Chapter 17
Daphne
The gym was chaos.
Squeaky sneakers echoed off the polished floor, bouncing between the walls like pinballs.
Folding bleachers creaked under the weight of hyper kids who clearly didn’t care that they were supposed to be “seated and listening.” Bright paper banners hung crookedly over the doors, and someone had set up orange cones that were already being used as hats.
I was standing there with a clipboard I didn’t need, pretending I had a reason to exist in this environment.
I wasn’t here as a journalist. There was no camera, no notepad, no angle to dig into.
I was here because Kieren had asked. Or maybe it was Cam who’d invited me officially, but I knew the truth.
He wanted me here.
That thought alone made my pulse do weird things.
I scanned the gym, trying not to look like I was scanning the gym. And there he was—Kieren—in his element. Surrounded by wide-eyed kids, crouching down to tie a shoe, laughing with one of the staff members like he’d been doing this his whole life. He looked over then, right at me, and winked.
God help me, I felt it in my chest.
I rolled my eyes—because that was safer than smiling—and gripped the clipboard tighter.
He jogged over, effortlessly cutting through the chaos, and stopped a few feet in front of me.
“You look serious,” he said, eyeing the clipboard. “What’d they put you in charge of? Disciplinary action?”
“This?” I lifted it. “Oh, it’s blank. I just needed something to hold so I didn’t stress-pick at my nail polish.”
He grinned. “Strategic.”
“This is definitely not what I pictured when I heard charity function,” I muttered.
“And yet,” he said, voice a little softer now, “you still came.”
“Cam basically blackmailed me.”
He tilted his head. “Cam mentioned it. I invited you.”
I looked at him, then away. My heart was doing too much again. “You’re the one who told me it’d be freezing.”
“Still true,” he said, nudging my elbow gently. “But the kids are hyped, the cameras are here, and you make me look good.”
I snorted. “So I’m your PR prop now?”
“You’re a very pretty prop with strong opinions on carbs and questionable soccer commentary.”
That made me smile before I could stop it.
We stood there, not talking for a moment. Not touching. Just existing in the same space. I hadn’t expected this to feel so… normal. So easy.
A little boy ran past, yelling Kieren’s name like he was a Marvel superhero, waving a foam finger. Kieren grinned and high-fived him like a pro before turning back to me.
“Come on,” he said. “You’re already here. Might as well see what all the hype’s about.”
I hesitated.
Then I stepped forward.
“Fine,” I said. “But if I get hit with a soccer ball, I’m blaming you.”
“You can sue me later.”
I tossed him a glare over my shoulder, but it didn’t have any heat. Mostly because I was already smiling again.
Damn it.
The chaos had leveled up.
By the time the drills started, the gym was a full-blown circus—whistles, cones, cheers, and kids sprinting in every direction with the kind of energy that should’ve been illegal before noon.
I found a spot against the wall, clipboard still in hand like some kind of emotional support item, and tried to blend in.
Tried being the operative word.
Adam was already in his element—shirt slightly rumpled, hair pushed back with dramatic flair like he was starring in his own superhero movie.
He spun the ball on his finger, dribbled between cones like he was dancing, and then slid to a stop in front of a group of third graders like he was announcing the next act in a Vegas show.
“Who wants to challenge the king?” he called out, striking a pose with his hands on his hips.
Every single hand shot into the air.
I couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out.
A few feet away, Derek had somehow recruited a fan club of little girls who followed him around like ducklings.
He whistled dramatically every time he passed a cone, tossing the ball up and catching it behind his back like it was choreographed.
His voice rang out like a game show host’s—equal parts enthusiasm and flair.
“Eyes up, shoulders back, and remember—smile like you’re about to win!”
The ducklings squealed in unison.
Then there was Caleb—sweet, reliable Caleb. He crouched down to tie a kid’s shoe, patted him on the back, and sent him running with a solid, “You got this, champ.” Every time a kid scored or even got close, Caleb gave the kind of high five that made them beam like they’d just won the World Cup.
My heart warmed watching them. It was chaotic and loud and honestly kind of magical. The kind of magic I’d forgotten could exist outside of carefully crafted press releases.
