Chapter 24
Kieren
Cam called me into his office first thing the next morning.
I already knew what it was about. Didn’t even need to see the glare in his eyes or the ESPN tab still open on his desktop.
“Sit,” he said, voice tight.
I didn’t. Just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
He sighed like I was already making his blood pressure spike. “You need to soften the edge.”
I blinked slowly. “Good morning to you, too.”
Cam didn’t smile. “People still think you’re volatile after what happened with Theo. Now we’ve got footage of you barking at him like you were ready to throw down in the tunnel.”
“Did you see his apathetic play?”
“I know. And off the record? I would’ve decked him too.” Cam paused, then added, “But the cameras caught the worst angle, and you looked like a rabid dog. Which means we have a PR problem. Another one, I should say."
I blew out a slow breath. “So we spin it.”
Cam nodded. “Exactly. Protective boyfriend. Emotional growth. She grounds you. You bring her to the fundraiser tomorrow night—hand on her back, tux that fits, maybe a few smiles that don’t look like a threat.”
I scoffed. “How long do you want me to keep doing this?”
He gave me a look. “Until we get Hayashi and people will be more interested in that than how volatile you are. What's going on? Did something happen with her? You know what? I don’t care what happened between you two, and I’m not asking.
But this helps you. The board sees it. The league sees it.
You want to keep the captain’s armband next season?
You don’t just need goals. You need polish. ”
I pushed off the doorframe and stepped inside, jaw tight. “You want me to keep lying."
“Well, when you put it like that…” Cam said, calm and direct. “I want you to put on a damn suit and not punch anyone for two hours.”
I almost laughed. Almost.
But instead, I rubbed the back of my neck and stared out his window, down toward the practice field where some of the guys were already warming up. The sun was high and blinding. Or maybe that was just my mood.
I’d screwed up the other night. I knew it the second she flinched when I stepped toward her. I hadn’t meant to push. I hadn’t meant to look at her like that—like I still needed her the way I did that night.
But I did. And it terrified her.
“She won’t go,” I said quietly.
"She already said yes," he said.
That shut me up.
The Aston Martin pulled up in front of her apartment just after six.
I hadn’t texted.
Because I was a fucking coward.
I’d spent the last twenty-four hours pacing my condo, half-thinking I’d just show up and apologize, the other half reminding me she probably didn’t want to see me at all. Cam said two hours. In and out. Wear a suit. Play nice. Damage control.
But this—seeing her again—was going to gut me.
I adjusted the cufflink on my left wrist for the third time, then gave up. My fingers were restless, my head louder than I wanted it to be. I didn’t go to the door. Left that to the driver. I couldn’t face the space we used to fill together—not yet. Not until I saw what I’d already lost.
Then she stepped outside.
And I forgot how to breathe.
Her dress was a deep burgundy, the kind that made you think of wine and sin and soft candlelight.
Off the shoulder, sleek as hell, like it’d been made to hug every inch of her.
Her hair was pinned up, loose curls framing her face.
Gold earrings caught the last bit of sunlight, but it was her eyes that undid me.
She looked composed. Confident. Like the storm last night hadn’t touched her at all.
“You clean up good, Walker,” she said casually, voice light, almost teasing.
Like nothing had happened.
Like we hadn’t broken whatever thread was left between us.
So that was how she wanted to play it.
Fine.
I could do that.
“Not so bad yourself,” I managed, my voice steady even though I could feel my ribs tightening like a damn vice.
She smiled. Just a hint. And the relief on her face nearly dropped me to my knees.
Because it was there—in the tiny flicker behind her eyes.
She’d been scared I’d make this worse. Scared I’d push. That I’d ask for something she couldn’t give.
But I didn’t.
And that small breath she let out?
It broke me.
I opened the car door for her. “After you, princess.”
She rolled her eyes, but she smiled a little wider. “Don’t call me that.”
“Still not a fan of pet names?” I asked as she slid into the leather seat.
“I don’t like yours,” she said, lifting her chin.
I didn’t say what I wanted to—You used to.
Instead, I rounded the car and got in beside her, the silence between us comfortable and crushing all at once.
We were pretending now. Smiling for cameras. Playing parts we used to mean.
But the ache in my chest wasn’t fiction.
And every second I sat beside her, knowing she didn’t trust me with the truth anymore, hurt worse than anything Theo fucking did.
Because I could take a punch.
But I couldn’t take losing her again.
