Chapter 14
Idon’t lower my camera, not for a second; because this? This is gold. The kind of shot that’ll blow up on socials. Veteran goalkeeper in a brand-new jersey, stepping into the spotlight, hand raised, crowd going feral.
My heart is hammering, ready to explode out of my ribcage, because he’s not looking at the fans, or the press, or the giant screen with his name in lights.
He’s looking at me, right at me.
And for one tense, breathless beat, I think he won’t do it. That he’ll stand frozen in place, refusing to play the part. Too proud, too guarded, too … Rogue, but then I give the tiniest nod, with a simple wave, and he waves at the crowd.
Click.
I snap the shot like a reflex, but everything inside me feels unsteady. My job is to capture the story, not fall headfirst into it.
I shift focus. Ortega, Dupont, Holloway adjusting his jersey. Frame, focus, capture, repeat.
But I’m still thinking about him. Still feeling that look he gave me—like I was the only one in the stadium who mattered, and that’s dangerous because I know better, especially with him.
But I still feel it.
The moment. The way his eyes lingered a beat longer than they probably should have. The way he didn’t smile but didn’t look away either.
And just like that, it’s game time.
Halftime.
The Strikers are up 1–0, and somehow, the stadium is even louder than it was at kickoff.
Houston came on top of the league. Undefeated, overconfident, and fully expecting to steamroll their way through another win, but they didn’t account for one very important detail, Roger Gallagher is a goddamn wall.
They’ve tried everything. Headers off set pieces, long-distance rockets, sneaky tap-ins from inside the box, but nothing’s made it past him.
He blocked a point-blank shot with his knee, punched a screamer over the crossbar like he was swatting a fly, and at one point—swear to God—he dove backward midair like he has wings and somehow clawed the ball out of the top corner.
It’s the kind of performance that makes the highlight reel before the game’s even over, and I got every second of it.
Now the team is in the locker room, sweaty and regrouping, and I finally have a moment to do what I’ve been dying to do since kickoff, see my family.
I duck under the security tape, flash a smile at a staffer I know, and weave my way through the VIP section toward the front row. The moment I spot them, my chest tightens.
My mom is waving, my dad is beaming, and Marianna, my partner in rolling our eyes, is already standing with her phone half raised as if she’s about to document me for once.
I climb up the steps and fall into my mom’s open arms.
“You look so beautiful, mija,” she says, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “So professional, running around on the sidelines like you belong there.”
I laugh and hug her tighter. “Gracias, Mami.” I pull away from her to hug my dad, only to freeze, because my dad? He is wearing a Strikers jersey, and not just any Strikers jersey, a goalkeeper jersey with a big 23 on its back.
“Papá … last time I checked you were a die-hard Houston fan since the team was created, and now you’re suddenly a Striker?”
He pats his chest proudly. “Rogue gave me his own jersey, how could I not wear it?”
“Wait …” Marianna grins. “Just wait until you hear this.”
“Papá, what do you mean you’re wearing his jersey?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “That’s actually his?”
My dad shrugs, smug. “Well, it’s mine now, but yes, he gave it to me yesterday, during practice.”
My jaw drops. “When? Why didn’t you tell me anything during dinner?”
“Because I knew you’d make me give it back!” He laughs, holding his hands up like a guilty kid.
We all burst out laughing, even Marianna, who rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile, and for a ridiculous heartbeat, I envy my dad. He got Rogue unguarded, mate shared, jersey in hand, while all I’ve had so far are glances, half smiles, and too many questions.”
“I swear,” my mom says, shaking her head fondly, “your father can charm the socks off anyone, even this Rogue.”
My dad winks. “I like him, he is a legend, and I really like the fact that he drinks mate. We got to talk football yesterday, and he just felt …normal.”
I am still open-mouthed, distracted by all these revelations when my mom pulls me against her again. “We’re so proud of you, Catalina. You look so strong out there, so confident, like you were meant to do this.”
My throat tightens, and I blink hard so I don’t cry in the middle of the stadium. “Thanks, Mamá. That means everything.”
Marianna hooks an arm around my shoulder. “Alright, sentimental break over. I’m pretty sure half of Houston is about to cry, trying to figure out how the team is going to catch up and score on your new favorite goalkeeper.”
“He’s not my favorite,” I lie, too quickly. Both Marianna and Mom smirk, knowing me oh-too well.