But even with all that going on—even with Derek’s Broadway-worthy whistle twirls and Adam’s absurd backflips over cones—my eyes kept drifting back to Kieren.
He was quieter, less flashy. But that didn’t make him any less magnetic.
He moved through the gym with this grounded, focused energy.
Encouraging. Steady. Present. He crouched beside a nervous little girl who wouldn’t leave the wall and talked to her for a solid minute before she finally agreed to try.
When she did, he walked alongside her, matching her slow pace as the others ran laps around them. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t push.
Just stayed.
I didn’t even realize I was smiling until one of the teachers walked past and gave me a knowing look.
“You’ve got a good one there,” she said with a wink.
I blinked. “I—”
She just laughed and kept walking.
I watched as the little girl tugged on Kieren’s sleeve, beaming, and he offered her a high five so gently it nearly cracked something open in my chest.
Yeah. Maybe he wasn’t mine.
But in that moment, I wanted him to be.
He didn’t even notice me watching him.
Kieren was crouched down in the middle of the gym, surrounded by the shyest group of kids in the building—tiny, nervous little ones who barely let go of their teachers’ hands when we got here.
One girl was practically hiding behind him, her face pressed into the back of his jersey like she thought the fabric might shield her from the chaos.
Another stood off to the side with one shoe untied, glancing down like it was a problem too big to solve.
Without fanfare, Kieren knelt in front of her and tied it.
No big declaration. No look-at-me smile. Just… kindness. Quiet, uncomplicated, not meant to be seen.
I should’ve looked away, maybe. But I couldn’t.
He was patient with them. Listening intently. Nodding. Giving high fives that were slow and deliberate, like each one meant something. Like these kids weren’t just a PR stop—they were people who mattered.
And then he laughed.
Not the cocky laugh he used with the press, or the teasing one he’d given me in that kitchen when I said I didn’t believe in forever. This laugh was low and warm, the kind you don’t even realize you’re letting out.
It made something twist deep in my chest.
One of the kids tugged on his sleeve. “Are you famous?”
I saw his mouth curve into a grin. “I don’t know. You think I am?”
That got a round of giggles. Another girl tilted her head and asked, “Are you married?”
He hesitated, just for a beat.
Then his eyes lifted.
And found mine.
His voice was casual when he answered—too casual. “Nope. But who knows?”
But the way he held my gaze told me it wasn’t just a joke.
Something fluttered under my ribs.
I looked away first. Adjusted the clipboard in my hands like it needed my attention. Like my pulse wasn’t thundering in my ears.
It didn’t mean anything.
I told myself that. Over and over again.
But even as I moved across the gym, even as a teacher pulled me aside to thank me for being there, I could still feel his eyes on me.
Still looking.
I found a quiet moment near the edge of the gym, tucked beside a rack of cones and forgotten pinnies. My clipboard hung limp at my side, and I was trying not to look like I was gasping for air after ten minutes of helping herd toddlers into something resembling a line.
My hair was sticking to my neck. My shirt was damp from where one overexcited kid had launched himself into a full-body hug. I was flushed, sweaty, and borderline delirious from the noise.
Which, of course, is when he found me.
Kieren rounded the corner with his usual easy swagger, his hair damp and sticking out from under his beanie. He was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed, but his grin was maddeningly relaxed.
“Thirsty?” he asked, holding out his water bottle like a peace offering.
I gave him a look.
“Still too good to share a drink with me?” he teased.
I didn’t answer. Just stared at the bottle like it had personally wronged me.
He chuckled, low and warm. “Come on. It’s not poisoned.”
I lifted a brow. “I just watched five children sneeze on your jersey.”
He looked down at himself, as if just now realizing the wet splotches and glittery stickers stuck to his chest.
“That’s a no, then,” he said with mock resignation.
But I reached out anyway.
I took the bottle.
He went still. Just for a second.
I twisted off the cap and drank, ignoring the part of my brain screaming about germs and boundaries and very bad ideas.
His eyes stayed on me the entire time.
When I handed the bottle back, our fingers brushed. He didn’t say anything. The air between us felt like it had thickened—warmer, heavier, crackling with something neither of us wanted to name yet.
Before it could settle into something too real, one of the coaches called for another drill rotation. Kieren nodded once, almost to himself, and stepped away.
I watched him go.