Chapter 6
Icross my legs on the turf, phone in one hand, camera in the other, and snap a few shots of the goalkeepers in action.
Thiago takes in every one of Rogue’s tips, perfecting his stance bit by bit until he’s holding his ground like he was born in the net.
Every ball that comes his way, he blocks cleanly.
Rogue dives as if gravity doesn’t apply to him, but Thiago meets him save for save, refusing to miss a single shot.
I take a burst of photos—Thiago’s grin, Rogue’s scowl, the way the sun hits their jerseys just right—and pull up our social media account. After a quick edit and filter, I type out a caption:
Teaching him his ways #GoalieGoals #BlockTheGoals #StrikersStrong #TrainingDay
After a few taps, it’s live.
I scroll absently through notifications, my thumb swiping on autopilot … until a little icon in the corner catches my eye.
The Veil app has a pending notification. The red 1 calls my name, so I open the app, and there it is, a message.
@HalfWritten:
Good morning.
I hope your day is easier than the alarm clock that woke me up.
My chest does this ridiculous little flutter, and I hate it. It’s a text from a guy I don’t really know, yet … I’m smiling like an idiot on the sidelines of a professional soccer practice.
Before I can overthink it, I type a response.
@OneLastLine:
Thank you! and sorry I didn’t see this until now! I woke up a little later than I should have, and it’s already been a busy morning. Trying to get used to some new dynamics at work … I hope you’re having a great day too. Looking forward to talking to you soon.
I pause, thumb hovering over the send button.
It’s been too long since anyone cared enough to make me feel seen first thing in the morning, and pathetic as it is, even the bare minimum makes my stomach flip.
Still, here I am, grinning at my screen like he just sent me roses instead of a good morning text.
I hit send.
I dust off the back of my pants as I stand, sling my camera strap over one shoulder, and tighten my grip on my cellphone.
The sun is already warm on the back of my neck as I make my way toward the glass doors that lead to the media offices.
Practice is still in full swing behind me.
Thiago’s laugh carries across the field, followed by Rogue’s low bark of a command.
Inside, the air-conditioning hits me like a blessing. The media office is buzzing. Laptops open, interns hunched over editing software, voices flying. Preparations for tomorrow’s big welcome event orbit around Rogue.
I never pictured myself here. My dream used to be New York.
Glossy magazine spreads and an office with a view.
I had it once, until COVID shrank it down to a half life in a cramped apartment, waiting for rent I couldn’t pay.
Eventually, I packed my bags and moved back to Houston, crashing with my parents while I tried to figure out what the hell to do with my life. Houston was supposed to be temporary.
I weave through the chaos and drop into my chair, pulling my laptop in front of me.
Houston changed everything. Stuck at home, I started making little videos—outfit snaps, silly voiceovers, day-in-the-life clips. Somewhere along the way, people started following. Then brands started paying me to promote them, and suddenly, I wasn’t just scrolling anymore, I was creating.
That’s when I met Leandro, a rugby player from Argentina who had just signed with the brand-new Houston Panthers.
He invited me to a game, and I filmed a few behind-the-scenes clips for fun.
Those videos blew up. Millions of views, so many that the Panthers offered me a position as their official content creator.
Overnight, making videos became my full-time job.
So when the Strikers announced they were hiring a social media manager in Great Lakes, the same city where my best friend Briana lived, I didn’t think twice. I packed my bags, kissed my parents goodbye, and never looked back.
And I’m good at it. Enough that other teams circle my inbox. Enough that the Strikers bumped my salary before I even asked. But forget the money, these days, I’m fighting for my life to get them to hire me an assistant before I lose my sanity.
All the success, though, comes with a price: pressure. Long hours, constant deadlines. The responsibility of making an entire fanbase feel connected to the team, even during offseason, and very, very little time for … me.
I drink my second cup of coffee as the media team filters into the conference room.
On today’s list? Finalize the details for tomorrow’s welcome event, go over the schedule of appearances, and wrangle the chaos of our first away game coming up in a few days.
Flights. Hotels. Content schedules. Live coverage.
Press access. A mountain of logistics, and somehow, I’m the one standing at the top.
And yet, as I open my email and start typing, I can’t help but feel my phone burning in my back pocket, like a little ember of possibility waiting for me to check if @HalfWritten has replied.
