bottle of water I didn’t touch. Everything felt too bright. Too rehearsed. Too exposed.
I exhaled slowly and reminded myself: I could do this. I had done harder things.
This would pass. A quick segment. A few questions. A carefully placed smile.
Then I’d go home, scrub off the lipstick, and pretend my heart wasn’t still chasing someone who might never be mine.
I stepped onto the set—smile in place, notes tucked against my side like a shield. I’d coached myself the entire ride here. Be calm. Be sharp. Be untouchable.
Then I saw him.
And everything in me stilled.
Ryder Blake.
Of course it was Ryder Blake.
He stood behind the sleek glass desk, adjusting his cuff like he hadn’t just dropkicked my nervous system straight into the floor.
Same smug expression. Same Hollywood smile that used to charm cameras and parents alike.
The sharp navy suit hugged his athletic frame, still tailored to perfection.
His hair was just long enough to look messy on purpose, and the faintest trace of stubble lined his jaw.
To the world, he probably looked every inch the reformed heartthrob.
To me, he looked like a ghost I’d buried and just caught rising from the grave.
He was my ex-fiance. The one who mocked my career pivot behind my back while smiling to my face.
The one who cheated on me during his media tour in Spain—claiming he was “too busy for calls” while hooking up with sideline influencers from three different teams, including Juan Ruiz's situationship. The one who’d vanished from the network after his scandal went public and apparently slithered his way back now.
And now… here?
I couldn’t help but wonder if someone had done this on purpose. A little chaos for the ratings.
“Well, well,” Ryder drawled, his voice just as smooth and punchable as I remembered. “If it isn’t Daphne Sommers. I was told we were interviewing a professional.”
My fingers clenched around the note cards.
He knew exactly what he was doing. The grin he gave me was practiced—press-ready—but his eyes held that flicker of condescension I knew too well. He wanted me flustered. Off my game. On the defensive.
I inhaled once. Steady. Let the mask slide back into place.
Because no matter how many cheap shots Ryder Blake wanted to take, I wasn’t here for him.
I was here for me.
And I was going to burn brighter than he ever could.
I kept my posture poised, shoulders relaxed, chin up—like my media mentor taught me back when I was still doing sideline reports and smiling through condescension. Old habits die hard.
"Places!" a voice called.
We were about to start. I ignored the flutter in my stomach. No matter what, I could do this.
"Welcome back," Ryder said the second he got the green light. "We're here today with Daphne Sommers, former media consultant and girlfriend to Kieren Walker."
I bit my tongue. I could hear the condescending tone. Could anyone else?
“So Daphne,” he began, all smooth charm and smug undertone, “big few weeks for you. Quite the viral moment after the game, huh?”
I smiled politely. “It’s been busy.”
He chuckled, a practiced sound, before turning to the camera. “For those of you who’ve somehow missed it, here’s the kiss everyone’s talking about.”
The footage played on the screen behind us.
Me. Kieren. The slow-motion moment before our mouths met, just off the edge of the pitch. The clip that had gone viral, launched a thousand speculative think pieces, and spawned more fan edits than I cared to count.
When the screen cut back to us, Ryder was grinning.
“So,” he said, cocking his head, “was that spontaneous… or part of the job description?”
I kept my face neutral, even though my blood flared hot beneath my skin.
“I was there doing my job,” I said evenly. “And what happened after the game—wasn’t part of any segment.”
Ryder leaned forward, feigning curiosity. “Is that how you got promoted last time, too?”
I blinked. Just once. But I didn’t flinch.
He smiled like he’d won something.
“You’ve made quite the name for yourself, Daphne. New job, new image, new… attachments.” His tone dripped with implication. “Some would say your reputation’s really taken off.”
There it was. The not-so-subtle jab. The way he wanted to paint me—ambitious, loud, unprofessional. The girl who didn’t stay in her lane.
I sat up straighter. My voice cool but steady. “You know what’s wild, Ryder? I got here because I’m good at what I do.”
He smirked. “Is that so?”
I didn’t blink. “Can you say the same? Or are you just trying to go viral by sinking someone else’s credibility?”
For a beat, the studio was dead quiet.
His smirk faltered.
I smiled again, wider this time—press smile, but with teeth.
“I mean, I get it. It’s hard watching someone you underestimated outrun you. Harder still when your own scandal made you disappear for a year.”
Ryder’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
I turned to the camera. “So yes. I pivoted. I earned my spot. I don’t need to step on people to stay relevant.”
Pause.
“But if you’re watching this, and you’re wondering what the kiss meant? It meant I’m not afraid to show up for people who show up for me. That’s all.”
The director in the booth gave me the wrap-up signal.
Ryder cleared his throat. “Well. That’s… one way to answer.”
I just smiled again and reached for my water.
Let them spin it however they wanted.
I knew the truth. And now, so did everyone watching.
Ryder recovered quickly, that practiced smirk sliding right back into place like a well-worn mask.
“Well,” he said, drumming his fingers on the desk, “since we’re already talking about your viral moment, let’s talk about the man behind it. Kieren Walker. Number 27. The one they call The Ghost.”
I stayed quiet, watching him. Waiting.
“Some critics say he’s already peaked,” Ryder continued, turning slightly toward the camera. “Fast start, fast fall. The suspension, the injuries, the attitude problems. Think the league’s finally caught up with him?”
I felt my spine stiffen. I knew what he was doing—fishing for a soundbite, trying to rattle me into saying something that would blow up on social. But I wasn’t some rookie reporter anymore. And I sure as hell wasn’t the girl who used to let Ryder rewrite the story.
“You want to talk stats?” I said, coolly.
He lifted his brows, as if surprised I’d engage.