Chapter 26
Kieren
My phone wouldn’t stop vibrating.
At first, I ignored it—groggy, half-asleep, arm slung over the side of the bed. But then the buzz turned into a chorus. One call. Two. Then a flood of texts.
I cracked an eye open and reached for it.
12 missed calls.
Group chat: exploding.
My stomach twisted before I even opened anything.
CLOSET VIDEO.
Did you see??
Walker/Sommers closet — WTF
My heart stopped. I sat up, fully awake now, and clicked the first link.
It was grainy. Low-res. Some shaky, unauthorized camera angle from what looked like a security feed—greenish hue, timestamp in the corner. Two people in a dim service closet.
One of them was me.
The other was unmistakably Daphne.
Her hair. Her dress. Her mouth on mine. My hands around her waist.
And then—mercifully—it cut before anything more intimate could be captured. But the implication? The context? All there.
My blood turned to ice.
Within seconds, I was doomscrolling. Headlines were already rolling in.
“Storm Scandal: Couple Caught in Intimate Tryst.”
“Kieren Walker — Is This the Real Reason for the Rebrand?”
“Ethical Breach or Just Bad Timing?”
Some were savage. Some were downright gleeful.
Fans were split—some cheering, some ripping us apart. Trolls had a field day. The kind of dirt that made its way into every sports blog, every podcast, every DM I hadn’t muted.
I went to the group chat.
Adam: LMAO my guy, get it.
Caleb: [gif of someone clapping slowly]
Cam: Delete Twitter. I mean it.
Cam (again): Damage control underway. Do NOT comment. Do not even like anything. I’m calling PR now.
Cam (third time): Who the hell leaked this?
Cam (again again): I know this is fake, but did you have to go hard? (No pun intended.)
My hands shook as I stared at the screen. I wanted to throw the phone across the room. Wanted to punch a wall. Wanted to go back in time fifteen hours and shut that damn door myself.
That moment was ours. And someone caught some of it. Leaked it. Turned it into clickbait.
The violation hit like a punch to the gut. What we had wasn’t for public consumption. It wasn’t a stunt. It wasn’t for them.
I scrolled again, searching for her name.
Daphne Sommers trending.
“Has she crossed a line as a journalist?”
“Was she leveraging access?”
“Is she even unbiased?”
I gritted my teeth so hard my jaw ached. No one was talking about me crossing any lines. It was all her. Like I wasn’t even in the damn video.
I called her. Straight to voicemail.
Again. Same result.
The group chat buzzed again.
Then Cam texted.
You need to lie low until we meet with PR. Minnesota trip might actually help now. Keep your head down. Eyes up.
I rubbed a hand over my face, jaw clenched so tight it hurt. I’d been in the public eye for years. Scandals, bad games, injuries—I thought I’d seen it all.
But this?
This was different.
This wasn’t just about press. This was about her.
And I didn’t know if she’d ever forgive me for it.
I called her. Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Same thing.
By the third time, I was gripping the phone so tight my knuckles ached. The ringing felt like an insult. The silence after felt worse.
I thumbed out a text:
Pick up.
No reply.
Another:
Daphne. Please.
Nothing.
The absence felt like an assault.
I sat on the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, phone dangling from my hand, and I pictured her—on her couch, hair pulled up, phone in hand, watching the world turn on her. Watching vultures circle. Reading headlines that made her out to be something she wasn’t.
The image burned.
Flash—her face lit up in that dim hotel room, cheeks flushed, eyes daring me to cross the line.
Flash—the way she’d breathed against my neck after I kissed her, soft and shaky.
Flash—the look she gave me in the cab window once, like she’d finally let me in.
Now all of it was on loop, playing behind my eyelids like some sick highlight reel. Every time I blinked, the grainy leaked footage blurred with the real memory, until I couldn’t separate the two.
I raked a hand over my face, dragging it down over my mouth to keep from shouting. The more I tried to reason with myself—to tell myself this was PR damage, not personal—the hotter the anger flared.
This wasn’t a stunt. This wasn’t a contract. This was her.
Someone had taken what we’d kept between us—messy, fragile, unfinished—and turned it into a weapon.
And now she wouldn’t pick up.
My phone buzzed again—Cam. Another message.
Stay calm. PR will handle this. We’ll meet tomorrow.
I ignored it. My thumb hovered over Daphne’s name, about to hit dial again, knowing it’d go nowhere.
I’d been humiliated before. Booed off the pitch. Injured. Mocked by the press. But this? Watching her go silent on me again?
This was different.
I wasn’t sure if she was punishing me or just drowning.