I force myself not to check. Nope. Not doing it. I’m not about to live my life waiting for a notification from a man I’ve spoken to once.
Instead, I bury myself in work. Meetings, content drafts, photo edits, scheduling posts.
By the end of the day, I’ve checked off everything on my to-do list and even made a list for tomorrow.
That small sense of control, of having my life in order for once, leaves me humming with quiet satisfaction.
Hours later, I push through the glass doors of the media offices, the afternoon sun hitting my face as I step into the quiet parking lot.
Rogue appears from the direction of the practice fields, a black duffel slung over one broad shoulder, strides purposeful. The lot is nearly empty, most of the team left hours ago, so seeing him is … unexpected.
We cross paths in the middle of the lot. I lift a hand in a small casual wave. He glances my way, his expression carved in that permanent scowl.
“Lass,” he rumbles as we cross paths, voice low and distinctly Irish, giving the single word as a greeting and dismissal in one. Then he keeps walking toward his car, leaving me with the faintest shiver down my spine I refuse to acknowledge.
That’s it. Why is he THAT attractive?
I shake it off and head to my car. My brain is not to be trusted where he is concerned.
Back at the apartment, I change into running shorts and a tank top, tie my hair into a high ponytail, and force myself out for a 30-minute run along the beach.
I hate running. I hate the burn in my legs, the sticky heat, the sound of my own huffing breath in my ears, but I love the way I feel afterward.
Light, accomplished, like I survived something.
The sky is bleeding pink and gold over the water by the time I cool down and stretch. That’s when I finally allow myself to check my phone.
Sure enough, there’s a message from my new best friend.
@HalfWritten:
My day was good. Long, busy, but productive. That’s what matters, right?
Hope yours treated you well.
The sight of it makes me smile, stupid and giddy as ever.
I drop onto a weathered wooden bench facing the ocean, letting the breeze cool the sweat on my skin as I type.
@OneLastLine:
My day was good, productive too. Just finished my workout and now I’m dreaming about food. I’m looking forward to dinner. What about you?
The typing dots appear almost immediately.
@HalfWritten:
Already had dinner, but now I’m craving something sweet.
I laugh softly, thumbs flying.
@OneLastLine:
Same. I cannot go to bed without something sweet.
Sweets will 100% be the death of me.
@HalfWritten:
What’s your go-to?
I chew on my lip, thinking.
@OneLastLine:
Depends on the day. Tonight, I could kill for a brownie. Or a cinnamon roll, or … both.
@HalfWritten:
You’re trying to ruin me. I could practically taste that just now.
I laugh again, leaning back against the bench as the waves curl and crash.
@OneLastLine:
Consider it my revenge for making me smile at my phone like an idiot in public.
@HalfWritten:
Then I’ll take it.
A smile from you sounds like a fair trade.
The words make something flutter in my chest, light and stupid and wonderful.
We talk a little more—about long days, about how sometimes it feels like life is all work and no play, about how the ocean looks prettier at night than in the morning. Nothing that could give away who we are or what we do, but enough to feel … close, and I feel like someone actually sees me.
I stand from the bench, brushing the sand from the back of my shorts, my phone still warm in my hand. Butterflies swirl in my stomach, ridiculous and traitorous, all because of one little message from a man I don’t even know.
I turn and slam straight into a wall.
Or, at least, that’s what it feels like.
The air whooshes out of me as I stumble back, but two strong hands catch my arms before I can completely lose my balance.
My fingers curl instinctively, gripping the barest hint of hard muscle through warm skin.
I look up, and all I see are stormy-gray eyes staring right down into mine.
Rogue.
He’s in a black sleeveless shirt, his shoulders broad enough to block out the sun, his arms flexing where he steadies me. Through the open sides of the shirt, I catch an obscene view of his torso. Every line of muscle, cut sharp as if carved by the gods themselves.
“Rogue …” My voice is barely more than a whisper. His hands are still on my arms, steady and warm, my pulse hammering in my ears. For a second, neither of us move.
“Catalina,” he rumbles.
“It’s … Cat.” I manage, trying to reclaim some air, some balance, some shred of sanity.
He tilts his head, a hint of mischief flickering in the depths of his gray eyes. “Might as well call you kitten.”