Chapter 30
Kieren
The locker room felt colder than it should’ve, considering we’d just come off the pitch.
Our away game in Minnesota had been a disaster—flat, sloppy, and downright embarrassing. Coach Lawson stalked back and forth like a lion ready to maul someone, and honestly, none of us were safe. But his eyes kept flicking in my direction, and I knew the rant wasn’t just about tactics.
“This isn’t Sunday league, boys,” he snapped, voice echoing off the tile. “You let them press us like amateurs. No discipline, no spine, no fucking fight.”
I sat at my locker, peeling off my sweat-drenched jersey, keeping my gaze low. I didn’t need to see their faces to feel it—my teammates were tense, tired… and half of them blamed me.
Not for the loss. For the distraction.
For the headlines. The drama. The chaos Ryder left in his wake—and the fact that my name had been dragged through the mud right alongside his before the league cleared it all.
I hadn’t touched the guy. Didn’t need to. But I hadn’t exactly kept my mouth shut either.
Coach’s voice cut through again. “Midfield was a ghost town. We gave the ball away like we were desperate to lose.”
My jaw clenched. I had given everything on that pitch. Ran until my lungs burned. Took the knocks and got back up. But no one saw that right now. All they saw was the fallout.
They saw him—the guy who made the team’s PR nightmare worse.
A locker slammed shut behind me. Another player—Luis, I think—muttered something in Spanish under his breath.
When Coach finally stormed out, the silence was deafening. Some guys left right away, not even bothering to shower. Others lingered just long enough to make a point—passing behind me without a word, without a glance.
I sat there, unmoving, towel draped over my shoulders.
I didn’t care what the media thought. I could handle that heat.
But this? The cold shoulder from my own team? That cut deeper than I expected.
Maybe I deserved it.
Maybe they didn’t know the whole story.
Maybe they didn’t care.
All I knew was I hadn’t come this far to let it all fall apart because of one arrogant bastard and a few headlines.
I was here to play. To win. To protect what mattered.
Even if that meant standing alone in a room full of teammates.
Even if I had to earn my place back one goal, one assist, one breathless sprint at a time.
I’d done it before.
But this time, it wasn’t just for the badge on my chest.
It was for her.
"Now, get your asses out on the pitch," Reid barked from the doorway.
The sun was brutal that afternoon—high, hot, and merciless, like it had a grudge. We’d barely stepped onto the pitch, and sweat already clung to my neck under my training top. Coach barked for us to get moving, like we hadn’t just flown in six hours ago from a loss no one wanted to talk about.
I jogged out with the rest of the squad, cleats digging into the turf, muscles sore but coiled. This was home for me—the field. All the noise faded out here. All the pressure, the headlines, the side-eyes in the locker room. They couldn’t follow me between the white lines.
But the tension? Yeah, that stuck like glue.
Coach didn’t give us time to ease into anything. No light warm-ups or easy drills. We went straight into 3-on-2 defensive break scenarios. Of course he paired me with Luís and Jensen—two midfielders who’d barely passed to me all match yesterday. Subtle.
Ball got played in from the wing. One striker up top with speed, and two on the outside for support. We had to hold the line as defenders. No room for mistakes.
The first wave came fast. Jensen hesitated, and the striker nearly split us. I stepped in, body first, cut the ball off clean. No celebration, no applause. Just reset. Again.
We rotated. Over and over. Fast feet. Controlled aggression. Tactical movement. Defense wasn’t about glory—it was about consistency. About watching the hips, not the eyes. Timing the tackle. Reading what they’d do before they even knew they'd do it.
I lived for this.
Next round, the forward tried to fake inside and take me wide. I didn’t bite. Matched him step for step until I nudged him off the ball just enough to force a turnover. Coach blew the whistle. “Finally,” he muttered.
There were no smiles from the rest of the team. Just more drills. More silence.
We moved into full-field scrimmage. I took my place at center back, giving directions, barking orders, shifting the line with every attacking push. I could feel them watching me—my own teammates—like they were waiting for me to snap, or slip, or prove I didn’t belong.
But I didn’t give them anything.
When their forward came barreling in on a through ball, I read it early and intercepted before he could get his second touch. Quick pass to Cam. Reset. Reset. Reset.
The sun burned hotter. The session dragged. But I didn’t quit.
