The Keeper (Hearts on the Pitch #1)

Chapter 1

There’s nothing quite like the smell of freshly watered grass in the morning. A weird thing to love, I know, but for me, it smells like possibility. Like a clean slate and a good lighting setup. Like adrenaline and fresh reels just waiting to go viral.

The stadium hums with quiet energy. In two days, it’ll be packed with fans and noise and overpriced nachos. But today, it’s just me, my camera, and the team I’ve been capturing for three seasons.

I’m Catalina Arismendi—Cat, unless you’re my abuela—and I’m the social media manager for the Great Lakes Strikers Football Club. Which means, for the entire season, from opening day to the final whistle, my life revolves around cleats, chaos, and content.

Honestly? I love it. I love the thrill of documenting wins, the vulnerability in a postgame loss, the way a single photo can make someone feel like they’re part of something bigger.

I get to tell stories through the lens without ever having to be in front of it.

Which is perfect since I hate being the center of attention.

Except this season? That spotlight is about to burn brighter than ever.

Because he is here.

Roger Gallagher. Rogue. Legendary Irish goalkeeper. Former Premier League giant. The man with hands of stone and a fanbase that might actually shut down the Florida Turnpike.

Everyone’s talking about him. The league. The media. My group chat. One of the waterboys almost cried when he learned he’d be on towel duty during Rogue’s first home game. I wish I were exaggerating.

And me? I’m trying not to gag.

Don’t get me wrong—he’s good, one of the best, but he’s also cold, impossible to work with, and has a reputation for hating the press. And guess what I am? Press. With a camera and a mandate from the club to make him look lovable.

He’s scheduled to arrive today. His first official practice is in three hours. But of course, because the universe loves irony, he’s already here.

The Rogue has landed.

I sling my camera strap across my body and head toward the commotion because apparently, I enjoy emotional damage and secondhand embarrassment.

“Cat! There you are!”

That’s Emily, our brand-new assistant coordinator, and she’s practically skipping down the hallway like she’s about to meet a boy band.

Clutching a clipboard to her chest, she’s sporting a Strikers polo with every button undone, showing off her assets, and wearing enough eyeliner to survive a thunderstorm.

Confidence, clearly, is not something she’s short on.

“You’re just in time,” she gushes, grabbing my elbow as if we’re besties, which we are not, for the record. “I was told to escort Mr. Gallagher to the media office, and I thought, who better to introduce him to than our content queen herself?”

“Wow, lucky me,” I say dryly, trying to school my expression into something that doesn’t scream abort mission.

And then I see him.

Six-feet, four inches of lean, muscular, camera-unfriendly brooding intensity.

His dark hair is tousled in a way that says he doesn’t even have to try to look that good. Gray eyes that should be illegal in daylight. Arms—thick with muscle— stretch the sleeves of his gray Strikers tee in a way that has me questioning the structural integrity of the cotton.

He’s walking behind Emily, duffel in hand, shoulders squared, jaw set, not a hint of a smile anywhere near him.

“Mr. Gallagher!” She beams, stopping right in front of me. “This is Cat. She’s in charge of social media for the Strikers Football Club, so you’d better get acquainted. You’ll be seeing a lot of her this season.”

His gaze lands on me, slow and assessing, unreadable. His eyes sweep from my messy bun to the camera at my hip, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

“Cat,” he says, his voice low and steady, touched with an Irish lilt that makes my name linger on his lips. “Short for something?”

“Catalina,” I answer, proud of myself for saying an entire word.

He nods once. “Grand. Nice to meet you, lass.”

Lass.

What is this, Braveheart?

My spine snaps straight, like I’ve wandered into a Jane Austen adaptation and come face-to-face with Mr. Darcy for the first time—angry, broody temperament and all.

“This way,” I mutter, turning and nearly walking into the wall.

Behind me, Emily giggles and he chuckles. Chuckles, like the villain in a Netflix thriller who somehow still gets the girl.

I swallow hard and keep walking.

I do not like Roger Gallagher.

I don’t care how famous he is, or how nice his arms look in a team-issued T-shirt, and I definitely don’t care that the word lass now lives rent-free in my brain.

No. Absolutely not.

This man is a walking red flag in cleats, and I am not catching feelings for the damn goalkeeper.

If testosterone had a smell, it would be this room.

Suits. So many suits. All of them sweating through their overpriced blazers like they’re auditioning for the Wall Street Strikers. It’s a miracle the cameras aren’t fogging up.

You’d think we were interviewing a Victoria’s Secret model with the way these guys are panting. Their panties are so soaked someone might need to call facilities for a mop.

Meanwhile, I’m posted up off to the side of the stage—camera slung over one shoulder, one phone in my hand and the other mounted on a tripod beside me, streaming live on the Strikers’ official account.

The fans love getting an inside look before the networks roll out their polished version.

It’s how I’ve been able to grow the page so quickly, keeping them in the loop with everything, and Rogue arriving? That’s huge.

I’m working double-time—filling feeds with photos and updates before the networks can catch up, while also snapping official shots with my camera, the kind that could end up in the Strikers’ museum one day.

The bag at my feet is packed with backup batteries; if today decides to test me, I’ll be ready.

This is why I have this job—and why I’ve kept it, even though the Strikers are one of the newest teams in the MLS.

I don’t just post the final score. I show the fans their favorite players’ sweaty jerseys, the pregame rituals, the unfiltered chaos.

I bring them inside. I make them feel part of the team, and right now, I’m trying to figure out how to make a brick wall in cleats look human.

Rogue Gallagher sits center stage, jaw tight, arms crossed, looking like someone just asked him to donate a kidney.

I snap a burst of photos, shifting angles and playing with the zoom, then scroll through them. All serious, all brooding, all deeply allergic to joy.

Smile, I mouth to him, raising my brows and gesturing with my camera.

He meets my eyes dead-on and gives me a death glare so sharp it could cut through turf.

Well, then.

I roll my eyes and pick the least-murdery photo from the set. It’s either that or post a black square that says, “We tried.”

I tap out the caption:

The Rogue is in the house. Try not to faint. #WelcomeRogue #StrikersFC #StillNoSmile

The second I hit post, the likes start rolling in.

@soccerhoney13: literally deceased.

@goaliegirl88: he could death stare me into next week and I’d thank him

@strikerswife: finally someone hot enough to make our team relevant

@catlewisfan: give him a hug from us

No. I will not.

I glance back at the live stream.

Twenty … no, twenty-three thousand active viewers.

Huh. Not bad.

I flip open my messages and text Bri.

ME:

this man is such an asshole. I cannot stand him.

It takes all of two seconds before she responds.

brI:

but he’s so hot tho. look at him glaring at everyone. it’s giving zaddy.

ME:

you’re watching??

brI:

ofc i’m watching. me and the entire city of Great Lakes is on this live rn.

I blink, then check the live counter again.

Eighty-five. Thousand. Viewers.

My phone’s practically vibrating off my palm from all the comments. People are blowing up the feed like it’s the World Cup.

I should feel thrilled. Numbers like this are career-making. This live is already the most-viewed post I’ve ever put out, and if it keeps up, they might finally give me the assistant I’ve been begging for.

But beneath it all is this creeping, inevitable dread …

I’m going to have to work with him. A lot. Travel with him, film him daily, and spin this broody grump into someone the fans find charming. That kind of a lot.

And if this is how he looks sitting down in a chair in a climate-controlled media room, I can’t wait to see what a practice session is like.

God help me.