Chapter 4
The sun isn’t even fully up yet, and I’m already pulling into the stadium parking lot with an iced chai in one hand and determination in the other.
First team practice of the season, first away game around the corner, and first full day dealing with the brooding Irish goalkeeper whose fanbase is breaking my DMs. And tomorrow?
The stakes get even higher. For the first time in Strikers’ history, the stadium will be packed not for a game, but for a welcome event.
Rogue’s welcome event. Fans, VIPs, famous faces, athletes, singers, models, you name it, all here for him, and I have to make sure absolutely nothing goes wrong.
My phone buzzes in my tote bag, so I tug it out as I walk toward the side entrance.
Anna—a.k.a. my younger sister, Marianna, a.k.a. my favorite agent of chaos—flashes across the screen.
“Hey,” I answer, wishing I could crawl back into bed.
“Well, well, well,” she purrs. “Look who remembered she has a sister. I haven’t heard from you since your big day yesterday with the European hottie.”
I groan. “Do not call him that.”
“Why not? He’s European. He’s hot. I’m just using adjectives.”
“He’s also a nightmare,” I mutter, pushing through the employee entrance. “Didn’t smile once during the press conference. Glared at me like I keyed his car, and now I have to make him look good for the entire season.”
“Oof. Grumpy and famous. Your kryptonite.”
“I’m being serious, Anna. I have to put my best foot forward. Like him or not, he’s a World Cup champion. This is massive for the team. Probably the biggest acquisition since Miami signed Messi. The fans are obsessed. Every post I made yesterday practically set the internet on fire.”
“Right, right,” she says. “But we’re just gonna ignore the fact that he’s totally your type?”
“He is not my type.”
“Oh, sorry, tall, emotionally unavailable, and Irish isn’t your thing anymore?”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
I open my mouth to fire back, but I round the corner into the hallway that leads to the media offices … and stop short. He’s already here, standing at the far end of the hall in front of the practice field doors, stretching one arm across his chest like this is his natural habitat.
Six feet four, lean but solid—broad shoulders, strong legs, carved like someone designed him to block the sun and shots on goal. I’ve seen him play. The goalpost looks almost comically small behind him.
His brown hair is a little tousled on top, like he just rolled out of bed, and he still looks criminally good. Sharp jawline, deep-gray eyes, serious expression—and, dammit, unfairly perfect.
My brain short-circuits for one embarrassing second, and I freeze mid-step.
“Hello?” Anna’s voice crackles in my ear. “Are you still alive or did you spontaneously combust?”
I startle. “What? No. I just …”
“Oh my God. You’re looking at him right now, aren’t you?”
I don’t respond fast enough.
“You are! You’re totally checking him out! What’s he wearing? Wait, no, don’t answer that, I want to imagine it. Is it tight?”
“You are the worst,” I mutter, keeping my voice low and hoping to keep Rogue from hearing me.
I fail.
He turns, catches me mid-stare, and instead of looking away, he checks me out—head to toe—with the same broody, unreadable expression he wore yesterday. Not flirty, not interested, just … assessing. Like he’s trying to decide if I’m a threat or a technical glitch.
I scramble.
“Okay, gotta go,” I whisper into the phone.
“Tell him I said hi!” Anna chirps.
“Stop. Also, don’t forget this weekend.”
“Oh, as if I could forget! Can’t wait to see you! Love you, bye!”
“Love you.” I end the call as I’m a few feet away from him. He’s still watching me.
Of course he is.
“Morning, lass,” he says, voice low and rough, as if it hasn’t fully woken up yet.
I freeze.
Lass. Really?
“Are we playing games and winning stupid prizes already?” I mutter.
“What?”
“Nothing. Good morning,” I say quickly, looking past him before I start spiraling again.
Before he can respond or death glare me into dust, a voice calls out from behind us. “Hey!”
We both turn.
Charging down the hallway like it’s a runway is Thiago Martínez, Strikers' second-string goalkeeper and certified sunshine in human form. He’s in his gray Strikers jersey, blue shorts, flip-flops, his cleats hanging around his neck, and he is carrying his thermos and mate like he’s about to give a TED Talk on the importance of hydration and vibes.
Tan skin, curly dark-brown hair held back by a sky blue headband, and a smile so big it could melt the turf. Brown eyes, thick lashes, pure joy.
“Hey, Thiago,” I say, already smiling back.
