Chapter 12
The alarm I set an hour ago blares beside me, far too soon for my liking. I groan softly, stretch, and sit up in bed, my eyes adjusting to the bright Texas sun peeking through the hotel curtains. No time to waste, I hop into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and get ready.
Jeans, sneakers, and my favorite Strikers team T-shirt. My hair goes into two neat braids—practical for the heat and chaos of open-field practices. It’s going to be a scorcher out there, but I’m ready.
I check my backpack one last time: camera, lenses, backup batteries, tripod, charger, gum, sunscreen, all the essentials. Just as I zip it up, my phone rings. Marianna.
“We’re in the lobby!” she says, cheerful as ever.
“I’ll be down in five,” I reply, grabbing my hotel key and slinging the backpack over my shoulder.
As I step out into the hallway and press the elevator button, my pulse picks up for reasons that have nothing to do with the heat.
When the doors slide open, there they are. Thiago, all tousled curls and warm, playful eyes that light up when he spots me, and Rogue, stormy as ever, his tall frame filling the corner of the elevator like he owns it. They glance up at me.
“Hey,” I say with a shy smile.
“Que paso jefa?” Thiago beams.
Rogue simply nods. His version of hello.
I step between them, acutely aware of the space—or lack thereof. The ride down is quiet, too quiet. I’m sandwiched between sunshine and storm clouds, trying not to combust from nerves.
When the elevator doors part, chaos meets us. The hotel lobby is packed. Guests checking in, fans loitering near security, pretending not to stare. The Strikers may have blacked out their bus like they’re a government agency, but we all arrived on a literal branded plane. Not exactly subtle.
Right as we step off, a man and his young son are waiting near the elevators. The little boy’s eyes go wide as he spots Rogue, and I swear the world slows down. The dad gently places a hand on his son’s shoulder, keeping him close.
Rogue notices them, and to my absolute shock, he turns on his heels and walks right over.
“Hey, mate,” he says, voice surprisingly soft.
The sound makes something trip in my chest. He’s always all steel edges and clipped words, but right now, with this kid, there’s a gentleness that slips past his armor. It’s unfair how much it makes me feel.
The boy lights up. The dad smiles and says, “He’s your biggest fan.”
Rogue nods, offering one of those quiet smiles that only people paying close attention would catch. “What’s your name, then?”
“Matthew,” the boy says.
“Well, Matthew,” Rogue replies, “have you met my mate Thiago here?”
Thiago steps up and kneels next to the kid, wrapping him in a friendly one-armed hug. “It’s an honor, man.”
“When I grow up, I want to be a goalie too,” Matthew says.
“You work hard, then,” Rogue says, “and don’t let anyone tell you it can’t happen.”
The dad glances at Rogue, nervous but hopeful. “Would it be okay to get a picture?”
Rogue gives a small nod, his voice low but steady. “Sure, mate.”
I step in before the moment can turn awkward, smiling warmly. “Here, I’ll take it so you can both be in it.”
Rogue moves to one side of the boy while Thiago starts to step away, but Matthew calls out “No, Thiago! Please be in the picture too!”
Thiago laughs and proudly joins on the other side of the boy and his dad. I snap a few pictures, the three of them flanking little Matthew, who’s standing impossibly still, though his face is lit up in a grin he can’t contain.
I hand the phone back to the dad and say, “Tag the team on socials, and we’ll repost you.”
“Thank you so much,” the dad says, clearly moved.
My heart squeezes as he shakes Rogue’s hand, gratitude written all over his face. For a moment, I see my dad in him. The same pride, the same reverence. Then I catch Rogue accepting it with quiet humility, and the ache in my chest deepens.
When I turn around, I spot Marianna, radiant as always, grinning wide, and next to her … my dad.
My breath catches, and I rush to them, throwing my arms around both. “You’re here!”
Marianna kisses my cheek. “Of course we’re here. Look at you absolutely thriving.”
My dad hugs me tight. I haven’t seen him in months. “Mija, I’m so proud. Look at you tan hermosa, living your dream.”
“I’m so happy you’re here,” I whisper.
Just then, Thiago walks up behind me. “That was something, huh?” he says, grinning and clearly still very excited for the moment he just lived next to his own hero.
“Thiago, meet my sister, Marianna, and my dad, Fernando.”
