Chapter 15
The plane hums steadily beneath my trainers, but my chest’s anything but steady. Same flight, same routine as two days ago. Same bloody seat waiting for me. Only difference? She’s not here.
Row twenty-three, seat G. Aisle. I hate the aisle, as the trolley always catches my knees when it rolls past, but I’m not moving, not now, not after last time.
My knee won’t stop bouncing. Hands flexing against my thighs, restless. I’ve faced strikers, one-on-one in front of the world, calmer than this.
The lads file in, row by row, loud with chatter, still buzzing from the win. Thiago drops into row thirteen, twisting round in his seat with that grin. “Lucky seats!” he yells, pointing at me. I give him a nod, but my eyes are fixed on the door.
Waiting.
Every shadow down the jet bridge, every voice spilling into the cabin, I’m straining for hers.
Shouldn’t matter. Christ above, it shouldn’t matter.
She’s probably squeezing in every last minute with her family while I sit here wound tight as wire, but my fingers still twitch with the ghost of her braid.
That featherlight touch gone too soon. The look in her eyes like she wasn’t sure if I meant more, and like part of her wanted to believe I did.
I clench my jaw, and then she’s there.
She steps onto the plane with that easy smile that does my head in. Backpack slung over her shoulder, carry-on rolling smooth. She greets the captain like she knows him, high-fiving the lads as she makes her way down the aisle. I can’t breathe, but I can’t look away either.
Her eyes find mine, just for a second, and my chest kicks hard. She tips forward, trying to haul her bag overhead, and Santiago Rivas steps in to help. She thanks him, polite, already moving toward a seat up front.
No.
“Oi.” My voice carries sharper than I intend, and half the bloody team turns along with her. “Your seat’s back here, Catalina.”
She blinks, about to argue, but Thiago spins around in his seat, grinning like the devil. “Sí, jefa. Same seats, same magic. You’re not about to jinx us after that win, are you?”
“Thiago—” she starts.
“Nope.” He turns to the others. “Luca, you too, hermano. Everyone back in the same spots. Don’t mess the luck.”
The lads laugh but shuffle around to humor him. She just rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth.
That’s all the permission I need. I’m on my feet, stepping into the aisle.
She tries again with the bag, but I take it from her without a word, lifting it into the compartment.
She brushes past me, settling into the window seat, still watching me, her lips tugging into a barely there smile she’s definitely trying to hide.
“Am I supposed to drink water without ice now? Take out my contacts? Migraine pills, maybe?” she teases.
I lean down a fraction, enough for her to hear over the cabin noise. “No, kitten, tonight we’re celebrating. Champagne’ll do.”
We’ve been in the air maybe fifteen minutes when the flight attendant appears, balancing two mini bottles of champagne and a pair of flutes on a tray. Catalina hasn’t said a word since takeoff—just a polite “No, thank you” when he first came around and asked her if she wanted a drink.
I lower the tray on the seat between us, then take the tray from him and set it there. He’s all smiles, eyes darting between the two of us as he asks, “Anything else I can get you, Mr. Gallagher?”
I glance at him, then at her. She’s staring back, eyebrows raised.
“Would you like anything else, kitten?” I ask, keeping my tone casual even though I know exactly what I’m doing. She doesn’t love the nickname, but she hasn’t told me to stop, and I’m not the type to quit while I’m ahead.
To my surprise, she says, “Something sweet.”
Then she adds, quieter, “I have a bag of Nerd Clusters in my backpack, though …”
The attendant perks up. “Oh, we actually have some amazing macarons, if you’re interested, Miss … Kitten?” He hesitates over the last word.
Catalina laughs—really laughs—and it hits me square in the chest. It’s the first time I’ve heard her laugh that loud. It’s bright and unguarded and beautiful. I feel it low in my chest, like I’ve swallowed sunlight.
“Macarons sound great, mate,” I say, still watching her. The attendant nods and hurries off.
She’s still smiling when she says, “I’ve been flying with the team for two years, and this is the first time anyone’s offered me champagne. Definitely the first time there’s been anything as ridiculous as macarons too.”
“I like my sweets,” I say.
Her lips curve. “Is the VIP service part of your contract?”
