Chapter 13
Game day.
Mornings like this are meant to be quiet, easy.
Maybe stretch a bit, have some tea, let the nerves settle.
Instead, my gut’s doing somersaults, and not the good kind.
It’s not the match I’m worried about. I’ve played in plenty of them, bigger ones even.
It’s the bloody attention. The eyes, the cameras, the expectations.
First game with the Strikers, and in a city like Houston, it’s a whole show. I’m the headline, and I can already feel the spotlight burning through me. Never liked it, never wanted it. I just want to do the job, guard the net, go home.
Still in my hotel room, I sit at the little table by the window, sunlight creeping in through the slats.
I’ve got a piece of toast and some half-cold scrambled eggs from room service.
Bland as cardboard, but it’s something. I pick up my phone, bracing for whatever fresh nonsense is flooding my feed.
The Strikers’ profile is the first thing that pops up.
It’s a video. A feckin’ good one too. Edited clips from yesterday’s practice. Slow motion shots of the lads doing footwork drills, sweat glinting off foreheads, balls rocketing into the back of the net. Even I look half grand caught mid-dive, palms stretched, focus sharp.
Catalina.
I don’t need to check the caption to know it’s her work. The timing, the energy, it’s all her. Posted just minutes ago too.
I tap over to my own page. The photo I shared yesterday—me, Thiago, and that wee lad, Matthew, from the lobby—is still getting likes by the second, and the comments are flooded.
“This is the Rogue Gallagher we needed”
“Protect him at all costs.”
“You can take the grump out of Galway but he’s still our wall.”
I blink. Huh. Didn’t expect that. I’ve never really been one for posting much, but there’s something about seeing it, something human in it, I suppose.
I scroll back to the practice video and tap open Catalina’s contact. She gave me her number yesterday when she transferred the shots over, and I haven’t used it till now. I consider if an unsolicited text will be considered out of line, but I text her anyway.
ME:
Thanks for the help on the socials. That post’s getting a lot of love. You’ve got some serious talent, kitten.
I stare at it, thumb hovering. Too stiff? Too bloody formal? I delete the word “serious” but then add it back again. Feck it, send.
Her reply comes quicker than expected.
CATALINA:
You’re welcome. You’ve got a massive fanbase, show them who you really are. They’ll love you for it.
I stare at her message a beat longer than I should, thumb hovering.
Should I ask her down for coffee? Maybe room service, something easy. I go for simple and straight to the point.
ME:
Had breakfast yet?
She replies before I can draft a proper follow-up.
CATALINA:
Having breakfast with my sister. See you at the stadium!
Right. Her sister.
I toss the phone onto the table and scrub a hand down my face.
What are you doing, Gallagher?
There’s a knock at the door. I walk across the room wondering who it could be, but when I open the door, Thiago is on the other side.
The cheeky lad’s holding a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, fruit, and bread.
Of course, he’s also got his thermos and that bloody mate gourd.
The young lad is slowly getting to me, and I can’t help but actually like him.
“Hungry?” He grins.
He doesn’t wait for an invite, he just strolls in like he owns the place and plants himself at the table.
“You brought breakfast?” I ask, closing the door behind him.
“I figured if I don’t feed you, you’ll go out there looking like a miserable skeleton.” He winks, pouring the yerba into the cup. “Gotta protect the asset, sí o no?”
I sit, and for a while, we eat in comfortable silence, passing the mate back and forth, watching the sky turn a shade lighter. It’s peaceful, but my thoughts … my thoughts are still all concentrated on her.
The bus smells like liniment and nerves. Everyone’s quiet, focused, but all I can think of is that Catalina is not on the bus this morning.
She said she was with her sister, but this is game day. I thought she always shows up for kickoff. Shouldn’t she be here?
Why am I even thinking about this? What, I made one post and suddenly I care about social media?
I exhale through my nose, rolling my shoulders as I stare out the bus window.
My hands flex on my thighs, taped and ready, but my kit’s still in my bag, waiting for me in the locker room.
No boots yet, just nerves, quiet ones. Trying to keep it together and live up to the name stitched across the back of my jersey.
As soon as I step off the bus, the noise hits me like a bloody wave. Fans shouting, reporters scrambling, the low rumble of anticipation building.