Not when someone muttered under their breath after I missed a clearance.
Not when a midfielder accidentally clipped me going for the ball.
Not even when Coach pulled me aside and said, low enough so only I could hear it, “Clean up the chaos off the pitch, Walker. Or you won’t be on it much longer.”
I didn’t answer.
Just jogged back into position, adrenaline sharp in my blood.
One clean tackle. One kept line. One earned breath.
I was a defender.
This was where I made my stand.
The second half of practice kicked off with a high press drill—relentless, punishing, the kind that left your lungs burning and your calves ready to cramp. Coach was out for blood after Minnesota, and none of us were safe from the fallout.
But I wasn’t thinking about the drills.
Not entirely.
Because Daphne was here.
I spotted her the moment we stepped back onto the pitch. She stood just outside the media line with her reporter badge clipped to her jacket, notebook in hand like it hadn’t just been her name dragged into headlines next to mine. Like she hadn’t just risked everything for me.
God, she looked good.
Hair down. Lips parted. Eyes tracking the ball, then darting back to me like she thought I wouldn’t notice.
I noticed.
I always noticed.
Luís barked my name as the ball zipped toward us, and I snapped back into motion, intercepting a pass and launching it upfield. Clean. Precise. But I didn’t linger on the play—I glanced back to the sidelines.
She was watching.
Pen poised, scribbling something down, but her mouth twitched like she was holding back a laugh.
Smug, smartass smile. The one that made me want to kiss it off her face. Slowly.
I turned away, jaw tight, forcing myself to focus.
The next rotation started—scrimmage-style transitions. I stayed sharp. I had to. I could feel the team’s eyes, Coach’s disappointment, the tension of barely-earned trust all riding on me holding the line.
But even with the weight pressing down, I caught her staring again.
This time I didn’t look away.
Just for a second, we held it—eye contact across the field, sweat running down my temple, sun high in the sky, and Daphne Sommers smirking at me like she knew exactly how far under my skin she lived.
And maybe she did.
She tilted her head slightly. Wrote something else down.
I didn’t know if she was taking notes for the piece she was working on, or just pretending to.
I didn’t care.
All I could think about was the way she looked the night she bailed me out, the way her hand felt in mine as we walked out of that hellstorm like we’d won.
I turned back toward the drill just as the next ball launched, springing into motion, calling out to Jensen to close in.
But her presence lingered—steady, grounding.
For the first time in days, maybe weeks, I felt like I could breathe.
Like I had someone on my team who wasn’t just here for the jersey, or the paycheck, or the fame.
She didn’t need me to be a hero.
She just needed me to be honest.
And that? That I could do.
Even if it killed me.
Practice wrapped with a brutal round of suicides—Coach’s way of punishing us even more. My shirt clung to me like a second skin, drenched and reeking of turf and sweat. I peeled it off on the walk back to the locker room, my lungs still burning and thighs screaming.
The moment I stepped inside, I knew I was in for it.
Adam was grinning like he’d been waiting all practice for this. Derek leaned against his locker with a towel around his neck, and Caleb was already halfway through a protein shake he definitely didn’t earn today.
"I mean, she's fucking hot," he admitted. "And smarter than you… which isn't saying much."
Derek chimed in, voice teasing, “Ten years younger and still runs rings around you, huh?”
Caleb chuckled. “Careful, Walker—next time it’s gonna be a PTA mom. Go full daddy era.”
I didn’t even blink.
“Jealousy’s not a good look on you, Adam,” I said, shoving my boots into the corner and grabbing a towel off the bench. “I can give you some pointers if you want, though. Might help you finally get a second date.”
The locker room roared.
Even Adam laughed, flipping me off before tossing his sweaty shirt at my head. I batted it away and sat down, letting the teasing roll over me like it didn’t matter.
Because it didn’t.
They could make jokes all they wanted. Daphne wasn’t some passing fling or a distraction. She was smart, sharp, stubborn as hell—and the first person in a long time who saw me, not just the headlines.
The room buzzed with after-practice chatter, guys yelling about dinner plans, laundry, tomorrow’s drills. But every now and then, I caught them glancing at me—not just with amusement.
With respect.
It wasn’t loud, and it sure as hell wasn’t unanimous. But it was there.
Even after the arrest. Even after Ryder.