Thiago lights up again. “It’s so nice to finally meet you both. Mr. Fernando, my fellow Uruguayan!” He hugs my dad and kisses Marianna’s cheek. “It’s a pleasure.” Then he whispers so only I can hear. “Catalina, por favor, you didn’t tell me your sister was this gorgeous.”
I gently smack him on the chest, and that’s when I notice Rogue lingering nearby, a respectful distance away, as if he’s unsure if he’s allowed into this moment.
“Rogue,” I say, motioning him over. “Come meet my sister, Marianna … and this is my dad, Fernando.”
Rogue steps forward, reserved but respectful.
My dad gives him a firm handshake. “Young man, it’s a pleasure to meet one of the best goalkeepers in football history.”
Rogue accepts the handshake with a small genuine nod. “Thank you kindly. That means a fair bit.”
Just like that, right in front of my eyes, my worlds are merging—my family, my job, and the man who’s been creeping into my thoughts more and more.
And I cannot say that I hate it.
By the time we pile into Marianna’s car, I’m sweating through my T-shirt, but my heart’s full. The three of us—me, Marianna, and our dad—make our way across Houston to a private practice field that’s been secured for the team. I’ve done away practices before, but nothing like this.
As we turn the corner onto the access road, I nearly gasp.
There are hundreds of people already waiting behind barricades, holding posters, wearing team merch, shouting for glimpses of the players.
Rogue’s name is on more than a few signs.
It feels surreal, as though a fever dream of international football has been conjured into the sweltering heart of Texas.
Marianna parks in a reserved media space, and I grab my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder.
Security checks our badges and lets us through, and I lead them toward the sideline where they can watch.
I’m barely through the gates before I’m back in content mode, camera in hand, lens cap off, battery fully charged.
The team bus rolls up, and I catch it all.
Players descending in their practice kits, sweatbands already on, the low rumble of their laughter and focused chatter filling the air.
Leo Petrovic flashes me a peace sign as he steps off.
Luca Moretti and Noah James jog past, already tossing a ball back and forth like they can’t wait to get started.
Thiago is bouncing on his toes, grinning like it’s game day.
And Rogue?
Focused, controlled, a storm behind those gray eyes, as always.
His jersey clings to him, soaked and taut across his back.
I do my best not to drool behind the lens.
It’s almost unfair how he wears control like armor, when all I can see is how close he is to unraveling me.
My camera clicks, but my pulse is out of focus.
That’s when I spot my dad on the sidelines, holding Thiago’s thermos and pouring mate like he’s part of the staff. I blink, and sure enough, he’s serving it up to JB Dupont and Bruno Silva like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I can’t help but laugh. The camera clicks as I take a few candid shots.
One of Dad handing Thiago a fresh pour. Another of him animatedly talking to Rogue, hands waving like he’s telling some epic football tale.
Rogue actually nods, listening intently.
The sight makes my heart ache in the sweetest way.
Marianna sidles up next to me, her eyes flicking between me and Dad. “Should we be worried he’s about to get recruited?”
I snort. “Honestly? He’d accept in a heartbeat if they asked.”
She smiles, but I catch the hint of sadness in her eyes. When there’s a lull, I ask, “Hey … I thought Spence was coming today?”
Marianna shrugs. “We’re … taking a break.”
I pause. “Anna.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, quickly but not unkindly. “Today’s for you and soccer and sweat and our very famous father living his dreams.”
We look over at Dad, who’s now offering his unsolicited coaching opinions to the captain, Aiden Brooks, who is politely nodding.
“You’re right.” I laugh. “He’s having the time of his life.”
After practice, we grab dinner at a small family-owned Italian spot nearby, our favorite kind of place, with handmade pasta and tiramisu to die for. Marianna and I share dessert like we always did growing up.
Back at the hotel, I’m surprised when she pulls a small overnight bag from the trunk.
“You’re staying?” I ask, touched and excited for the company.
She smiles. “You think I was gonna miss spending time with my sister at this fancy ass hotel? Not a chance.”
Our dad wraps us both in a hug before heading out. “I’ll see you girls at the game tomorrow,” he says, voice warm with pride. “And you”—he points at me— “keep doing what you’re doing, mija. You both be safe tonight.”
He drives off slowly, waving, and I glance at Marianna, shaking my head. “He’s ridiculous.”
She grins. “Ridiculously cute, you mean.”
And just like that, I’m reminded how good it feels to be home with my family, my team, and this strange, spark-filled life I’ve built one frame at a time.