Chapter 2
“Did you see him, though?” I ask, holding my plate like it’s a prop in my one-woman drama. “He didn’t even smile. Not once. Just sat there looking like someone made him eat drywall.”
Bri’s curled up on the couch in her hoodie and fuzzy socks, legs tucked under her, ready for one of my rants as if it’s her favorite show.
She reaches into the paper bag in front of her for another spring roll.
“Probably because he’s rolling in cash. That contract?
For one year? I’d glare too. From my beach house. ”
I plop down beside her, chopsticks in one hand, sesame chicken in the other. “It’s going to be the longest year of my life.”
She laughs—because she’s mean like that. “You say that like it’s not going to give us endless content for our nightly debriefs.”
“You’re enjoying this too much.”
“Because you’re so dramatic.”
“Because he is so …ugh.” I shove a piece of chicken in my mouth and scowl at the coffee table like it owes me money. “Everyone is so obsessed with him. I posted one photo, one, and the comments section turned into a group thirst trap.”
“The man is hot.” Bri shrugs. “The glare adds to the aesthetic. He’s got that ‘I’m emotionally unavailable and will ruin your life in the best way’ vibe.”
“Even the men are simping,” I say, reaching for my phone. “Listen to this.”
I pull up my latest post and read some comments aloud with a dramatic flair.
“@striker4life: Daddy can ruin our playoff dreams and my marriage.” Bri snorts into her hoodie, so I keep going.
“And then @bootsandbiceps adds: I’d let him punch me in the face, and say thank you.
” Her laugh turns into a wheeze, and I bite back a grin.
“Oh, and my personal favorite, @coachkev: I’m not into dudes but … I get it now.”
Bri is full-on wheezing. “Okay, Kev!”
“I’m telling you, they’ve all lost it. It’s like his face has superpowers. I cannot work under these conditions.”
Bri raises her brows, smiling. “You know why you’re this upset, right?”
I arch a brow. “Because I’m surrounded by idiots?”
“Because you think he’s hot too.”
“Excuse me?”
“You do. You absolutely do. I saw your camera roll. Don’t even try to lie, your zoom lens was flirting.”
I snort. “I did not. I was doing my job. Professionally. Like a composed adult.”
“You were zooming in like you were planning your wedding hashtag.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, stabbing at the rice with my chopsticks. “I don’t have time for men. I practically live at the stadium. I follow the team around like a glorified digital groupie. Practice, interviews, press events, travel days … When am I supposed to meet someone?”
Bri tips her head, one brow lifting while the corner of her mouth fights a smile.
“You’re kidding, right? You spend every waking hour surrounded by very hot, very fit men, and most of them are very single. You could have your pick.”
I shake my head. “You know my rule about football players. They’re in a different world, famous, rich, constantly in the spotlight. I’d be asking for trouble. What if it blew up and I still had to see them every day? Disaster.”
She rolls her eyes, grinning. “Fine, then. That’s what dating apps are for,” she says, mouth half full of lo mein. “You need to get back out there. Get some action. Recharge the batteries, if you will.”
“I can’t do dating apps. I’m too recognizable. They see my picture and start feeding me Strikers trivia like I’m going to fall in love and hand them free tickets.” I pause. “Let’s not forget Pablo from two months ago or Xavier from five months ago. Remember the trauma?”
“Yikes.” Bri winces. “Okay, valid. But, what about that new app? What’s it called … Oh, Veil.”
“Veil?”
“Yeah. No pictures. No names. You create a profile with your interests and what you’re looking for, and that’s it. You talk. If you click, you earn the next step. You don’t see what they look like unless you decide to share. It’s all anonymous until you’re ready.”
I chew slowly, thinking. “That sounds … risky.”
“It’s basically digital pen pals with flirt potential. You could meet someone who actually likes you, not your job, not the team, not your player access.”
I poke at my food. My stomach’s full, and my brain is spinning.
The idea of connecting with someone on my terms?
Without being Googled to death or baited for favors?
It’s tempting. But I’ve been burned before, more than once, and anonymous or not, I’m not sure I have the bandwidth for another crash-and-burn.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
Bri leans back on the couch and mercifully, lets it go. “Wanna watch Love Island?” she asks with a grin.
“Always.”
She grabs the remote, and I settle back with my food. The show opens with abs, bikinis, and someone yelling in a British accent, and all I can think about is gray eyes, an Irish lilt, and a death glare that somehow made 85,000 people collectively swoon.
I am so fucked.
“Okay, but that recoupling? That was Oscar-worthy,” Bri says, wiping her cheek with the sleeve of her hoodie.
I nod, clutching my carton of lo mein like it’s emotional support food. “The way she said, ‘I choose him because he sees me’? Devastating.”
“I hope I’m that dramatic when I find love,” Bri says, stretching like a cat. “Anyway, I’m off. Early shift tomorrow. Try not to fall in love with any emotionally constipated goalkeepers while I’m gone.”
“No promises.”
She tosses a wink over her shoulder and disappears down the hallway, and just like that, the apartment is quiet.
I take a minute to clean up, then drag myself to my room. Hair in a messy bun, hoodie pulled over my knees, I settle in front of my desktop. Time to queue content, organize footage, and edit the six million clips I took today.