The ride was quiet. Not comfortable, not awkward. Just… stilted. Like we were both too aware of every word we didn’t say.
She smoothed her dress against her thighs, eyes fixed on the window, watching the city blur past.
“So,” she said after a long stretch of silence, her tone careful. “Kakashi Hayashi, huh?”
I grunted. “Yeah.”
“Big name. Huge following.”
“Don’t remind me.”
She glanced at me. “You don’t like him?”
“Didn’t say that.” I tightened my jaw. “Just don’t like what he represents.”
“Which is?”
“The circus.” I leaned my head back against the seat. “The press. The drama. The obsession with image over grit.”
She didn’t argue. Just hummed quietly and turned her gaze back to the window. "I heard he doesn't like it either. Just… wants to play."
It wasn’t fair—Hayashi hadn’t even signed yet—but the rumors were already clogging every feed, every post, every whisper. The golden boy of international football, freshly heartbroken, fresh off betrayal, ready to “reinvent himself in the MLS.”
Daphne’s voice was softer when she spoke again. “It could be good for the team.”
“Yeah,” I muttered. “Great PR move.”
She didn’t answer.
We pulled up to the entrance of the hotel, and the air changed.
Flashbulbs popped before the driver even opened the door.
The marble-covered facade of the Evermore Hotel gleamed under the city lights, the grand entry lined with deep red carpet and chrome stanchions.
Photographers pressed in along the barricades, all trying to catch a glimpse of someone worth their headlines.
Execs in tuxes.
Players in tailored suits.
Donors in designer everything.
It was a show. A carefully constructed illusion of wealth and power and control.
And I hated every second of it.
“Ready?” I asked, forcing a casual tone as I glanced at her.
She didn’t look ready. She looked like she’d been holding her breath since we pulled up.
But she nodded anyway.
“Let’s play pretend,” she whispered.
I stepped out first, the cameras flashing with a frenzy, then turned to offer her my hand.
She took it.
Her fingers were cold.
Her smile was practiced.
And when she stepped beside me, her other hand lightly brushing my arm like she meant it—like we were fine—I realized something brutal.
I didn’t want to pretend anymore.
The second we stepped out of the car, Cam was already there—clipboard in one hand, phone in the other, barking instructions like a wedding planner on deadline.
“Perfect,” he said, scanning us both. “Daphne, love the dress. Kieren, fix your posture—no murder-face. Cameras are live. Act like you’re obsessed with her.”
I didn’t have to act.
Cam ushered us toward the media wall, bright lights flaring like fireworks. Logos lined the backdrop—sponsors, league partners, the Storm’s crest shining dead center. A few of the younger players stood off to the side, tuxedoed and awkward, trying to stay out of the way.
“Stand closer,” Cam instructed, stepping back and angling his phone. “Arm around her, Walker.”
I slipped my hand around her waist, the silk of her dress cool against my skin. She leaned in just slightly—barely there—but it was enough. The flashbulbs responded like we’d kissed on cue.
Cameras clicked.
Someone shouted our names.
I smiled, or at least I tried to. Said the right things when a reporter asked about tonight’s cause. Nodded when they mentioned the team’s recent win. Even managed a brief laugh when they brought up Hayashi and the rumors.
But my eyes?
Always on her.
She smiled like a professional, head tilted just so. Her hand rested on my chest like she belonged there.
And God help me, I wanted her to.
A reporter—one of the snarky ones, always poking the bear—called out with a smirk, “So, Kieren, you bringing your girl to keep her from talking to Theo again?”
The question hit harder than it should’ve. I felt Daphne freeze just slightly, the muscles in her back going tight under my hand.
I looked straight at him. Let the smile drop.
“She doesn’t talk to boys who can’t finish games,” I said.
The silence was immediate, followed by a collective intake of breath from the surrounding press.
Then someone laughed—loud, surprised, a little stunned.
Boom. Mic drop.
The reporter’s smile twisted, but I was already steering Daphne forward, past the media and into the venue.
She glanced up at me, a smile as big as a pitch, but I could see the way her eyes narrowed slightly.
“That was… unnecessary,” she muttered, but her voice was tight, like she was trying not to smile.
I didn’t answer.
She knew why I said it.
And maybe, just maybe, she didn’t hate that I did.
We moved through the ballroom like we were born for it—her in that burgundy dress that made her eyes look like something out of a dream, me in a suit I barely noticed because all I could focus on was her.
My hand stayed anchored at her waist, a quiet claim.
Not that anyone else knew what we were really doing here.