Chapter 17 #2
Back on the gym’s makeshift pitch, he was chaos and calm all at once.
Laughing as he chased a ball across the gym floor, letting three kids cling to his legs like he was some kind of human jungle gym.
He scooped one onto his shoulders, twirled another in a lazy circle, and never once looked bored.
Never once looked like he was doing it for the cameras or the press releases or the headline about athletes giving back.
This wasn’t for show. This was just… him.
The noise of the gym faded into the background as I watched him.
Kieren Walker. MLS bad boy. Reluctant media darling. The guy who drove PR teams to drink.
And here he was, letting a six-year-old braid friendship bracelets into his wrist tape.
I leaned back against the wall, arms folded across my chest, and let myself smile.
Maybe I didn’t believe in forever. Maybe I didn’t believe in fairytales.
But right then, in that too-bright gym, with the sound of laughter echoing off the walls and sweat drying on my skin…
I kind of believed in him.
From the sidelines, I tried to pretend I was focused on something else—my clipboard, my notes, the lineup of kids waiting for the next drill. But my eyes kept drifting back to him.
Kieren was crouched on the floor again, gently fixing the shin guards on a little boy who couldn’t have been more than five.
His voice was low, steady, calming. The kind of voice you trusted without even knowing why.
He tied the kid’s shoe with one practiced tug and gave him a soft nudge forward, sending him running back into the fray.
No one was watching him. No cameras, no reporters, no staged photos.
Just him and a gym full of hyper kids. And he was glowing.
He wasn’t putting on a show. He wasn’t trying to win anyone over.
He was just… kind. Patient. Good.
I felt something in my chest tip. Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just a slow, almost imperceptible shift. Like something that had been hanging in midair finally landed.
Kieren wasn’t the guy I thought he was.
He wasn’t just the cocky striker who annoyed the hell out of me in interviews. He wasn’t just the guy with the smirk and the bad press and the headline-ready reputation.
He was also this.
This version of him—quiet, steady, good with kids and better with people—was the part he didn’t advertise.
I forced myself to look away, flipping open my planner like it held the answers to anything. The words blurred slightly as I stared at them, my pen stalling halfway through a sentence.
The flutter in my chest was still there. Warm. Persistent. Infuriating.
I glanced back at Kieren.
He was laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, as a kid threw a ball that smacked him square in the thigh. He pretended to collapse, clutching his leg dramatically, and the kids howled with laughter as he flopped onto the ground.
God help me, I smiled.
I was supposed to be keeping my distance. Maintaining objectivity. Managing a reputation—not falling for the man behind it.
But here I was, standing on the edge of something that felt suspiciously like hope. Or something worse.
I closed my planner and held it to my chest like a shield.
This wasn’t the job anymore.
This was personal.
And I wasn’t ready for what came next.
By the time the last scrimmage ended, the gym looked like a battlefield of empty water bottles, scattered cones, and puddles of kid-sized sweat. The noise was deafening—squeaky shoes on hardwood, high-pitched laughter, the occasional whistle blast from Adam or Derek still in full coach mode.
I hovered near the wall, still clutching my clipboard like it had any actual purpose beyond giving my hands something to do.
Kieren clapped his hands once, loud and commanding but somehow still gentle. The kids slowly quieted. Not instantly—but enough that the other players followed suit, encouraging their groups to gather.
“All right, champions,” Kieren said, smiling at the sea of flushed faces. “Bring it in.”
The crowd shuffled closer, collapsing into a lopsided semicircle around him. Some of the littlest ones sat cross-legged. Others leaned on their friends. A few were still bouncing on their toes, too amped to stand still.
Kieren waited. Patient. Comfortable.
When the last of the shuffling stilled, he crouched down, so he was level with most of them, elbows resting on his knees. “You all crushed it today,” he started. “I mean that. You showed up, gave it your best, and tried something that might’ve felt a little scary at first.”
The kids were quiet, watching him like he was giving away state secrets.
“Here’s the truth,” he went on. “Not every kid I played with growing up had the chance to do something like this. I didn’t, either.
I learned in alleyways, school yards, back lots.
But you all? You’ve got something special.
” He paused, scanning the group, his voice dipping a little lower.
“You’ve got heart. That matters more than how fast you run or how many goals you score.
If you keep showing up for each other, keep trying—especially on the hard days—you’ll go farther than you think. ”
A few kids nodded. One of them blinked like he was about to cry. My throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Soccer teaches you more than how to kick a ball,” Kieren continued. “It teaches you how to lose without giving up. How to listen. How to lead. How to get up when you fall. And you’re already doing all of that.”
He stood then, slowly, towering over them but somehow still approachable.
“So I want you to remember this: It’s okay if you’re not the best on the field today. What matters is that you care. That you help each other. That you keep playing because you love it.”
The gym fell into this rare kind of stillness. A few of the older kids clapped. Then more joined in. Then suddenly, everyone was cheering again—loud and wild and joyful.
And Kieren just stood there, smiling, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure what to do with the attention.
I watched him from across the gym, that flutter in my chest turning into something steadier. Something deeper.
He didn’t just manage to encourage them.
He made them believe in themselves.
And maybe—just maybe—he was starting to make me believe, too.