I work for about an hour, editing content from the press conference, but my brain keeps drifting back to the comments, the chaos, the sheer weight of Rogue’s presence on the team.
Every time I scroll past another shot of him—jaw tight, eyes narrowed, looking like he wants to be anywhere else—I can’t help but notice how ridiculously gorgeous he is.
There’s a wall built around him, sure, but even from behind the camera, I can see it doesn’t hide everything.
And then there’s Bri’s voice in my head, reminding me I should be getting back out there. Reminding me I need some kind of connection. Something real.
I stare at my phone. Then, without thinking too hard about it, I open the App Store.
Veil.
It has a simple white icon with a soft gradient background and a clean Serif font. I tap the download button before I can talk myself out of it.
The splash screen appears:
“Skip the filters, skip the show.
Just words, just truth, just letting love grow.”
Beneath it, the fine print scrolls across the screen, the app’s promise spelled out in clean lines, promising secrecy and anonymity. Create a profile, share your interests, and only reveal yourself when you’re ready. No likes, no swipes, no bios begging for attention, just conversation.
I bite my lip, hesitating.
Then I tap the large Create Profile option.
The screen prompts me with a question: Who are you—beneath the surface?
I take a deep breath and start typing.
I’m someone who believes in the quiet kind of love. The kind that feels like coming home. I want to find someone to laugh with, travel with, grow old with. I want late-night talks and morning coffee. A partner, not just a fling. Someone who’s ready for the kind of love that sticks.
It asks about interests, so I keep it honest.
I love spending time with my friends, going on spontaneous adventures, and making memories that last longer than a camera roll. I’m a big fan of movie nights, bad reality TV, and thunderstorms. I’ll take pancakes for dinner, and I firmly believe pizza is a food group.
And because I can’t help myself, I add:
I own an unreasonable number of scrunchies, get emotionally attached to fictional characters, and will absolutely cry over videos of dogs seeing their owners come home from deployment.
I sit back and read it over. It’s honest, it’s real, it’s me. No name, no pictures, just … me, behind the veil.
The rest is shockingly simple.
A few final questions pop up.
Preferred distance? I slide the marker to within 50 miles. I’m not driving to Georgia for a date.
Preferred age range? I select 25–35. Firmly. No one who thinks of TikTok as “for the youth,” and no one who still lives with their parents “to save money.”
Who would you like to connect with?
? Men
? Women
? Both
I check Men, and the app gives a pleasant little ding like I’ve just cast a spell or summoned a demon. Hard to say which.
The screen reads: Finding someone to talk to …
A gentle loading animation swirls across the screen for a few seconds, then:
MATCH SUGGESTIONS
@RippedAndReady:
Who are you beneath the surface?
Just a guy who works hard and plays harder. Life’s too short for attachments. Let’s keep it fun.
Interests:
Hitting the gym, expensive whiskey, motorcycles, and women who don’t take things too seriously.
Options: [PASS] [MESSAGE] [SAVE FOR LATER]
I stare at the screen and press PASS so fast I nearly sprain my thumb.
“Cool,” I mutter. “You’re emotionally unavailable with a protein shake addiction. Next.”
@TequilaDaddy:
Who are you beneath the surface?
I’m here for a good time, not a long time.
Interests:
Hookups, clubbing, tequila, and ‘deep convos’ that end with us in bed.
“Oh my God. Did a frat house build this man in a lab?”
PASS.
@EyesOnYou:
Who are you beneath the surface?
Wouldn’t you like to know ;)
Interests:
Not sharing anything until I know what you’re bringing to the table.
I squint at the screen, personally offended. “Sir. This is not a roast battle. Grow up.”
PASS.
@StillSearching:
Who are you beneath the surface?
I’m just a man looking for something real. Someone who gets it.
Interests:
Sunday morning runs, classic movies, quiet bookstores, and strong women.
Okay. Not bad.
I hover over Message, then hesitate.
“Don’t be fooled, Cat,” I whisper. “This is how Pablo got you.”
I sigh and tap Save for Later.
“Points for pretending to be decent. We’ll circle back.”
@HalfWritten
Who are you beneath the surface?
I’m someone learning that softness isn’t weakness. That solitude can be healing, but connection is what keeps us human. I believe in long walks without a destination, and conversations that last hours. I’m here because I want something real. Something that makes time stop.
Interests:
Old records. Last-minute road trips. Sunday mornings. Handwritten notes. The ocean at night. The smell of freshly watered grass.
I freeze, rereading that line.
The smell of freshly watered grass.
My chest does a weird little shift, like something just slotted into place. Out of all the lines I’ve read tonight, this one feels … honest.
I hover over the Message button. My thumb is actually trembling.
Do I really want to do this? To risk opening up again? To risk … feeling?
The little button glows, waiting. This profile doesn’t feel like a performance. It feels like someone who’s tired of pretending, and suddenly, I’m not just curious. I’m … intrigued.
I hesitate for half a second, then tap Message.
@OneLastLine:
Not to be dramatic, but I think your profile just restored a little of my faith in humanity.