Chapter 23
Daphne
I woke up with a weight behind my eyes and a hollow ache in my chest. Not pain exactly, just… emptiness. Like I’d run ten emotional marathons in one night and still hadn’t crossed a finish line.
The light leaking through the curtains told me it was morning. My body told me it was still night. Everything felt slow, heavy. Like even gravity was tired of me.
Kieren’s voice echoed somewhere in my head. Not the angry part—though that lived under my skin now, sharp and raw—but the quiet, steady parts. “You want me to back off? Say it.”
I hadn’t.
But I hadn’t said anything else, either.
The moment I sat up, the urge to cry hit me like a sucker punch. I didn’t let it land. I never did. Instead, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and reached for the only armor I had left.
My laptop.
Work. Numbers. Tasks. Noise.
Within minutes, I was knee-deep in spreadsheets—roster stats, game attendance projections, financial reconciliations.
I scheduled a week’s worth of press appearances and revised two media statements without blinking.
Half an hour later, I was writing a revised talking point doc for the upcoming All-Star weekend.
It was easier this way. Easier than thinking.
I ignored the email notifications piling up. Mute. Archive. Reply later.
My phone buzzed once. Then again.
I didn’t check it.
Could’ve been Kieren. Could’ve been PR. Could’ve been Tom or Nora or someone who noticed I hadn’t sent my usual game-day review.
I didn’t care. Or I pretended I didn’t. Which was close enough.
I told myself I was just tired. That this was nothing a venti iced coffee and six hours of hyper-productivity couldn’t fix.
But somewhere in the back of my mind, beneath the formulas and email drafts and the playlist I had on loop, was the memory of his expression. Of the way he’d looked at me like I was the one thing he couldn’t figure out how to win.
And the worst part?
I didn’t know if I wanted him to stop trying.
The FaceTime rang twice before I realized it wasn’t another Slack notification.
Nora.
I stared at the screen for a second too long, debating. Decline and she’d just call again. Answer and I’d have to… talk. Or pretend to.
I swiped.
Her face popped up instantly—fresh-faced, hair in a messy bun, hoodie that probably cost more than my rent. She was curled up on her couch like it was a throne, one brow already arched in suspicion.
“Working,” I said before she could speak.
“You always are,” she replied. “And you’re lying.”
I turned the camera away, letting her stare at the ceiling instead of the dark circles under my eyes. “I’ve got three press releases to draft and a conference call with the league tomorrow. Not really in the mood for a wellness check.”
“Mmm-hmm.” She sipped from a mug shaped like a cat’s face. “And is avoiding Kieren part of the job now, or did I miss that memo?”
I stilled. “I’m not—”
“Daphne.” Her voice softened, but the edge was still there.
“I saw the game highlights. I read the post-game coverage. Kieren looked like he was going to commit a felony in the locker room, and Theo’s smile didn’t even pretend to be real.
You were nowhere after that, and it’s been, like, three days. What happened?”
“Nothing happened,” I said flatly. “It was a mistake. It’s over.”
“Right. Let me guess. You accidentally slept with the man and accidentally ghosted him and accidentally looked like your soul’s been scraped out with a butter knife.”
“Nora—”
“I’m not judging you,” she said, her voice gentler now. “I just… I know you. When you get scared, you dive into work like it’s a lifeboat. But this time? You’re already drowning and pretending it’s just rain.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re faking fine,” she said. “And faking’s not going to cut it with him.”
I stayed quiet, chewing on the inside of my cheek.
“Look,” she said, sighing. “If you really don’t want him, I’ll back off. But if you do… don’t wait until it’s too late.”
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know.
And that scared me more than anything.
I ended the FaceTime call and dropped my phone onto the couch cushion like it might bite me.
“Don’t wait until it’s too late,” I muttered, mocking Nora’s warning. “Great. Super helpful. Thanks, Nor.”
The pit in my stomach pulsed, low and mean.
I shoved my earbuds in and turned up the lo-fi playlist—white noise for a brain I couldn’t shut off. I opened up my spreadsheet tabs again and pretended my inbox didn’t have ten unread messages with Kieren’s name attached to them in some form.
Sponsorship reports. PR tracking. The influencer activation deck Cam asked for. It was all here, all waiting. All controllable. Numbers made sense. Emotions didn’t.
I wished I still did interviews. Wrote innocuous game blogs. But dating a professional soccer player didn't really give me that opportunity anymore. Instead, I was an extension of the team's PR.