I stood up, pacing the room like a caged animal, clenching and unclenching my fists. I needed to do something. Go to her. Kick down a door. Find whoever had leaked that clip. Anything.
But all I had was this stupid phone.
I stared at her contact one more time, thumb trembling.
“I’ll fix it,” I muttered under my breath. “Whatever it takes.”
It wasn’t a promise to Cam or the team. It wasn’t even a promise to her.
It was a vow to myself.
Because I’d already lost too much.
And I wasn’t about to lose her without a fight.
My phone buzzed.
Adam: Do NOT turn on Good Morning MLS.
Which, of course, meant I turned on the damn TV.
The second the channel loaded, I regretted it.
There he was.
Ryder Blake. Grinning like a fox on live television, smug in his suit, sitting on that too-shiny sports desk set. A cohost leaned back, already laughing at something he’d said. Ryder held center court like he owned it. And I could tell—he’d been waiting for this.
“—look, I’m not saying she doesn’t know how to work a room,” Ryder was saying, voice slick as oil. “But come on. Sommers has always been… ambitious.”
The host chuckled. “You would know.”
“Oh, I would,” Ryder said, all mock innocence. “She’s good at getting close to sources. Guess we finally got it on video.”
Laughter again.
My jaw locked.
He kept going. “I mean, some people chase stories. Others wrap themselves around ‘em. Whatever gets the headline, right?” He looked directly into the camera, smiling like a snake. “Slick girl. Knows what she’s doing.”
My blood turned to static.
I stepped closer to the screen like distance could dull the rage. It didn’t. I watched his mouth move, his smirking lips as he gutted her live. I’d heard insults before. I’d been the subject of more than a few.
But this?
This wasn’t just PR fire. This was personal.
Every word was a blade. Every comment was laced with venom only someone who knew her—used her—could deliver.
I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms.
He called her opportunistic. Accused her of trading favors for access. Framed her like she was sleeping her way to a byline.
And the worst part?
The tone. Not outraged. Not even critical. Just gleeful. He was enjoying this.
I grabbed the remote and turned the volume down before I put my fist through the screen. But it was too late. I’d heard it all.
Another buzz, Cam.
Do NOT engage on-air. PR is already working on it.
I threw my phone on the couch. Turned back to the screen.
Callers were chiming in now. People speculating. Trash radio opinions turning into trending hashtags.
Daphne’s name was being dragged across every chyron, her face framed next to mine like we were co-conspirators in some scandal—when all we did was feel something real for five damn minutes.
I could handle the fallout. I’d been built for it.
But not this.
Not her being painted like some manipulative groupie. Not by him.
My vision tunneled. My heartbeat pulsed in my ears.
I wanted to walk into that studio and shut Ryder up permanently. Consequences be damned.
Instead, I stood there, shaking, biting down the need to burn the whole league down.
Because I knew what Daphne was probably thinking right now.
That maybe Ryder was right.
And that thought? That was the one that finally broke me.
I did the thing adults are supposed to do.
I called Cam first.
He picked up on the second ring. “Don’t go anywhere near a camera,” he said before I even spoke. “We’re drafting a statement with PR. Invasion of privacy. We’ll spin it as an overreach. Press blackout.”
I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. The words felt like they were coming from far away.
Next, I called Matt, my agent. He was cooler, calmer, and twice as clinical. “Stay off socials. Let legal handle it. This is a privacy violation. They’ve crossed a line. We’ll get damages.”
Then Reid. Same measured tone. “You’re not to go to that studio, Walker. I’ll bench you if I have to. We’re protecting the team.”
All of them had the same message: stay put, stay quiet, wait.
Cameron even texted, triple-bolded like I was a child:
We’ll handle it. Statement coming soon. DO NOT go to the studio.
Their voices blurred together until they were just noise. I sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the phone, feeling like I was under water.
Because while they talked about PR and optics and legal pathways, Ryder Blake was sitting in a million living rooms with a microphone, gleefully turning Daphne into a punchline.
And I had promised her—one night, when everything had cracked open between us—that if anyone tried to ruin her, I’d do something. Not say something. Do something.
Now a man with a camera was actively trying to ruin her. And the “grown-up” advice was to let it blow over.
I couldn’t.
My world narrowed. The hotel room faded. The calls, the texts, the lawyer-speak—all gone. There was only her face in my head: the way she’d looked at me before she slipped out of that fundraiser closet, like she was already bracing for impact.
I stood up. Grabbed my jacket. My keys.
The rational part of me said this was a career-ending decision. That the team, the league, the sponsors—they’d all crucify me.