Chapter 8
The stadium hums like it’s alive, a low current of voices and footsteps and mic checks vibrating in the air. Hundreds of people wearing headsets and polos are darting around, each one moving with the kind of frantic purpose that makes me nervous just watching them.
I’ve been here since sunrise, and now the clock is ticking down. Doors are about to open. Fans are already lining up outside. It's the Strikers’ biggest media event ever, and somehow, I’m at the eye of the storm.
My pulse is a mess, half excitement, half terror.
I can’t help but wonder how Rogue is going to handle all this.
Will he have a speech ready? Will he just wing it with that gravelly brogue and let people swoon?
Is he even aware they’re expecting him to talk to the crowd?
Honestly … probably not. But does it matter?
No. He could stand there scowling and people would eat it up. That’s the maddening thing about him.
For the first time all day, I steal a second for myself. I sink onto one of the plastic seats in the lower stands. My headset crackles with chatter I’m pretending not to hear, and I pull out my personal phone and send a quick text to Bri.
ME:
Your tickets are at will call. Two, under your name. Don’t ditch me last minute for your mystery date.
Satisfied, I flick over to Veil. My thumb hovers, guilty and giddy all at once, then I cave.
@OneLastLine:
I hope you’re having a good day.
The typing dots appear almost immediately, and my stomach flips.
@HalfWritten:
It’s been a good day so far. Getting a few things done at work. How’s yours?
I grin at the screen like an idiot.
@OneLastLine:
Busy, also still at work. Big event today. I can’t wait to get home and cuddle up in bed.
@HalfWritten:
Well … I hope the rest of the day runs smoothly, and when you’re cuddled up and comfortable, you know where to find me.
Heat curls in my chest, a little ember of something I don’t want to name. I’m still smiling down at my phone when a voice jolts me back to reality.
Emily beams as she waves the group closer. “Guys, this is Cat—she’s going to be your main point of contact for the day.”
I push my phone into my pocket and stand, smoothing my jeans before offering a smile. “Hi! I’m so excited to finally meet you all in person. I’ve been watching your content for weeks, so this feels a little surreal.”
One by one, I shake their hands as Emily rattles off introductions.
There’s Marcus, all clean lines and sharp jaw, who specializes in sports edits.
Tasha, whose bubbly energy practically bounces off the concrete.
Dylan, quiet but with the kind of intense eyes that scream cinematographer.
Priya, queen of behind-the-scenes lifestyle reels.
Leo, a well known sports creator who is known for creating content with all the professional teams in Great Lakes, And then … June.
She can’t be more than twenty-two, bright-eyed and eager, a little starstruck but trying to hide it. She tucks her phone into her back pocket and gives me a quick, firm handshake.
Emily checks her watch. “I need to run up to the press box, make sure the feed’s running smooth. Cat’s got you from here.” She shoots me a knowing grin before jogging off, already speaking into her headset.
Which leaves me standing with six creators staring at me like I’m their team captain.
“Alright,” I say, slipping into manager mode.
I grab my bag, unzip it, and start handing out the sleek black phones we’ve prepped for the night.
“These are going to be your lifelines today. They’re synced to our cloud so everything you shoot uploads instantly.
My number’s already programmed in, if you capture something you think needs to go up right away, message me and I’ll greenlight it. ”
Their faces light up, wide-eyed, like I just handed them golden tickets instead of smartphones. A weird little thrill buzzes through me—me, the girl who once filmed from her couch, now running point on an operation like this.
“Marcus and Tasha, you’re with the fans. We want their voices, their energy, the chaos at the entrances and in the stands. Talk to people, get reactions, chase the chants, make them feel seen.”
They nod, already buzzing with ideas. God, they’re so eager. It’s contagious. For once I don’t feel like I’m begging people to care—these six already do.
“Dylan, you’ve got the team. The entire squad’s here tonight, and they’re hyped for Rogue, so stick close, be a shadow. Locker-room vibes, warm-ups, pre-event rituals, if it happens behind the curtain, we want it.”
He smirks. From watching his content, I know that is exactly his lane.
“Priya, you’re in the VIP box. Celebrities are trickling in all night, so please be extra kind, ask before filming. A smile and manners go a long way when you’ve got someone with ten million followers sipping champagne two seats over.”
She laughs, already typing notes in her phone.
“And for sidelines, Tasha, wait, no, my bad, Leo.” I hand the phone to the tall scruffy one I almost skipped.
“Your job is the pitch itself. From the turf, from the player introductions to Rogue’s reveal.
I want the raw reactions, the nerves, the cheers, the energy as it hits.
Capture the grit, the immediacy, like the crowd is standing right there with you. ”
Finally, I turn to June. Her eyes are huge, waiting.
“And last but not least, June. You’re with me. We’ll be shadowing Rogue, monitoring everything coming in, and making sure we’re live posting as we go. You’re my right hand tonight.”
Her lips part in disbelief.
“This—” She gasps, clutching the phone to her chest. “Has something like this ever been done before?”
I smile, feeling the buzz of adrenaline in my veins. “I don’t think so. Other teams have creators, sure, but tonight? We’re doing more than highlight reels. Tonight, we’re bringing every single person who couldn’t score a ticket right here with us. We’re creating a live experience.”