Fuck.
I could do this.
Until my phone buzzed again, Cam’s name lighting up my screen.
Hey. I'm sure you saw Kieren's meltdown the other day.
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. I didn’t answer.
A second buzz followed.
Also… thought of another fake date. Could be good PR. Let me know.
My stomach twisted.
I should’ve said no. I wanted to say no. But saying no meant acknowledging the reason why. And I couldn’t afford that—not right now. Not when everything already felt like it was splintering.
I stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box, teeth worrying my lower lip.
Kieren’s voice surfaced, raw and close: “You want me to back off? Say it. Say the words.”
But I hadn’t. And I hadn’t texted him since. And he hadn’t either.
So maybe that was my answer.
I finally typed back:
What kind of date?
A moment passed. Then:
There’s a fundraiser dinner in Holland. Black tie. Press will be there. Could be good for the “protective boyfriend” angle. You know, soften his image post-Theo blowup.
I felt myself go cold, even as my hands stayed steady.
Right. The blowup. The locker room story everyone pretended not to know but couldn’t stop whispering about. That stupid video floating around of Theo flinching when Kieren got in his face. We were barely holding the narrative together as it was.
And now I was supposed to sell the fantasy again.
I swallowed the knot forming in my throat and typed back:
Sure.
I stared at the message for a long second before exiting out.
Then I looked at my reflection in the black screen—just a blur of tired eyes, pale skin, lips chewed raw.
This was the job. I’d chosen it. I’d signed the contract. This was the brand.
I whispered the lie I needed to believe:
“It’s not real. It’s work. I can do work.”
And I threw myself back into it—because it was the only thing that didn’t feel like it might break me.
I didn’t mean to open Twitter.
It started as an innocent lunch scroll—thirty seconds to decompress while I waited for the microwave to finish whirring my sad little leftover pasta.
But then I saw it.
Trending: #KakashiToStorm
My thumb froze mid-scroll. I blinked. Refreshed the page. The hashtag was real. Climbing fast.
I clicked.
And immediately fell into the rabbit hole.
One fan posted a Photoshopped image of Kakashi in a SWM Storm jersey, grinning like it was already official. Another shared a blurry shot of him at an airport—our airport, apparently—captioned: “?? Stevensville? Why else would he be here??”
A sports journalist I half-follow posted: Sources say Kakashi will be in Michigan next week. Could a meeting with SWM Storm’s front office be on the horizon?
I nearly choked on my lukewarm pasta.
Kakashi Hayashi.
THE Kakashi Hayashi.
Five-time Ballon d’Or winner. Olympic gold medalist. A living legend. And possibly the most marketable athlete in the world.
I dropped the plastic fork into the Tupperware, completely forgotten now. My fingers moved fast, collecting screenshots, opening Slack, flipping between tabs.
If this was true—if he was seriously considering joining the Storm—it could be the biggest acquisition in franchise history.
I stood up, pacing, already rehearsing pitches. Media rollouts. Exclusive interviews. A full rebrand campaign centered on legacy, fire, loyalty. The kind of campaign that could reshape the team’s image—and bury the tension between Kieren and Theo in a wave of hype.
I should be excited.
And I was. On paper.
But something tightened in my chest, anyway. Something quiet and ugly.
Because if this went through, Kieren wouldn’t just have to share the spotlight.
He’d be standing next to a man the world had already decided was everything he should be. Polished. Charming. Safe.
And I would have to market that. Package it. Sell it.
We'd probably do a quiet breakup to give Kakashi the spotlight.
Which was good.
I closed the app and leaned both hands on the counter.
Focus.
This was good for the team. Good for the brand. Good for me.
And maybe—just maybe—if I kept working hard enough, fast enough, like none of this touched me, then someday it would actually be true.
I picked up my phone again and opened Cam’s text thread.
Heard anything official about Hayashi?
The dots appeared almost immediately.
Nothing confirmed. But the buzz is loud for a reason.
I blew out a breath, eyes on the window. The sky outside was still that soft, winter gray—overcast, like it couldn’t decide whether to rain or snow.
A perfect day for rumors.
And for burying myself in work before I felt too much again.
Except…
I didn’t mean to fall down a social media rabbit hole. Honestly. I was going back to work. But then… One second I was scrolling Twitter over half-eaten sushi, and the next I spotted Leo’s profile pic—my college friend turned international football journalist—tagging the SWM Storm.
