Chapter 22
Kieren
I woke to the kind of stillness that felt wrong.
The kind that told you something was missing before you even opened your eyes.
The sheets were still warm beside me, but the pillow was empty—and it hit me like a punch to the gut. That hollow space where her head had rested, where her hair had fanned out across the linen like ink in water, now stared back at me like it had something to say.
I stared at it like it had personally betrayed me.
And maybe it had.
Because she was gone.
No note. No sound. No scent lingering on the air anymore. Just the ghost of her and the ache she’d left behind.
I sat up slowly, dragging a hand over my face. My chest felt too tight, like I hadn’t taken a deep breath since she walked out. Since she slipped through my fingers like she always does. Quiet. Slippery. Soft.
Memories of last night hit me in waves—her mouth on mine, the way she whispered my name like it meant something, the way she let me touch her like no one ever had.
And that last whisper—“This wasn’t part of the contract.”
No. It wasn’t.
But neither was the way she made me feel like the world stopped spinning if she wasn’t in the room.
I reached for my phone, thumb hovering over her name. I shouldn’t text her. I knew that.
I did it anyway.
You could’ve at least said goodbye.
Ten minutes passed. Nothing.
I sent another.
Running doesn’t suit you, Daphne.
Still nothing.
I exhaled sharply, jaw tight. Pushed off the bed and paced the length of the room like that might burn off the restlessness clawing under my skin.
She thought she could just disappear?
Not this time.
Not after that.
I wasn’t some one-night decision she could forget by morning. I wasn’t a mistake she’d bury with coffee and a tight ponytail.
I was the man who kissed her like he meant it.
Touched her like she was something sacred.
Held her like she was already mine.
And she was—whether she wanted to admit it or not.
“You’re running,” I muttered to the empty room. My voice was low, rough, like I hadn’t spoken since she left. “But you’re not getting far.”
Because I knew her. Knew her tells. Knew her fears.
And I knew the way she looked at me last night wasn’t pretend.
She could ghost me all she wanted.
But Daphne Sommers just made the worst mistake of her life.
She made me want her—and now I wasn’t going to stop until she admitted she wanted me back.
I packed in silence.
Shoved each shirt into my duffel like it had done something wrong. The zipper caught halfway, but I yanked it shut, anyway. My knuckles were scraped from yesterday. Not from the game. From Theo.
He had it coming.
He ran his mouth one too many times—said her name like it was some joke, like she hadn’t just been in my bed, in my head, wrecking me from the inside out.
And now she was gone.
I left the hotel room like it was still burning behind me. It might as well have been.
Downstairs, the team was already gathered for breakfast. Noise greeted me before I even crossed the threshold—forks clinking, plates scraping, that steady rhythm of guys talking shit over coffee and pancakes.
But the second I walked in, it all… shifted.
Not quiet. But not the same.
Caleb gave me a nod from across the room, like nothing was off. Griffin was deep in a debate about syrup with Beckett. Adam was scrolling on his phone, not even pretending to listen.
Theo wasn’t there.
Good. I didn’t want to look at him.
“Yo, Kieren,” Derek called. “You eatin’ or just brooding like a villain all morning?”
I gave him a tight smirk. “Haven’t decided.”
He snorted and tossed me a protein bar. “Start with that. You look like hell.”
I caught it and sat at the end of the table, just far enough to keep space. Just close enough that they knew I wasn’t hiding.
No one said her name. Not once. But it was everywhere.
It was in the way Griffin side-eyed me when someone mentioned PR.
It was in the half-second pause when a waiter brought out extra coffee, then realized she wasn’t with me.
It was in the bruise blooming on my jaw from where Theo got one lucky shot before I put him down.
She’d made a mark on all of us—some more visible than others.
“Long night?” Adam asked, voice low.
I didn’t answer.
He went back to eating like he understood. Like he’d been there. Maybe he had.
I took a bite of the bar. It tasted like chalk.