“No.” I twist the top off one of the bottles. “But a lot of people seem eager to please me, and it’s public knowledge I’ve got a sweet tooth.”
Her eyes light up. “Ah, that’s right, you were a guest on that baking show, the English one!”
I chuckle under my breath. “Aye”
“You ate all the cupcakes,” she says with a smile.
The attendant returns with a tray lined with eight perfect macarons in four colors. I take it, thank him, and pour a flute of champagne before handing it to Catalina. She tries to give it back.
“That’s for you,” I say.
“I usually don’t drink while I’m working.”
“Are you working right now?”
She tilts her head. “I’m always working. During Strikers season, I’m on the clock every day.”
I pour my own glass and raise it halfway between us. “Well, today, we’re celebrating, Miss Kitten.”
Her eyes flick to mine, still uncertain, then she exhales a small laugh and lifts her flute, the glass catching the cabin light.
“To what?” she asks.
“To winning.” Then, after a beat, softer, I say, “And to a great seatmate.”
Her smile falters for half a second before she clinks her glass to mine. “Bottoms up, then.”
The first bottle doesn’t last long. Between the laughter, the teasing, and the sugar, the miles slip by faster than I expect.
We’re halfway through our second bottle of champagne when Robbie—our flight attendant—appears again, balancing another tray piled high with macarons.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Catalina says.
“We’ll take those,” I say before Robbie even blinks, then take the tray from him.
She’s got a sweet tooth, this one, and she is clearly not much of a drinker. One full glass and two sips in, she’s already gigglier than when we left Houston.
“So, tell me …” She plucks a macaron from the tray she definitely didn’t want, then takes a bite, and I swear I forget how to breathe.
Her lips close around it, soft and perfect, and I’m a goner.
Completely wrecked. She has no idea what she’s doing to me.
“How did someone like you end up as a guest judge on a baking show?”
“Someone like me?” I repeat, half amused, half offended, turning slightly in my seat.
She nods, eyes glinting. “You know … you’re a grump.”
I fight a smile, jaw tightening to keep from laughing. “A grump?”
“Oh, I mean no offense,” she rushes out, cheeks pink. “You’re just so … serious all the time. I would’ve never guessed you’d enjoy something like that.”
She’s not wrong, I am serious, or maybe I just don’t let people see the other side of me, the one that laughs, the one that bakes at two in the morning when sleep won’t come, and the one that remembers his mam by the smell of brown bread and honey.
“I lost a bet. Told someone they wouldn’t be able to score during a match. We wagered that if he did, I’d do something he didn’t want to do. Got too cocky, and, well, he scored.”
Her eyes light up, waiting.
“After the game, he said I had to go on this baking show for him. I thought he was joking, but … I’m a man of my word. So, I went, ate too many cupcakes, made a fool of myself on camera.”
Her jaw drops.
“But he didn’t think I’d actually do it. When I did, he donated a small fortune to my football academy, so I’d say it worked out.”
“Wait, who was it?” she asks, eyes wide.
“Messi.” I take a sip of champagne, enjoying the moment her brain catches up. The look on her face is worth every goal I ever saved.
“Messi?” she repeats, nearly choking on her drink. “You … oh my God, wait, you have a football academy?”
I shrug, popping a macaron in my mouth. “I don’t talk about it much.”
“Tell me about it,” she says softly, surprising me.
After a pause, I do. “After we won the World Cup, I finally had time to go home to Ireland. Been playing abroad since I was a lad. There’s an old academy there, the one I grew up in, that was struggling to stay open. We raised funds, I pitched in what I could, and … SGA was reborn.”
“SGA?”
“Siobhán Gallagher Academy, named after my mum.”
Her lips part slightly, and her eyes shimmer with sudden tears she tries to blink away. It catches me off guard, how much it seems to mean to her.
“I know you lost your mom a few years ago,” she says gently. “I’m so sorry, Rogue.”
Her voice is soft, and it pulls something tight in my chest. I nod. “Thank you.”
“I can’t believe I never heard about your academy,” she says after a beat, chuckling. “And I did a thorough background check on you.”
I laugh, low and rough. “Should I be worried, then?”
She giggles. “No, I just like to do my research on players. Helps me understand how you present yourself to the world.”
