Chapter 18
Kieren
After the last kid got picked up and the gym emptied out, the rest of the team was buzzing.
Adam was still bouncing off the walls like he’d downed a case of energy drinks.
Derek was holding court with a group of teachers, already halfway into storytime.
Caleb gave me a nod and a tired smile before slipping out the side door.
I lingered.
So did she.
Daphne stood by the bleachers, her clipboard hugged against her chest like it gave her some kind of barrier. Her hair was a little messy, her cheeks pink from the heat, and there was a smudge of something—maybe pen ink—on the side of her hand.
She looked… real.
I didn’t want the night to end.
“Wanna grab something to eat?” I asked, trying to keep my voice casual, like it was no big deal. Just a suggestion. Just food.
Her eyes flicked to mine, cautious. “Just food?”
“Unless you’re craving something else,” I said, tossing in a grin that had gotten me out of worse situations.
She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. That smirk. The one I’d started looking for more than I cared to admit. “Still full of yourself, I see.”
I shrugged. “Only when it works.”
She didn’t say yes right away. She looked at me for a beat longer, like she was measuring something I couldn’t name. I didn’t move. Didn’t push.
Finally, she sighed and tucked her clipboard under her arm. “Fine. But if we end up at a drive-thru, I’m making you order everything in a British accent.”
“I knew you were into roleplay.”
She gave me a look that could’ve killed a lesser man, but she was fighting a smile.
I held the door open for her as we stepped out into the warm night air.
Yeah, it was just food.
But I’d take every second I could get.
The place we ended up at was this little sports bar tucked off a side street—not fancy, but the kind of spot with dark wood booths, vintage game posters, and the low hum of laughter layered under whatever rock playlist they had on rotation.
A couple heads turned when we walked in. A guy at the bar gave me a double take. Someone at a nearby table whispered my name.
I didn’t care.
Not tonight.
The hostess recognized me, but to her credit, she didn’t make a thing of it. Just smiled and led us to a booth in the back, where the lights were dim and the cushions had seen better days. Daphne slid into her seat like she was pretending not to notice people watching us.
We ordered burgers and fries. Two beers.
When the waitress walked away, Daphne picked up her napkin and started folding it, her brow furrowed like she was working through calculus instead of dinner conversation.
“We should probably figure out what we’re telling people,” she said eventually.
“About how crazy you are about me?” I leaned back in the booth and took a sip of my drink. “Sure.”
She gave me a look. One eyebrow arched like a challenge. “About our relationship, you idiot.”
“Oh, that. Easy. We met. Fell in love. Can’t keep our hands off each other.”
“Kieren.”
I shrugged. “What? Sounds good to me. The press eats that stuff up.”
“I’m serious.”
“I am serious.” I leaned forward a little, resting my arms on the table. “Okay, fine. You want something more believable?”
“Yes.”
I pretended to think. “I’ll be the lovestruck himbo. You be the uptight goddess who tried to resist me but couldn’t.”
She snorted, almost choking on her drink. “Tragically accurate.”
“Right? I’ve got range.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.
We ended up tossing around a dozen dumb ideas, just for the hell of it. According to our new “official” story, we bumped into each other at media day. I spilled a Gatorade on her blouse. She threatened to ruin my career. I flirted shamelessly anyway. Sparks flew.
We started secretly dating the next day.
“Do we want to add a dramatic twist?” I asked between bites of my burger. “Like… I rescued you from a pack of wild reporters. Or you caught me shirtless in the locker room and couldn’t resist.”
“Or maybe I just got tired of reporting on dramatic men flailing every time an opponent breathed on them wrong and decided to settle for the most exhausting one,” she shot back.
“Ouch.”
She grinned into her beer.
It was stupid and light and easy.
And as she laughed across the table from me, eyes warm, cheeks pink from the cold drink, I had this thought I couldn’t shake:
I didn’t want it to be fake.
I wanted the ridiculous story to be true.
The song changed. Something familiar—an old throwback with a lazy, addictive rhythm. I didn’t even have to look at her to know Daphne knew it. She started moving in her seat, swaying a little, shoulders rolling, head bobbing to the beat.