@LeoWritesFooty: ?? If the rumors are true, the Midwest is about to become the center of the fútbol universe. #KakashiToSWM #HayashiHighlights
I clicked the link before I could talk myself out of it. The headline hit like a caffeine jolt:
From Golden Boy to Free Agent: Why Kakashi Hayashi Might Be Headed Stateside
Leo’s article started strong.
By the time Kakashi Hayashi was 18, the world already knew his name.
At 37, he’s still the face of international football—unstoppable on the pitch, untouchable in the record books. But off the field? Everything changed.
I leaned closer, ignoring the blinking cursor in the spreadsheet I’d been working on.
The rumors began six months ago, when Hayashi abruptly withdrew from a multi-million euro sponsorship. Shortly after, Rumi Hayashi—his wife and high school sweetheart—deleted every photo of him from her social media accounts.
Japanese tabloids speculated, but now sources close to the couple confirm: Rumi had been involved in an affair with none other than Juan Ruiz.
Yes, that Juan. The longtime rival. The bitter nemesis. The man whose name is practically always spoken in the same breath as Hayashi’s.
Caught together at a resort in the Canary Islands, it wasn’t just a betrayal. It was calculated.
“He could’ve retired,” one source said. “He had every reason to walk away. But he didn’t. He finished out the season with FC Tokyo, led them to another league title, and walked away like a king.”
I swallowed hard, eyes darting to the next paragraph.
Now a free agent, Hayashi is reportedly in talks with multiple clubs—but SWM Storm has emerged as a frontrunner.
A visit to their Michigan front office is rumored for next week.
Sources say he’s looking for a fresh start away from the scrutiny of Japanese media. A new league. A new city. A new legacy.
But more than that? He wants control back.
“This isn’t about legacy,” the same source told me. “It’s personal now. He’s got something to prove—and he’s not done yet.”
I stared at the screen long after I finished reading.
A player like Hayashi would be a dream for any club. But for ours? It would be a nuclear bomb of press, hype, and expectations.
My fingers hovered over my phone, debating whether to forward the article to Cam.
But I already knew—he’d seen it. Probably bookmarked it.
Probably had a new PR campaign bubbling in the back of his brain.
Hell, I wouldn't be surprised if he was part of the article as one of these sources, hoping to tip the scales in the Storm's favor.
I sat back, trying to pretend my pulse wasn’t racing.
Kakashi freaking Hayashi.
This was going to get messy.
And maybe… brilliant.
I set my phone down, the article still glowing faintly on the screen.
Kakashi Hayashi.
That name alone could carry us through the rest of the season’s PR chaos. The speculation alone had already yanked the media’s attention from Kieren’s “mystery girl” and back where it belonged—on transfers, strategy, and the future of the Storm.
Maybe this was a good thing. A reset.
A way out.
I took a long sip of lukewarm tea and stared out the office window. My reflection looked tired. Not tragic, not broken—just… tired. And maybe that was okay.
Because the more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
Kieren had been emotional. That night, the way he’d looked at me—it wasn’t real.
Not fully. It was heat and history and pent-up frustration finally boiling over.
I didn’t doubt that he felt something, but love?
No. Not the kind that sticks. Not the kind that makes someone stay.
He’d realize it soon enough. Realize I wasn’t what he thought I was.
I wasn’t fearless. I wasn’t soft. I wasn’t someone you fell into and got to keep.
He’d find someone else—someone easier. Someone without all this weight wrapped around her ribs. Someone who didn’t flinch at the idea of being known.
And I would be okay with that.
I wasn’t built for this, and I think I always knew it. Even when I loved him the first time. Even when I watched him walk away without asking me to come.
But now?
Now I know it for sure. That moment we had—beautiful, messy, doomed—it was done. And it gave me clarity, if nothing else.
I still had work to do. We had to finish what we started—this fake dating campaign, the PR push, the corporate deliverables, all of it. I gave my word, and I didn’t break that. I never had. He knew that about me.
So I’d do the job.
I’d wear the smile.
I’d sit next to him on the red carpet or the charity gala or the morning show and say all the right things.
And when it was over?
It was over.
No lingering texts. No late-night check-ins. No pretending it could’ve gone another way.
He made me feel something I thought I’d buried. But it didn’t change who I was—or who he was. We were on different paths. Always had been.
So let the spotlight shift to Kakashi. Let the fans obsess over his stats, his story, his comeback arc. Let the cameras turn.
I’d be right where I belong—behind them.
In control again.
Untouched. Unbothered.
Unbreakable.