Chapter 5
There’s a reason I wear gloves for a living. My hands have always been better at the job than my mouth ever could be.
Unfortunately, being Roger “Rogue” Gallagher—World Cup winner, European league veteran, miracle-save maker, Irish legend, insert all the fecking hype here—means I don’t get that luxury anymore.
Not when I’m standing in the middle of the bloody Florida sun, surrounded by fresh-faced teammates who all look at me like I piss gold.
Not when every camera in a ten-mile radius is pointed in my direction.
Not when I’m supposed to be grateful for this—one last year, one last paycheck, one last ride.
A legacy contract, they called it. A chance to end my career on my terms.
I should be honored. Instead, I’m … tired.
Not in the bone-deep, physical kind of way. No. My body can still keep up. I train hard, I take care of myself, and I know I’ve got a few good matches left in me. But being wanted for who I used to be? That’s a different kind of exhaustion.
They don’t want me. They want the name, the brand, the highlight reel. They want the version of me that made that save in the 2014 semifinal. The man who defied physics and carried a team on his back.
Now I’m here, Great Lakes, bloody Florida, on a team that’s banking on me to do it all again.
A fresh start, they called it.
New city, new teammates, new league … but everywhere I go, I’m still Rogue Gallagher. Still a headline, still someone to gawk at.
I glance over at Thiago as he adjusts his gloves and bounces on the balls of his feet. He’s fast—raw, but fast. Good instincts, good attitude. He’s got potential, and he bloody well knows it, judging by the grin he’s been wearing since I showed up.
The others are working through drills. There’s a buzz in the air, a nervous energy I recognize from younger squads.
They want to impress me; they want to connect with me. Hell, one of them brought an old jersey and asked me to sign it before I even laced up.
I’d forgotten how much pressure it was to be watched all the time. Not just by fans and media, but by your own team, your own staff, even the social media girl …
Catalina.
I see her sometimes out of the corner of my eye, camera poised like a sniper rifle, waiting for the perfect shot, always moving, always focused, smelling of jasmine … Not that I’m paying attention. I huff out a breath and block a low shot coming in fast.
This is why I’m here.
Not the interviews, not the endorsements, not the digital campaigns.
The pitch. The ball. The gloves.
The work.
If I have to say goodbye to the only thing I’ve ever loved, I’m going to do it on my terms.
And that starts here.
The sun’s already baking the pitch, sweat is rolling down my back as I drop into position again. “Focus, Gallagher,” I mumble under my breath, but it’s a losing battle, because she’s right there.
Catalina Arismendi, all sharp focus and soft curves, floating along the sidelines like she belongs in two worlds at once.
She’s not wearing anything remarkable—khaki pants that cling just right to hips made to ruin men, white tennis shoes, and today’s team training jersey tucked neatly into her waistband—but God help me, she could be wearing a garbage bag and still pull every bit of air from my lungs.
That hair—long, thick dirty blonde—tied up in a ponytail that swings with every step. I’ve thought about wrapping it around my fingers. Once, maybe twice … Liar.
The truth is, since meeting her just yesterday, I’ve pictured her hair coiled around my wrist, taut, her breath catching as I tug just enough to tilt her head back.
She doesn’t strike me as the submissive type, but something tells me she’d fight it just enough to make it interesting.
And Christ, what does it say about me that I’ve known her a day and she’s already in every feckin’ thought I have?
A ball slams toward me, and I barely catch it, nearly fumbling the rebound. My hands sting, my knuckles flex, my teammates shout encouragement.
I say nothing.
I’m too damn distracted by the one person here who’s not wearing cleats and still manages to leave me off balance.
She’s not even looking at me, just standing at the sideline, taking photos like it’s nothing.
Like she hasn’t completely upended my ability to concentrate.
Like her laugh doesn’t still echo in my skull from earlier.
Like I didn’t just imagine how she’d look with her knees pressed to the bed sheets and my hand tangled in that hair.