Someone laughed. Someone cursed. Someone said something about our departure being pushed up.
But I barely heard it.
Because all I could think about was the way she looked walking out. Like she meant it.
Like she thought it was better to leave before she got too close.
Too late.
I was already too close.
I finished the bar, tossed the wrapper, and stood.
“Where you going?” Caleb asked.
I grabbed my bag. “Nowhere far.”
But even I didn’t believe that.
Because wherever she was?
That was exactly where I wanted to be.
The bus ride back to Michigan was quiet. Too quiet.
Rain trailed down the windows in slow, heavy streaks, blurring the grey landscape outside into smudged shapes and muted tones. A typical January day—overcast, dull, like the sky couldn’t be bothered to care. The kind of cold that crept into your bones and made everything feel heavier.
Most of the guys were passed out, headphones in, hoods up. Adam was snoring across the aisle. Caleb had a blanket pulled up to his chin like a grizzly in hibernation. Even Derek—who usually had something to say about everything—was out cold.
I sat in the last row, sprawled across two seats, staring at the back of the headrest in front of me like it might offer answers.
It didn’t.
My phone stayed in my pocket. Still no word from her. No text. No call. Just silence.
I replayed everything—every moment, every word, every breath she gave me. The way her fingers threaded through my hair. The way she whispered my name like it meant something. The way she was just… gone when I woke up.
She hadn’t even left a note.
I didn’t sleep. Couldn’t.
Instead, I watched the road blur by as we crossed into familiar state lines. Michigan looked as bleak as my mood. Slate skies, brittle trees stripped bare, patches of snow clinging to the edges of the highway like they didn’t know where else to go.
Just like me.
It felt like I was dragging the weight of something I couldn’t name, couldn’t fix, couldn’t let go of.
The only thing I knew for sure was this: Whatever happened back there wasn’t over.
Not for me.
The second I parked outside her apartment, my pulse was already hammering. I didn’t even give myself a chance to think it through—just killed the engine and slammed the door shut behind me like the noise could drown out the way my thoughts were screaming.
I didn’t text again. Didn’t call. I wasn’t in the mood to ask for permission.
The whole drive from the stadium, I’d been locked in—jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel, playing out every version of this conversation in my head. What I’d say. What she might say. The hundred ways this could go wrong. But none of it mattered.
I needed to see her.
I jogged up the steps two at a time, rain still misting down like the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to cry or not. My hoodie clung to my shoulders, and my sneakers squeaked on the stairs. I didn’t care.
When the door opened, she looked like she’d seen a ghost.
Barefaced, hair pulled back, wearing some oversized college tee like she hadn’t planned on seeing anyone. Her mouth parted like she was going to speak, but the words didn’t come fast enough.
“Hi,” she said, quiet. Hesitant.
I didn’t wait for an invitation.
I stepped inside, brushing past her with more frustration than finesse. “You don’t get to disappear,” I said, turning to face her in the middle of the room. “Not after that.”
She closed the door slowly. Didn’t look at me right away. Just stood there, fingers curled around the handle like it might ground her.
I took a breath and tried to calm the edge in my voice.
“You think you get to just… leave me with that? No call, no text. Nothing.”
Her shoulders rose with a shaky breath, but she still didn’t speak.
“I know you’re scared, Daphne,” I said. “But so am I. And I’m still here.”
“It was a mistake,” she said.
Just four words—and they cracked through the air like a gunshot. For a second, I just stood there, blinking, as if I hadn’t heard her right. As if she hadn’t just taken the most raw, vulnerable, unforgettable night of my life and tossed it into the trash with the casual flick of a match.
My expression didn’t break with sadness.
It split with fury.
“No,” I said quietly. “Try again.”
She flinched. “Kieren—”
“Don’t do that. Don’t lie to me and pretend it didn’t mean anything. Don’t pretend you didn’t want it just as badly as I did.”
