Chapter 27
Daphne
I was halfway through my morning coffee when the world tilted.
It started as a notification—one of those red numbers I’d been trying to ignore all week. Then another. Then ten.
I finally caved and opened Twitter.
And there it was.
A shaky video, filmed from someone’s phone inside the MLS Network studio. Blurry, grainy, chaotic—but unmistakable. Kieren.
Fists flying.
Reporters shouting.
Cameras rolling.
For a heartbeat, my brain refused to process it. My thumb hovered over the screen, waiting for context, for someone to say it wasn’t real. But the caption was already viral: “Kieren Walker attacks Ryder Blake on-air.”
My name was in the comments before I even scrolled.
“He lost it over that reporter chick.”
“Guess the romance wasn’t so fake after all.”
“She ruins everything she touches.”
My stomach dropped so fast I thought I might actually be sick.
I turned the volume on. The sound was awful—background screaming, producers shouting—but I caught one phrase clear as day. Ryder laughing. Then Kieren’s snarl, low and furious. Then chaos.
I set my phone down, but my hand wouldn’t stop shaking.
He’d done it. He’d actually done it.
I pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead and whispered, “Oh my gosh, Kieren…”
Every journalist instinct in me knew what would happen next—the headlines, the think pieces, the pundits tearing him apart. The network would spin it, the team would scramble, and PR would light itself on fire trying to salvage what was left.
I was going to burn by proximity. Again.
My name was trending by the time I refreshed the feed. Hashtags everywhere: #StormScandal, #DaphneSommers, #WalkerMeltdown.
Someone had pulled an old photo of us together—him smiling down at me like I was the only person in the room. It was captioned: “Worth fighting for?”
I wanted to throw my phone across the room.
I didn’t ask him to do this. I didn’t want this.
I’d told myself he’d realize it was a mistake. That the night in the hotel, the kiss, the chaos—it would all fade once the season started again. He’d find someone easier, someone safer, and I’d get to go back to being the woman behind the story, not inside it.
But that was a fantasy.
Now it was too late.
Every outlet would link my name to his. Every camera flash, every whisper, every clipped headline—me, the reporter who couldn’t keep her distance.
The worst part wasn’t the fear. It was the guilt.
He’d done this for me. I knew that. I could see it in every punch, every furious word.
And all I could think was: He’s going to lose everything.
My phone buzzed again—Nora, probably, or Cam, or maybe the league PR team ready to feed me a statement.
But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Because no matter how much I wanted to hate him for what he’d done…
All I could feel was the echo of his hands on me, the sound of his voice when he said I was worth fighting for.
And that scared me more than any headline ever could.
I stared at the screen, barely able to breathe, and then did the only thing I could think to do—called Cam.
He answered on the first ring.
“I know,” he said, his voice low and grim.
No preamble. No hello. Just I know.
That was all it took for the pressure in my chest to start building again.
I pressed the phone tighter to my ear. “Is he okay?”
There was a pause. A silence that screamed.
“He’s… not great.” Cam exhaled hard, like he’d been holding his breath too. “He snapped, Daphne. I think—I think this time he really lost it.”
I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned back against the wall. “What happened?”
“Blake was on-air, running his mouth. The usual passive-aggressive crap, but then…” Cam trailed off for a second. “Then he made it personal.”
My stomach turned. “How personal?”
Cam hesitated. “He said you slept your way into the locker room. Implied that your… relationship with Kieren was how you got those exclusives.”
Heat flooded my face. I didn’t need to hear the exact words. I could already imagine them. Blake was always circling that line—smirking when he said my name, pretending he wasn’t being deliberately sexist.
But this time, he’d said it live. On a mic.
And Kieren heard him.
“I think he crossed a line,” Cam said, quieter now. “A line not even this fake relationship can fix.”
I sank to the floor, knees pulled to my chest. My voice barely came out. “Is he in jail?”
“He will be, if the team can’t get the lawyers in fast enough. It’s all over the news already. TMZ’s camped outside the precinct. Some intern just sent me a TikTok of him in handcuffs with Wicked Games playing over it.”
I laughed. I didn’t mean to, but it came out sharp and broken. “Of course they made an edit.”
“Daph.” Cam’s voice softened. “He did it for you.”
“I didn’t ask him to.”
“I know. But he didn’t care. He heard that bastard say your name like that and… he couldn’t let it go.”
I swallowed. Hard.