God help me, she was adorable.
“Dance with me?” I asked, already sliding out of the booth.
She hesitated. “Here?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. Just reached for her hand. “C’mon, princess. Show me what you’ve got.”
Her fingers closed around mine, and that was it.
The bar didn’t have a real dance floor—just a patch of open space near the jukebox—but that didn’t matter. The moment we stepped into it, she lit up. She didn’t do the awkward sway most people did. She moved. Fluid and confident, like someone who forgot how to hold back.
I mirrored her, keeping it playful, a little cocky. Flirty, not serious.
She laughed when I spun her, eyes sparkling.
Then I reeled her back in and she landed squarely against my chest.
We were closer than before. Her breath hitched.
“You always this cocky?” she asked, breathless but smiling.
I dipped my head. “Only when I want something.”
Her lips parted, just slightly.
And for a second, I was ready to kiss her right there—damn the setting, damn the press, damn the timeline.
But movement behind her caught my eye. Some guy leaning on the bar, nursing a drink and watching her a little too long. Not watching us, not watching the music—just her.
My jaw tightened.
I shifted automatically, sliding my arm around Daphne’s waist and pulling her closer, enough to make the message clear: mine.
Her gaze flicked up to meet mine. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said. It came out lower than I meant it to—gravel laced with heat.
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t pull away.
Instead, she pressed closer, resting her hand lightly on my chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt like she was anchoring herself—and maybe, just maybe, anchoring me too.
The guy at the bar finally turned away.
I relaxed a fraction, but I didn’t move. Didn’t want to.
If she noticed the way my heart was hammering, she didn’t mention it.
If she felt the shift—how the game was starting to mean something—she didn’t run.
The music slowed into something softer—still with a beat, but slower, steadier, the kind of rhythm that pulled you closer without you realizing it.
Daphne’s laugh floated up again, bright and unguarded, and it did something to me.
Made me forget where we were. Made me forget why we were here in the first place.
She was still swaying, her hair catching the dim light as she turned. I leaned in without thinking, forehead brushing against hers. She didn’t pull back. Her breath ghosted over my mouth, warm and quick.
For a heartbeat we just stood like that—close enough to feel each other breathing, close enough that the noise of the bar fell away. Then I kissed her.
Not the stage-managed, press-friendly kind of kiss we’d given the cameras.
Not the half-smile and practiced angle. This was different.
This was slow at first, careful, my hands settling at her waist. She rose on her toes a little, her palms sliding up my chest, and the world blurred.
It felt like we were the only two people left in the room.
The kiss deepened, unspooling all the things I hadn’t said since the night we started this game.
It lasted longer than it should have. Felt realer than it should have.
Her mouth was soft, but the way she clutched at my shirt told me she was just as gone as I was.
Every inch of me was aware of her—her scent, her warmth, the tremor of her fingers against me.
When we finally broke apart, she was breathless. So was I. Her eyes were wide, a little shaken, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to yell at me or pull me back in.
“This wasn’t part of the contract,” she whispered.
I let a small, crooked smile slip across my face. “Good,” I said quietly, voice rough. “I’m getting real tired of the contract.”
She blinked up at me, and for a second the whole bar went silent in my head—the music, the chatter, the clinking glasses. All I could see was her, standing in my arms, lips still flushed from our kiss.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. We weren’t supposed to cross that line. But right there, under the low lights and the hum of strangers’ voices, I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.
Not one bit.
Back at the booth, Daphne slipped into the seat across from me like she hadn’t just kissed me like I was the only man left on Earth.
She pulled herself together in a blink—straightened her posture, fixed her hair, grabbed her beer like it was a damn business meeting.
I knew that look. It was the same one she wore the first day we met. Walls back up. Distance reinstalled.
She cleared her throat and looked anywhere but at me. “So… I know you have that… Indiana game?”
I nodded, even though I already knew. “Yeah. Another one.”