“I don’t,” I state. “Had enough bad press to last a lifetime.”
Her smile fades slightly. She knows what I mean. She’s read it all, the tabloid headlines, the false accusations, the years of being treated like a villain in someone else’s story. But she doesn’t bring it up. She just looks at me, steady, unjudging, and it’s … grounding.
“Tell me more about SGA,” she says, turning toward me, her whole body angled in my direction now.
So I do. I tell her about the school programs, the kids’ and girls’ teams, the group we have for players with Down syndrome, how we use football to help with motor skills and confidence.
About the street league we started last year, where unhoused youth and adults can play, eat, and feel like they belong somewhere for a while.
“It’s a football-for-all academy,” I mutter. “For anyone who loves the game, anyone who needs it.”
“Rogue, that’s beautiful,” she says, her smile warm, her eyes glossing over with emotion. “I can’t believe I’ve never heard of it. Are they on social media?”
“They are.”
She’s already pulling out her phone, typing fast.
“Found it!” she says, scrolling through the feed, grinning at the photos. “Oh my God, these kids are adorable. And the green and black jerseys, they look so good.”
I can’t help it, I smile. Seeing her look at something that means so much to me fills my chest with a kind of quiet joy I haven’t felt in years.
“Are you ever going to tell the world you’re behind it?”
“It’s public. It’s on the site. I visit every time I’m home. But it’s not about me. It’s about them, the kids, the coaches, the community keeping it alive.”
She sets her phone down, eyes meeting mine.
“Rogue, it’s your choice how you run it, and clearly, you’re doing an incredible job, but you could make an even bigger impact.
Your name, your story … it could inspire people to give, to care.
You could open another academy here. People would show up just because it’s you. ”
Her words land deeper than she knows. It’s been a long, long time since anyone’s made me feel believed in, not for my saves or my stats, but for who I am beneath it all.
Before I can say a word, she asks, “Who runs your socials?”
“My mate Cormac handles most of the academy. He runs everything by me, but he’s the one truly keeping it going day to day. His wife, Aisling, was the one who started the social media accounts ages ago, but I’ve no clue who’s running them now, to tell you the truth.”
“I’d love to help,” she says, eyes bright. “They’re doing great, but I could give them a few tips. I’ve got a strategy I think could really grow your audience, if that’s okay of course.”
“I’m sure they’d appreciate that,” I say with a small smile, glancing down, unsure what to do with the sudden warmth rising in my chest.
“Rogue …” She places her hand on my arm. Her touch is light but steady, and it pulls my eyes back to hers. “What you’re doing is incredible. I’d love to be a part of it … if you’ll let me.”
And only God knows I’d let her be a part of anything she ever wanted.
She doesn’t pull her hand away right away, and I don’t move either. For a moment, it’s just us, the low hum of the engines, the faint clink of glass somewhere down the aisle, the scent of champagne and vanilla hanging between us.
Her fingers rest against my arm, warm, steady. A small touch, but it undoes me in ways I don’t care to name.
She’s looking at me like she sees past the noise, past the stories, past the headlines that turned me into something I’m not. It’s unsettling how easy it feels. How much I want to stay here, in this tiny pocket of calm, 30,000 feet in the air.
When she finally pulls her hand back, my skin feels colder for it. She leans against her seat, eyes heavy, the champagne catching up with her. There’s a half-eaten macaron in her hand, and I have the sudden, ridiculous urge to take it from her before it falls.
“Hey,” I murmur, nodding toward it. “You planning on finishing that or just holding it hostage?”
She laughs softly, eyes fluttering open again. “I’m pacing myself.”
“Right,” I say, fighting a smile. “Wouldn’t want to overdo it.”
Her laugh fades into a sleepy grin, and she turns toward the window. The cabin lights dim to a soft amber glow, painting her face in gold.
I watch her for a moment longer than I should. She’s wearing a faint smile, her lashes brushing her cheeks, her breaths steady. I tell myself to look away but can’t.
Something stirs in my chest, quiet but certain. A knowing.
I’ve spent years keeping my world neat, controlled, predictable. But sitting here, with her asleep beside me, the hum of the plane beneath my feet and the taste of champagne still on my tongue, I know nothing’s ever going to be the same again.