My head throbbed with everything at once—the video, the trending hashtags, the weight of being that girl again. The woman who caused the scandal. The one who made a man lose his temper.
“He ruined his career,” I whispered. “For me.”
“Maybe,” Cam said. “Or maybe he just did what no one else was willing to. Including you.”
That stung. Not because he was wrong, but because part of me had known it. Kieren had always been fire and instinct. He didn’t wait for permission.
And he’d gone to war with a network for my name.
“Do you think he regrets it?” I asked, voice tight.
“I think he regrets everything right now,” Cam said. “But not for the reason you think.”
The line went quiet for a second.
Then he added, “He loves you, Daph. And now the whole world knows it.”
I stared down at my phone, still trembling.
The thing was—I wasn’t sure which terrified me more: the fallout… or the truth in those words.
I didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t think. Didn’t breathe.
I was already out the door, keys in hand, adrenaline turning my blood electric. I barely remembered locking up, barely remembered the drive—just the blur of red lights and my fingers clenched tight around the steering wheel.
By the time I reached the station, the media was already there—camped outside like vultures. Cameras flashing. Reporters murmuring into microphones like this was some goddamn red carpet event. My name was probably trending again, and I didn’t care.
I shoved past them, jaw tight, heart slamming. “I’m here for Kieren Walker,” I told the desk officer, and when he raised an eyebrow, I added, “He’s expecting me.”
A lie. But it didn’t matter. My name still held enough weight in this town to unlock doors—doors I had no business opening.
And then I saw him.
He was being led through the hallway, flanked by two officers. His lip was split. His knuckles were raw and swollen. His hair was a mess and his eyes—God, his eyes—were still burning like he hadn’t stopped fighting. Not even now.
My breath caught.
He looked like war. And he’d gone to battle for me.
“Kieren,” I said, stepping forward. I could feel everyone watching—cameras recording, whispers stirring—but in that moment, it was just him and me.
His gaze snapped to mine, wild and furious and heartbreakingly alive. And then something cracked in him. Like seeing me pulled him back from whatever edge he’d been standing on.
He didn’t say anything. Just stared. Like he wasn’t sure if I was real.
I stepped closer, my voice shaking. “What the hell were you thinking?”
His mouth twitched, part pain, part defiance. “I was thinking Blake shouldn’t get to talk about you like that.”
My throat tightened.
He looked awful. Reckless. Stupid. Brave. Mine.
And suddenly I wasn’t mad—I was furious. At Blake. At the cameras. At a world where a woman could be dragged through the mud on-air and the only one who stood up for her ended up in handcuffs.
I reached out and took his hand—bruised, bloodied, trembling.
And I didn’t let go.
The silence was deafening.
After I signed the paperwork, handed over the bail, and watched Kieren walk out of that station—still bruised, still bleeding, still looking like every part of him ached—I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. My throat was tight. My heart felt like it had been put through a meat grinder.
He followed me out without asking where we were going. No cocky quip. No deflection. Just quiet footsteps behind mine, like even he didn’t know what came next.
The car ride was more of the same.
Rain slicked the windshield as we pulled out of the parking lot.
The radio was off. My hands stayed at ten and two, white-knuckled on the wheel.
Kieren sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window like the world had shrunk to a point he couldn’t see beyond.
The city moved past us in a blur of wet pavement and yellow lights, but in the car, time felt slow—stretched thin by everything we weren’t saying.
I could feel his heat. His presence. The gravity of him. Even battered and bruised, Kieren Walker radiated intensity like it was stitched into his bones. But right now? He looked a little lost.
I glanced at him once at a red light.
His lip was swollen, cracked. There was blood at the collar of his hoodie. His knuckles were torn up bad—split skin, already bruising, fingers twitching now and then like he still wasn’t done fighting.
“You should’ve let someone else handle it,” I said softly, eyes back on the road.
He didn’t answer right away.
Then: “No.”
Just that. No apology. No justification. No regret.
I swallowed hard. My chest burned.
“What you did—” I started, but my voice cracked. “It was reckless.”
He exhaled. Not a sigh. Just air, forced from lungs that didn’t seem to know how to relax.
“He said you slept your way up,” he muttered finally. “On air. Live. Like you were nothing. Like what we’ve done was a joke.”
“It was a joke,” I said, too sharp, too fast.
Kieren flinched like I’d slapped him.
I immediately hated myself for it.