“I have to cover a press event tomorrow morning. Different team, different city.” She took a sip of her drink, then added, “I’m hoping I can swing flights to be at your game.”
There was a beat.
“You don’t have to,” I said softly. “But I’d like you to.”
Her eyes flicked up at that—briefly. Then back down. Her fingers toyed with the edge of her napkin like it had suddenly become fascinating.
“I’ll see what I can do,” she murmured. "I mean. For the story, right?"
And just like that, I felt it. The shift.
The way she pulled back when things got too real.
It wasn’t dramatic—no cold shoulder, no sudden change in tone.
Just… distance. That quiet recalibration where she reminded herself that this wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
That I wasn’t supposed to mean anything.
I hated how much I recognized it. Because the truth was, this didn’t feel like a game anymore. It hadn’t for a while.
It felt real.
Too real.
And I knew what that meant.
She was going to run.
I leaned back in the booth, watching her over the rim of my glass. She was already somewhere else—probably halfway to her hotel, mentally packing a bag, thinking about flights and press schedules and anything that wasn’t us.
I wanted to tell her to stop. That she didn’t have to keep shutting the door every time we cracked it open.
But I didn’t. Because if I pushed, she’d just bolt faster.
So instead, I said, “You looked good with the kids today.”
That earned me a small smile. A real one. Tired but genuine. “They were sweet.”
“So were you.”
She rolled her eyes at that, but her cheeks flushed a little.
We didn’t say much after that. The moment passed. She talked about travel plans. I let her. But even as we finished our drinks and waited for the check, I kept hearing the echo of her kiss, the softness of her voice before she’d remembered the rules.
This wasn’t just pretend anymore.
And the second she realized that too?
She’d be gone.
I tossed a few bills on the table, more than enough to cover the check and a generous tip. Our waitress had been patient, even when we got rowdy building fake love stories and teasing each other like we hadn’t just made out on a dance floor like a pair of drunk teenagers.
Daphne didn’t wait for me—she was already outside, scrolling on her phone like she needed something to ground her. When I stepped out into the cool night air, I saw the light from the screen reflecting off her face.
She let out a soft laugh. “We’re trending.”
I stepped up beside her. “What, me and you?”
“No,” she said with a dry look. “You and your charming beer gut.”
I smirked. “Guilty.”
She angled the screen toward me. Comments, reposts, blurry photos from the school event.
Some of the kids had clearly recognized a few of the players—Adam’s height made him impossible to miss—and someone had grabbed a shot of me tying a shoelace for a little boy who didn’t have laces at all, just knotted yarn.
One post read: Kieren Walker and the team making dreams come true at Little Harbor Elementary. Also, who’s the mystery girl? ??
Another read: Is that THE Daphne Sommers from MLS media?! Supporting her man? We love a power couple.
“Well,” I said, leaning in, “looks like the people ship us.”
She rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched. “They’d ship you with a wall if it smiled back.”
“Jealous?”
“Of the wall? Absolutely.”
I grinned, and she pocketed her phone.
I walked her to her car, taking my time even though it was only a few feet. I wasn’t ready to let the night end. Not when she’d finally let her guard down. Not when I’d gotten a taste of something that felt too damn good to be fake.
When we reached her door, she paused. No kiss this time. Just that soft silence that stretched between us, full of everything we didn’t say.
“I guess I’ll see you later then?” I asked, keeping it casual, even though my chest felt like it was in a vice.
She smiled—barely. It didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah. Later.”
I held the door open for her and watched her slide into the driver’s seat. She buckled in, gave me one last glance, and then she was gone.
No dramatic goodbye. No promises.
Just taillights disappearing into the street.
I was already missing her.
Already planning how to make her stay next time.
I stood there long after her car disappeared, hands shoved in my pockets, jaw tight. I was so done—done pretending this was casual, done playing it cool, done acting like she hadn’t gotten under my skin in the worst, most impossible way.
Maybe Indiana was what I needed.
A few days away, a different city, a hard reset. Focus on Saturday’s match. Focus on anything other than the woman who kissed me like it meant everything and left like it meant nothing.