“Quick early dinner after the game?” I ask before either of them can tease me further. They nod eagerly, and my heart squeezes at the simple comfort of it. I hug them again and head back to the sideline, heart full, hands steady, and brain racing with way too many questions.
Like when exactly did Rogue decide to give my dad a jersey, and why I can’t stop smiling about it?
The whistle blows at minute ninety-one, and the stadium erupts like a firecracker going off inside a glass bottle. Noise crashing from every side, vibrating through my chest. I laugh just out of pure adrenaline, taking pictures of the Strikers celebrating their victory.
Final score: Strikers, 3. Houston, 0.
The team came out of the locker room on fire after halftime, scoring two quick goals that lit the place up like lightning.
The crowd never stopped singing, never stopped chanting, and by the time the third one went in, it was over.
The top of the league, undone on opening day, and the best part?
Rogue was untouchable. He didn’t just keep Houston scoreless, he crushed their rhythm, shut down their confidence, and forced them to retreat again and again.
In the seventieth minute, during a stoppage in play, Coach Whitmore made the call no one saw coming.
He pulled Rogue and handed the net to Thiago.
Thiago’s grin as he jogged on nearly split his face in half.
Twenty minutes of pure fire, every save a dream come true.
I got the highlight of the night on camera: a Houston forward curling a shot toward the upper right corner, fast and wicked.
Thiago launched himself across the goalmouth, stretched every inch of his frame, and somehow managed to get both hands on the ball midair, palming it clean and crashing back to earth with the ball cradled tight against his chest. The roar that followed could have lifted the roof.
When the whistle ends the game, the pitch explodes with joy. Players leap into each other’s arms, fists pumping, fans screaming themselves hoarse, and there, at the center of it all, even Rogue … is smiling. It’s faint, but it’s there.
He barely has time to catch his breath before Thiago barrels into him, wrapping him in a hug so forceful it nearly knocks them both off balance.
Rogue chuckles, an honest, quiet sound, and pats his back, leaning down to murmur something in his ear.
I can’t hear it, but Thiago’s face lights up like he’s just been handed the world. Praise. From him.
I don’t miss a second. Click. Click. Every frame locked into my camera roll. Every detail filed away in my brain: the way Rogue’s eyes crinkle when he’s almost smiling, the way his hand lingers on Thiago’s shoulder, steady and sure.
The tunnel beckons, and the team streams off the field with the crowd’s thunder chasing them. I follow, filming, weaving through the chaos, fingers sore from the shutter but unwilling to stop.
Then Thiago spots me.
“Cat!” he shouts, still buzzing with triumph. Before I can dodge, he rushes over, scoops me up, and spins me around.
“Thiago!” I exclaim. “Congratulations, you were amazing out there!” My camera strap bounces against my side as I let out a startled giggle. He sets me down but keeps his hands on my shoulders, eyes shining.
“Are you coming with us? Celebration dinner before our flight!”
I smile, breathless. “I’ve got plans with my parents tonight, sorry.” His face falls for half a second, then brightens again as he kisses the top of my head like the little brother I never had. He bounds back to his teammates, and it’s then that I notice him.
Rogue, watching.
Close enough that I can see the sweat still gleaming along his jaw, the damp strands of hair plastered to his forehead.
His expression isn’t harsh, he isn’t scowling.
It’s quieter than that. Studied, attentive.
Like he’s memorizing something he can’t quite name.
I open my mouth to say something—to him maybe, or to myself—but instead, I let a smile slip out.
“Congratulations,” I say, my voice steady, though my pulse is anything but.
He doesn’t answer right away. His eyes hold mine, storm gray and unreadable, like he’s weighing whether to step closer or disappear. Then, slowly, he lifts his hand, fingers brushing the end of my braid. The touch is so light I almost wonder if I imagined it.
The corner of his mouth lifts, just barely. “Thanks, kitten.”
His words are low, gruff, but there’s a flicker of something behind them. Something softer. Before I can react, he lets go, turns, and disappears into the tunnel with the rest of the team.
I stand there a beat longer, heart tumbling in my chest, skin tingling where his fingers lingered. It shouldn’t mean anything. It was barely a touch, two words, nothing more, but my pulse won’t listen, thrumming like he just pulled something loose inside me.
And the worst part? I already know I’ll replay it later, frame by frame, like one of my highlight reels.
I force myself to turn away, even though part of me wants to chase him into that tunnel, and fix my steps toward the stands, toward my family waiting with smiles stretched wide and arms open, ready to celebrate.