For a moment, they all just stare at me, half awe, half anticipation, like I’ve handed them the keys to something revolutionary, and maybe, I have.
The doors have been open for ten minutes, and the cloud is filling up with videos.
Marcus and Tasha are out in the stands, capturing fans chanting before they even find their seats.
Dylan’s feed is coming in steady, quick cuts of the team in the locker room, hyped and restless.
June leans against the desk beside me, scrolling through the uploads as fast as they drop, flagging the best ones.
It’s … nice. Easy. She’s sharp, eager, reading my mind before I say it. For the first time, I let myself think how simple my life would be if I had someone like her at my side full-time. Maybe if this event blows up the way we’re hoping, I’ll finally get the assistant I’ve been begging for.
June tilts her screen toward me. “This one, Marcus just caught a fan sobbing at the gates. It’s raw, it’s perfect.”
“Good eye,” I murmur, tagging it for priority. “Tasha’s feeding us gold too, look at this, she found a kid in full Strikers face paint. Adorable. That’s the stuff that trends.”
We’re so focused we don’t even hear the door swing open until it hits the wall.
And then, him.
Rogue steps into the media room, and the air is sucked out of the rest of us and pulled into his orbit.
Black joggers, dark shirt, shoulders too broad for the doorway.
The hum of chatter fades. He scans the room once, then his eyes lock on me.
My lungs forget their job. Heat prickles up my neck like he’s already touched me, and all he’s done is walk in.
“Kitten.”
My scowl is instant. June whips her head toward me, curious, but before I can speak, she’s already scrambling up from her chair. Her jaw practically hits the floor as she takes him in.
“June,” I grit out, “this is Roger Gallagher. Rogue, this is June.”
She beams, offering her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gallagher.”
His mouth curves, polite, charming in a way I’ve yet to see directed at me. “Call me Rogue, lass.”
Her cheeks go pink, and my stomach sours. Good to know he can turn on the charm, just apparently not in my direction. Nope. I get the scowls while June gets the brogue and the gentleman act. Lucky her.
Then his eyes flick back to mine, steady, unreadable. “Well, your circus clown’s arrived. Where do you want me, then?”
I inhale, square my shoulders, and put on my game face. “Rogue, all eyes are on you today. We need you on your best behavior.”
“I’m always on my best behavior.”
“Sure,” I say deadpan. “What I mean is: smile, be nice, pretend you’re happy to be here.”
His answer is immediate, flat. “I am happy to be here.”
June watches us like she’s courtside at Wimbledon, eyes flicking back and forth, drinking in every barb.
“June and I will be with you the whole time,” I continue, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. “Our goal is to capture content and post it in real time. We’ll stay out of your way as much as possible, but just … be yourself. Remember, everyone out there came to see you.”
His eyes hold mine, gray and stormy, his face a mask of control. “Then I’ll try my best to be nice.”
The field looks like a stage set for a legend.
The entire team sits in rows of crisp tracksuits, executives and staff lined behind them.
Screens the size of houses flicker to life with Rogue’s highlight reel—saves that defy physics, his infamous World Cup block, his name echoing across the roar of 60,000 voices.
Then come the tributes: past teammates, coaches, legends of the game, all offering their respect.
Beside me, June’s phone is a blur in her hands, already slicing clips into stories and reels, posting faster than I can track. Around us, the crowd is losing their minds. Through it all, Rogue sits stone-faced in the center of it, a rock in the storm. Stoic, untouchable.
But more than once, when the lights shift or the noise crests, his eyes flick sideways, searching, and every time, they find me.
Aiden Brooks takes the mic, his voice booming with the easy authority of a captain.
He talks about legacy, about what it means to welcome someone like Rogue into the Strikers' family.
About how grateful they are to learn from him, fight beside him, and maybe, finally, win it all. The stadium explodes with applause.
And then it’s Rogue’s turn.
He stands, tall and steady, and the entire place erupts again. A wall of cheers and applause goes on and on until it feels like the air itself is vibrating. He doesn’t smile, but he doesn’t flinch either. He just waits, hands resting on the podium, until the noise starts to fade.
“Thank you,” he begins, voice low, brogue curling around the word. “Thank you to the Strikers organization, to the lads, and to the supporters fillin’ these seats tonight. It means more than I can put into words.”
He pauses, scanning the crowd, his jaw tight like he’s wrestling with what to say next. Then his eyes find mine, and it’s like the rest of the stadium disappears.
“I’ve been playin’ this game a long time. And aye, I know this will be my last year on the pitch. That should feel like an endin’. But standin’ here tonight, it doesn’t. It feels like the start of somethin’ new. A different chapter.”
His hand flexes against the podium, knuckles pale under the lights.
“This isn’t about walkin’ away,” he says, voice rougher now, feeling the weight of it all.
“It’s about steppin’ into somethin’ I never thought I’d have again.
Somethin’ beautiful. I’m lookin’ forward to learnin’ from every lad on this team, and from everyone who makes it what it is on the pitch, aye, but off it as well. That’s where the real family is.”
The crowd erupts, a tidal wave of noise crashing against the field, but I barely hear it. My phone hangs useless at my side, forgotten. Because with 60.000 people chanting his name, Roger Gallagher is still looking at me.
And God help me—I can’t look away. My chest refuses to rise, lungs stalled as if taking a breath might break whatever invisible thread has him focused on me.