I swallow hard, pulse thrumming in places it shouldn’t be during training.
Focus, Gallagher. For feck’s sake.
She’s just doing her job. She’s here to cover us for the fans. Document every sweaty, gritty, media-friendly second.
And yet … it’s not just me. Every bloke on this team hovers near her like she’s gravity itself. Even the ones who’ve never had game off the field. All jokes, shoulder nudges, trying too hard to get her to laugh.
She does. She laughs a lot. That light, melodic laugh that’s fast becoming the soundtrack to my descent into madness.
It’s just her job, Gallagher. She has to make us look good. She has to know our faces, our stories, our angles. She’s not flirting. Even if she is all eyes and teeth and sunshine.
Just then, I sense her coming closer, and my breath catches for no damn reason.
She doesn’t say a word—she doesn’t have to. She angles the camera slung from her neck and starts taking photos.
Click. Click. Click.
The lens follows me as I move back into position. I glance her way, she doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t smile. She’s all business.
She drops to the sidelines near my post, legs crossed, phone in hand—scrolling, editing, posting, doing her thing.
Probably figuring out how to Photoshop a smile onto my face.
Good luck with that, sweetheart.
A whistle blows and I straighten, rolling out my shoulders as Thiago jogs over, his curls stuck to his forehead, thermos nowhere in sight for once.
“You all right, man?” he asks, eyeing me too casually to be casual.
“Grand,” I mutter.
“You sure? Because”—he glances toward the sideline and back again— “you’ve been clocking more time staring than saving.”
I squint at him. “What’re you on about?”
He grins, all too proud of himself. “Come on, Gallagher. You’re practically devouring Cat with your eyes. She walks past and you forget what a football looks like. I’m just saying, when you’re ready, I make an excellent wingman.”
I nearly choke.
“I’m here to play, Martínez, not flirt.” My tone comes out sharper than I intend, but he doesn’t flinch. Bloody kid’s got nerves of steel.
He throws his hands up in surrender. “All good. I’m just saying, you’ve got that look, man. Like one more smile from her and you’d forget what offside means.”
I grunt. Loudly.
“Focus on your game,” I tell him. “That’s where your head should be. You want to be first string by the time I’m gone?”
He nods, all traces of teasing replaced by something real.
“Then give a thousand percent. Every day, every feckin’ second. You’ve got fire, kid, but it’s not enough to just have it. You’ve got to feed it, sharpen it. Let it burn until there’s no doubt you belong in that net. You want the Strikers jersey? You want to wear blue for Uruguay?”
He swallows hard. “Yeah. I do.”
“Then I’ll help you, as long as you earn it.”
His eyes light up. “Seriously? That’d mean everything.”
I nod once. “Let’s get to work, then.”
We run drills, one after the other. Footwork. Reflexes. Set pieces. I correct his stance. He listens, he adjusts. He’s sharp, a fast learner, and has that raw edge I remember having at his age, before the pressure, before the spotlight turned everything heavy.
Still, I feel her.
I know she’s there. Cat, sitting off to the side, legs crossed, camera in hand. Watching, recording, capturing every bloody moment.
She hasn’t said a word to me. Just moves around us like she’s part of the team’s rhythm. But for me, she throws the whole thing off.
I glance her way, and she’s scrolling on her phone, probably lining up a post, maybe staring at another grim-faced photo of me and wondering how to make me look less miserable for the fans.
Should I make her job easier?
Smiling feels like a betrayal. I’ve worked every muscle in my body since I was eight, except the ones that make smiling possible.
Years in the spotlight taught me the truth: some want you to win, but plenty more would rather see you broken.
I’ve been burned before. So I don’t give them anything.
Not joy. Not weakness. Nothing. But maybe … for her, I could try.
Maybe if I make her job easier … it’ll be easier for me to concentrate when she’s around.
Doubt it.
Without even knowing it, she’s already got me playing the most dangerous game of my career—trying to guard a goal, with my head somewhere else entirely.