I was still Kieren Walker.
And they hadn’t forgotten.
I spotted her the second I jogged out of the locker room, still dripping with sweat and buzzing from the drills. Daphne was standing just off the sideline, her reporter badge clipped to her belt and her stupidly cute notebook in her hands—same one she always scribbled in, half notes, half snark.
She didn’t see me at first, too busy pretending she wasn’t watching me the entire damn time.
I made a beeline for her.
“Missed me?” I asked, wiping my forehead with the bottom of my shirt—mostly for effect.
Daphne didn’t even blink. “You missed that pass by at least a foot.”
I grinned. “That was a setup for Caleb. You just weren’t paying attention, Goldfish.”
She rolled her eyes, but I caught the way her lips twitched before the smile broke through. Soft. Fond. Like she was trying not to let it show how much she liked me and failing miserably.
God, I loved that look.
“You looked distracted during drills,” I added, stepping closer. “Can’t blame you. I mean, watching me in peak form? Hard to stay professional.”
“I was doing my job, you narcissist.”
“Uh-huh. You were absolutely objectifying me. I could feel it.”
“You wish.”
“I know,” I said, and before she could sass me again, I reached out and took her hand.
She let me.
Her fingers were small in mine, cool against the heat still radiating off me from practice. I didn’t stop there. My other hand found her waist, and I pulled her in, close enough to smell her shampoo, fresh and clean in contrast to the sweat and turf clinging to me.
“You’re gross,” she muttered—but she wasn’t moving away.
“You love it,” I said.
She didn’t answer.
I leaned in. Kissed her.
Messy. Impulsive. All want and no hesitation.
She kissed me back instantly, her hands sliding into my damp hair like she didn’t care about the sweat.
It was heat and friction, the kind of kiss that made the rest of the world blur.
I backed her up until we hit the side of the training shed, and she pressed forward like she was trying to burn through me.
She pulled back just enough to murmur against my mouth, “Still think you’re the best player on the team?”
I groaned, low in my throat, and kissed her again—deeper this time, my fingers bunching in the fabric at her waist. She didn’t fight me. If anything, she took control, stealing the breath from my lungs like I was the one being played.
No cameras. No contracts. Just us.
Just this.
It wasn’t polished or pretty—it was sweat and grass and adrenaline. But it was real.
And I’d take that over perfect any day.
I barely noticed the sound of footsteps crunching on gravel behind us until a sharp voice cut through the haze.
“Hey!”
We both jolted.
Coach.
Shit.
He was storming toward us from across the field, clipboard in hand and scowl dialed up to eleven. I stepped back from Daphne, but the damage was done—my hands were still on her waist, and her mouth was a little swollen from the kiss we’d just been caught in.
“Cool it, Walker,” Coach barked. “Unless you want another disciplinary review on my desk by morning.”
I straightened instinctively, but I couldn’t help the grin that tugged at my mouth. My adrenaline was still pumping—not from drills, but from her.
“Just… team bonding, Coach.”
Daphne turned a shade of pink that made my chest ache a little. But she didn’t back away. Didn’t pretend she hadn’t just been kissing me like I was her next story. She stayed exactly where she was, chin high, like she dared him to say more.
Coach muttered something under his breath and walked off, still grumbling.
I turned to her, still catching my breath. “You’re trouble, you know that?”
Her lips curled into a smirk as she reached up and brushed a blade of grass off my shirt like it didn’t just get there from her pushing me against the damn wall. “So are you.”
I raised a brow. “You complaining?”
“Not even a little,” she said, stepping closer. “I like trouble.”
I didn’t say it, but it hit me like a free kick to the ribs—she meant it. All of this—me, us, the fire, the fallout—she was choosing it.
I leaned in just a little, dropping my voice. “Then you’re in the right place, Goldfish.”
She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t fade. “You really need a new nickname for me.”
“Nope,” I said, taking her hand again, twining our fingers together. “That one’s staying.”
We lingered there for a second longer, the sounds of the field fading around us—players clearing off, whistles blowing, cleats scuffing dirt. But for a moment, all I could focus on was the heat of her hand in mine and the look in her eyes that said she wasn’t going anywhere.
Trouble? Yeah. We were neck-deep in it.
But hell if it didn’t feel like exactly where I belonged.