“??Qué hacés, campeona?!” he exclaims, wrapping me in a hug that smells of mint, sunscreen, and yesterday’s aftershave.
“Trying to survive,” I mumble against his shoulder.
Then he turns to Rogue and runs at him like a golden retriever discovering its owner after a long day at work.
Rogue doesn’t move.
“Hey man! I’m Thiago Martínez, your second string.
I’ve looked up to you my whole life. Meeting you like this …
It’s unreal. I can’t wait to train with you.
” His arms are still locked tight around Rogue, his face hovering just inches from his, grinning like he’s meeting his hero.
Rogue stiffens, then awkwardly pats Thiago’s back once.
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Thiago finally pulls back from the hug. “It’s so nice to meet you, man. Seriously. It’s a dream to work with you. Learn from you.” His words spill over themselves like he’s afraid he’ll forget them if he doesn’t say them all at once.
Rogue shifts his weight, clearly not sure what to do with all the praise. “I watched you on tape.”
Both Thiago and I blink in surprise.
“You … watched me?” Thiago echoes, surprise etched all over his face.
Rogue gives a tight nod. “Sub-17. Sub-20. And with Penarol.”
My eyebrows shoot up. That’s oddly specific. Are you telling me Broody McDeath-Stare actually did homework around Thiago’s short career?
“You’re good at what you do,” Rogue continues. “You’ve got potential. You could be greater than great.”
Thiago turns to me, needing a witness in this dream he is living, his mouth open wide. “Did he just say …?”
I sip my chai, unable to keep the grin off my face. Watching Thiago buzz with excitement while Rogue looks like he’d rather be anywhere else is the most thrilling thing I’ve seen all morning.
“Are you going to share the mate, or are you just going to stand there hugging it like it’s your firstborn?” Rogue says deadpan.
Thiago springs into action. “Right! Yeah! Of course.” He preps the mate like he’s been training his whole life for this moment.
“You drink mate?” I ask, arching a brow.
Rogue shrugs, eyes following Thiago’s practiced movements. “Griezmann got me into it.”
Ah, right. The reminder slaps me in the face like a cold wave. He comes from Europe. He’s played with legends. Of course he’s drank mate with Griezmann.
Cat, you are not supposed to like this man.
Thiago finishes and passes the gourd to Rogue, who takes it like he’s done it a hundred times, confident, comfortable, too comfortable. I can’t help but think about how this moment would make my father proud.
Thiago turns to me. “You want some?”
“Maybe later,” I say, lifting my to-go cup. “I’m going to stick to my chai for now.”
I reach into my back pocket and pull out my work phone. “Actually … would it be okay if I take a picture of you two? The fans would love to see the goalkeepers already bonding.”
Rogue shrugs with one shoulder, the mate still in hand. Damn, he’s attractive.
Thiago, on the other hand, lights up. “Yes, of course!” He practically jumps into place beside Rogue, holding the thermos with his left arm like it’s part of his uniform. He gives a big thumbs-up with his right hand, grinning so hard I feel the joy through the screen before I even snap the shot.
Rogue stands there, stoic, mate in hand. Not smiling, but not scowling either, which is probably as good as it’s gonna get.
I take a couple of pictures, different angles, good lighting. “Got it. Thanks, guys.”
As I lower the phone, Thiago steps closer—shoulder brushing mine—and leans in just slightly. “Can you send those to me?” he whispers, voice softer now. “I gotta show my dad.”
My heart does a little flip. He’s so genuine it’s impossible not to smile.
“Of course.”
With that, I turn and push through the glass doors to the media offices, smiling to myself as I walk, the cool blast of AC brushing against my skin. I settle my things into one of the desks and open my laptop, watching them through the wall of windows.
Thiago’s animated, gesturing with his thermos while Rogue listens, occasionally nodding. He doesn’t look irritated or annoyed, just … there.
Okay, maybe even a little amused.
I slide into one of the rolling desk chairs and set my chai down beside the laptop. Before I even touch the keyboard, I grab my phone again and pull up the team’s social media account.
The photo loads beautifully. Thiago’s huge grin, Rogue’s broody glare softened just enough by the steaming mate in his hand. It’s pure gold.
I type out a caption:
The keepers are keeping it cool. Day one of practice and the bond is already strong. #StrikersSeason #GoalieGoals #BroodymeetsSunny
I hit post.
Within seconds, the likes start ticking up.
Yep. The fans are gonna eat this up.