Chapter 11
Idon’t know what his deal is. When he first dropped into the aisle seat, I thought maybe he was joking, or lost, or secretly hoping to torment me until we landed.
The plane has plenty of empty rows, but athletes can be superstitious—lucky socks, lucky numbers, lucky rows.
And if twenty-three is his, who am I to argue? I could have moved if I wanted to.
I didn’t want to.
Because honestly? Sitting next to him is … not the worst thing in the world. Not with that smell—God, he smells good. Masculine, musky, clean sweat and something warm, almost smoky. Cedarwood mixed with the memory of someone wrapping you up in a blanket after the sun goes down.
Then there was the whole thing with Ruby.
The woman was practically leaning into his space, but he didn’t even look at her twice.
He asked for his sparkling water like she was a vending machine and ignored every attempt at flirting.
And when she gave me the wrong drink, he, Mr. Permanent Scowl himself, actually defended me.
Told her off in that deep, Irish rumble that made my stomach twist.
And it was … hot. So freaking hot.
I don’t even know what to make of him. One minute he’s ignoring me like I’m a gnat in his orbit, the next he’s calling me kitten as if he has the right to. What is that about? And why do I like it?
I shake my head and focus on the work in front of me, scrolling through the pictures I snapped earlier this week.
The guys practicing, running drills, stretching, talking, goofing off for the camera when they think no one’s looking.
My job might be chaotic, but moments like this—editing, creating—remind me I have the coolest job in the world.
From the corner of my eye, I see him leaning ever so slightly, his gaze fixed on my laptop screen.
“Would you like to see the pictures?” I ask, breaking the silence, voice soft but teasing.
His eyes flick to mine. “I don’t like to see myself in pictures.”
“Why?” I tilt my head toward him, genuinely curious. “You look great in literally all of these.”
I turn the screen toward him anyway, clicking to the next image, and, oh …
It’s a candid shot I almost skipped over.
Rogue standing on the field, head slightly back, mouth curved in a real smile—an actual smile—while he’s talking to Thiago.
The sunlight caught in his hair, his posture relaxed, his face so stupidly gorgeous it makes my chest tighten.
It hits me then, this is him, unguarded, the man behind the legend, and it feels like I’ve stolen something rare, something not meant for me.
The world sees Rogue Gallagher, stone-faced keeper.
But here? Here’s proof he’s more than that.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he realizes he’s beautiful when he’s happy.
“You should post more pictures like this on your socials,” I say, grinning, still looking at the candid of him laughing with Thiago. “The fans would love to see more of you than your permanent scowl.”
He scowls at me, which only makes me burst out laughing.
“I’m not big on social media,” he mutters, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t use it much.”
“I know,” I say, still smiling as I click through the next few photos. “It’s incredible, honestly. You’ve built a career so great that you have over three hundred million followers, and you’ve never once posted anything personal.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I’ve made it my priority to keep my personal life … personal.”
“I get that,” I murmur, and I mean it. “You should keep your personal life personal, but …” I glance at him, hesitating for half a second. “With the audience you carry, you could make an even bigger difference than you already do.”
He turns his head toward me, his stormy eyes focused and unreadable, clearly trying to figure out what I’m really saying and possibly even wondering my motive.
“When I was hired as the Strikers’ social media manager two years ago, the team had a smaller following than most of the other MLS teams in the country.
I spent every day posting, chasing algorithms, following the team everywhere, and basically forgetting I even had a personal life.
After two years of grinding, we finally hit eleven million followers. ”
He doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching me closely, his attention locked on every word.
“You know how many followers we have now?”
He shakes his head.
I pull out my phone, open the team’s profile, and tilt the screen toward him.
“Twenty-three million. The last twelve million came in the last month, basically from the moment it was announced that you signed your contract to today.” I pause, letting that sink in before I add, “I really believe that if you showed this side of yourself, this side that smiles, that connects, it would make people see you differently. They’d like you even more than they already do. ”
For a second, I think I’ve overstepped. He just stares at me, serious, unreadable, and my stomach flips.
Finally, he mutters, “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Relief washes over me, and I give him a soft smile.