“I didn’t say that—”
“You said it was a mistake,” I snapped. “That’s not just semantics, Daph. That’s erasure. That’s pretending like last night wasn’t the most real fucking thing I’ve felt in years.”
Her jaw clenched, but her voice didn’t soften. “You don’t understand. If anyone finds out—if even a whisper of this gets out—I could lose my job. My reputation. Everything I’ve worked for. We're faking it. But that was—"
“So?” I shot back, voice low but venomous. “Then I’ll quit.”
She stared at me like I’d lost my damn mind.
“I will,” I said. “If me being on that field means you have to pretend this never happened, then I’ll walk. I’ll hand in my cleats, walk out of that stadium, and never look back. Just say the word.”
“Are you insane?”
“I’m not the one pretending I don’t care.”
She looked like she wanted to scream. “It’s not about caring, Kieren. It’s about surviving in a world that chews women up for rumors like this. You think they’ll believe I didn’t seduce you? That I didn’t use my position to manipulate you?”
I shook my head. “I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.”
“Well, I do!” she exploded, stepping back like she needed distance to breathe. “I have to. Because I’m not you. I don’t get second chances. And then what? What happens when it's done? Because there's an expiration date on the fake relationship, remember?"
The words landed hard.
I exhaled slowly, stepping closer again, letting every word that came next cut clean through the bullshit. “Don’t you get it? I’ve never had anything I wanted this badly and couldn’t have. Until you.”
She went still.
“I’ve spent my whole life being told I couldn’t have things,” I continued.
“Couldn’t afford them. Couldn’t be them.
Couldn’t deserve them. I’ve fought for every inch I’ve gotten.
But you…” I shook my head, bitter heat tightening my throat.
“You’re the first thing I didn’t want to fight. I just wanted to have. To keep.”
Silence settled between us like fog—thick, suffocating.
But she didn’t run again.
And I wasn’t leaving.
She tried to put the wall back up before I even finished speaking. Crossed her arms, turned half away from me, chin tilted like armor. I’d seen it before, on the field, in interviews — that moment she went from open to untouchable in one breath.
But I wasn’t letting her slip behind it this time.
I stepped closer. Closed the gap between us until she had to feel me there — the heat of my chest, the weight of my stare. My voice came out low, rougher than I meant.
“You said it wasn’t part of the contract,” I murmured. “Fine. Let’s make a new one. Just you and me.”
Her eyes flicked to mine at that, just for a heartbeat. She faltered — barely, but I caught it. A tiny crack in the mask. Enough to show me she wasn’t over it either. Enough to tell me last night wasn’t some impulse she regretted.
I didn’t kiss her. God, I wanted to. But I didn’t.
Instead, I let the words hang there and watched her struggle to breathe around them.
“You’re scared,” I said again, softer now. “I get it.”
Her lips parted like she might argue, but nothing came out.
“But I’m done playing fake.” I took another step closer until there wasn’t much space left at all. “You want me to back off? Say it. Say the words.”
She blinked. Her throat worked. She didn’t say them.
For a long, heavy second, we just stood there — me holding my ground, her staring at me like she didn’t know which way to run. My heart pounded like I’d just finished a ninety-minute match. Her hands twitched at her sides, like she wanted to reach for me and didn’t trust herself.
I could’ve stayed. Could’ve pushed harder, kissed her again, crossed the line for good.
But I didn’t.
I stepped back first. Pulled in a breath that didn’t quite reach my lungs.
“Okay,” I said quietly. “That’s your answer.”
Her brow furrowed. “Kieren—”
But I was already moving.
I turned, grabbed my jacket from the back of her chair, and headed for the door. My hand lingered on the knob just long enough to say what I couldn’t get out loud.
“You know where to find me,” I said. Then I walked out, the door clicking shut behind me.
Down the hall, my pulse was still hammering, my fists still tight. I’d left her standing there, shaken — but I was no steadier. Because she hadn’t told me to stop. Because she couldn’t.
And because, for the first time, I didn’t know if that scared her more than it scared me.