Then I see her.
Standing just past the barriers, camera in hand, braid falling over her shoulder, wearing that damn smile that makes my chest feel too tight in my warm-up jacket. She’s in her element—focused, glowing, mouth moving as she calls out to players and clicks away.
And even though I shouldn’t—fuck it—I smirk.
Not a big one, barely there, but enough.
Her eyes snap to mine, and in perfect Catalina fashion, her jaw drops like I just told her I’m retiring to become a ballet dancer. She grips the camera with both hands and dramatically gasps, like my half-arsed smile is breaking news.
It makes me want to laugh. Actually laugh.
Instead, the corners of my mouth twitch again, almost dangerously close to a second smirk, and I have to look away.
What the hell is that about?
I’ve played in front of sold-out stadiums. Stared down some of the best strikers in the world. Never once did I feel the urge to smile like an idiot just because some girl caught me looking.
But here I am.
Smiling.
Because of her.
Bloody hell. She’s cute when she does that.
The tunnel thrums with noise. Footsteps pounding, radio static crackling from nearby security, and the low hum of anticipation vibrating off the concrete walls.
I walk behind Aiden, boots laced tight, gloves in hand, my jersey clinging to my shoulders in the stifling humidity.
The rest of the lads are ahead of us, already stepping into the light.
This is it. First match in a new kit. Usually, it’s the home team that draws the noise, but not today. Today, it’s all for me, and I hate it.
My palms are damp. Every chant, every camera flash presses against me like a weight. I’ve faced penalties with less pressure than this walk to the pitch.
As soon as we step out onto the pitch, the crowd erupts like a wave crashing over. Sky blue and purple stretch across the stands, fans rising to their feet. Banners wave, flags ripple, chants break out, and for a second, it’s as if the stadium is vibrating beneath my boots.
“Gallagher! Gallagher!” My name booms like a drumbeat, and every muscle in my body tenses. Then I hear it. They are chanting more than my name.
“Rogue! Rogue! Saves the net!
“Best damn keeper you’ve ever met!”
I don’t smile, I don’t look. I just keep walking, straight to the touchline where the rest of the squad is gathering. Camera shutters click like a swarm of locusts. Phones point from every direction.
I hate this part, I always have.
As we line up to take the customary team photo, I glance up, and there she is.
Catalina.
Standing along the sideline with the other press, camera in hand and eyes locked on the team, she looks like she belongs there, focused, poised, and somehow still the most striking thing in the entire stadium.
She’s wearing the team jersey—our team jersey—and somehow looks better in it than anyone on this damn field.
Her braid falls over one shoulder, a few strands loose around her cheeks from the late summer heat.
Her badge is pressed tight to her chest … and underneath it, the number 7.
Dupont’s number.
My jaw tics.
She wears his jersey like it belongs to her, and it grates in a way it shouldn’t. He hasn’t earned that, not from her.
They’re always chatting, laughing. She seems comfortable around him, easily so. Are they …?
A horn blares through the speakers, and the stadium announcer’s voice booms across the pitch, louder than everything else.
“And for the first time on the pitch as a Great Lakes Striker … all the way from Galway, Ireland … give it up for number twenty-three, Roger ‘Rogue’ Gallagher!”
The entire stadium rises again, deafening. My name rolls like thunder from every direction.
My chest tightens. I stand there, frozen for a beat, unsure what to do. I’ve played in plenty of matches before, even World Cup finals, but this, this kind of welcome? It’s never been for me.
I shift, unsure, my hand twitching at my side, and then I see her again.
Cat.
She’s aiming her phone right at me, her lips parted in a knowing grin, as if she’s been waiting for this moment. Her eyes meet mine, and she lifts her other hand and waves, deliberate, slow, gesturing for me to wave.
It’s ridiculous. She’s not even saying a word, and somehow, I know what she wants me to do.
So I do it.
I raise my right arm and give a proper wave. The crowd loses it, as if I just scored the bloody winning goal. When I glance back, Catalina’s smiling so wide it’s like the sun just cracked through the clouds, and for a moment, the pressure lifts.
Not because of the fans. Or the game. Because she’s looking at me and I’m starting to realize, I don’t hate being seen.
Not if it’s her doing the seeing.