“I can help you, if you’d like. I love taking candid pictures, and I don’t post all of them.
I can share some with you, and captions are easy once you get the hang of it.
Plus, you already have the following, so you don’t have to worry about hashtags, or algorithms, or anything like that.
Anything you post will be seen by millions. ”
He studies me a moment longer, then nods slightly. “I’ll think about it.”
Thiago appears in the aisle. “Mate time!” he announces with his usual grin.
He spins into the row in front of us like a whirlwind, dropping to his knees on the seat and leaning over the backrest. He’s already got his thermos tucked under one arm and a gourd in the other.
He starts pouring the steaming tea with a grin and passes the cup toward me first.
Before I can take it, Rogue says in that low, commanding voice, “Catalina has a migraine.”
Thiago freezes mid-gesture, looking at me, then back at him.
“It’s fine,” I say, taking the mate and cradling the warm cup in my hands. “Mate is always good.”
“Mate’s high in caffeine,” Rogue adds, his tone almost scolding. “It might make your migraine worse.”
Thiago glances between the two of us, watching the drama unfold. “Wow,” he says slowly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s … very thoughtful.” Rogue scowls at him, which only makes Thiago grin wider. “What are you guys doing all the way back here, anyway?”
“I always sit back here,” I say, taking a careful sip.
“Row twenty-three,” Rogue says, his voice dry. “Seat G.”
Thiago’s eyes widen. “Ahhh, superstition, I get it.” He nods knowingly. “I always sit in row thirteen, totally understand.”
I hand the mate back, and Thiago pours another round, this time passing it to Rogue. He takes it without a word, sipping slowly while Thiago watches him like he’s witnessing some sort of miracle.
“Man,” Thiago says, practically vibrating with excitement, “if I told my dad I was drinking mate with Rogue Gallagher, he would not believe me.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. “You know, Rogue, I could take a picture of you two right now, for your social media.”
Thiago’s eyes go so wide I swear they might pop out of his head.
“Seriously? On your personal account? Hell yea, I’m game.
” Thiago hops off his knees and slides into the aisle so he can stand next to Rogue.
He slings the thermos under one arm and beams like a kid standing next to his favorite superhero.
I grab my phone, aiming the camera at them. “Okay, Thiago, relax. Smile. Rogue …” I tilt my head and give him a look. “Lose the scowl. Show us you’re enjoying some mate with your new friend.”
Thiago looks like he’s about to combust from joy, his grin enormous. To my surprise, Rogue actually shifts in his seat, loosens his posture, and—miracle of miracles—lets the tiniest twitch of a smile lift the corner of his mouth.
I snap a few pictures quickly, laughing under my breath as I catch Rogue looking … well, human, and so very handsome.
“Let me see!” Thiago leans over as I scroll through the shots, showing them the best one.
“You have to send me that,” he says.
“No worries,” I reply with a grin. “Rogue’s going to post it and tag you … as soon as we connect his phone to the Wi-Fi.”
Thiago looks like he might faint from happiness. Rogue, of course, just mutters something under his breath and takes another sip of mate.
We land in Houston just as the sun sits high overhead, casting sharp golden light across the tarmac and making the buildings in the distance shimmer in the heat. The plane taxis toward a private section of the airport, where a blacked-out team bus is already waiting for us.
We start deboarding, the players filing onto the bus with easy familiarity, their laughter and banter echoing down the aisle.
Before I can even think about standing up, Rogue is already reaching into the overhead bin and pulling down our bags.
He doesn’t say anything, just hands me my backpack with that unreadable expression of his, then gestures for me to go ahead of him.
“I can take my carry-on,” I say.
“Lass,” he warns, and I know there’s no arguing, he is carrying it.
I mumble a quick “Thanks” and move down the aisle, hyperaware of the fact that he’s directly behind me.
Like, right there. I can feel the heat of him at my back with every step.
It’s stupid how on edge I am just walking off a plane, but having a wall of muscle trailing behind you will do that to a girl.
I do my best to focus on the task at hand and pull out my phone to get some footage of the custom-wrapped jet we just stepped off of—because content never sleeps—and a quick pan of the bus waiting below.