Chapter 16
Iwake up to sunlight spilling across my sheets, warm and too bright for how late I must’ve slept in. My body feels heavy, but my mind won’t stop replaying the last twenty-four hours—Houston, the flight, him.
Rogue Gallagher.
The name alone twists my stomach in ways I’m not ready to admit. I’m not supposed to be thinking about him first thing in the morning, but here we are.
He opened up to me last night. Really opened up. I still can’t believe it. He told me about his mom, about the academy, about things I never imagined he’d share, and each word carried a little piece of him with it.
I stretch, groaning softly, and pull the blanket over my face for a second. “You really had to drink champagne, didn’t you?” I mutter to myself. Should I have? Probably not. Should I have laughed so much? Definitely not.
And yet … I can’t bring myself to regret it.
What happened on that flight felt different. Like we weren’t just coworkers anymore. The line I’ve been so carefully toeing suddenly blurred, and I didn’t stop it.
When we landed, he grabbed my bag before I could protest. Just …
took it from my hands like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Walked beside me the entire way through the terminal, his stride matched to mine.
When he offered to take me home, I told him Bri was picking me up, but that didn’t stop him from walking me all the way to the parking lot.
People stared, phones came out, a few shouted his name, but he didn’t care. He stayed close, quiet, protective in that unassuming way of his. “It’s late,” he’d said. “Wouldn’t sit right letting you walk out on your own.”
And then there was Bri. God, Bri.
The way her eyes went wide when she saw us approaching, how she climbed out of the car, trying to be casual but failing miserably.
“Holy shit, is that Rogue Gallagher?” she’d whispered, loud enough for half the lot to hear.
By the time we were driving away, she was grinning at me like the cat that got the cream. “You and the Irish wall, huh? Should I start planning the wedding or the scandal headline first?”
I’d rolled my eyes, but the teasing had heat creeping up my neck the whole drive home.
I stretch, grab my phone from the nightstand, and thumb through the usual flood of notifications. Emails from PR, a couple of messages from the content team, nothing urgent. A small mercy.
My thumb hovers for a moment before I open the Veil app.
Of course, there’s a message waiting from @HalfWritten.
@HalfWritten:
Good morning. Hope your day’s wonderful. Maybe I’ll get lucky and hear from you soon.
A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it. This is what normal looks like, isn’t it? A kind, attentive man. Someone easy to talk to. Someone who doesn’t make my pulse jump just by standing too close.
Definitely not a broody Irish footballer who smells of cedar and drives me insane.
I type before I can overthink it.
@OneLastLine:
Good morning. I’ve missed talking to you. Crazy how we’ve only known each other a few days and it already feels like part of my routine. How are you?
It only takes a minute for the dots to appear.
@HalfWritten:
Better now that I get to talk to you.
I bite my lip, smiling at the screen like an idiot.
@OneLastLine:
Smooth. You always this charming, or do I just bring it out of you?
@HalfWritten:
Maybe a bit of both. Been working all morning. You make a good distraction.
@OneLastLine:
I’ll take that as a compliment.
@HalfWritten:
Funny how a single message from you makes it easier to breathe.
I stare at the message a moment longer than I should. He always writes like that—simple, steady. The kind of man who says less but somehow means more.
@OneLastLine:
You’ve got a way with words, you know that?
@HalfWritten:
Only with you.
I exhale a soft laugh, sinking back into the pillows. The conversation feels so easy, natural, like we’ve known each other for longer than a few days.
@OneLastLine:
You’re dangerously good at this. But I should probably get up before I talk myself out of it. Day off or not, I’ve got a dozen things waiting.
@HalfWritten:
What kind of things?
@OneLastLine:
The usual, mostly pretending to have my life under control. I’m going for a run first, though. Clear my head.
@HalfWritten:
Sounds perfect. Maybe I’ll do the same, minus the running part. Promise me you’ll be safe, yeah?
@OneLastLine:
Always, and maybe when you’re done not running, you can tell me what kind of coffee you’d order if we ever met.
@HalfWritten:
Deal. Talk soon, sunshine.
I linger on that last word—sunshine—before closing the app. For a moment, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, my chest a tangled mess of warmth and confusion.
This is the kind of man I should fall for. Attentive, gentle, easy.
So why does my heart still race for the one who walked me through a crowded airport like I was the only person who mattered in the world?
I toss the blanket aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool beneath my feet. My head’s still a little fuzzy from the champagne, but I need to move.
A run. Nothing clears my mind like trying to outrun it.
I pull on black running shorts, my favorite oversized Metallica T-shirt, and a pair of worn-in tennis shoes. The shirt hangs loose, the way I like it, roomy enough to keep me from thinking about how my stomach moves when I run, or how the fabric sticks to my skin when I sweat.
I’ve always been a thick girl. I’ve learned to own it, or at least fake owning it on the days I don’t.
Working in sports means being surrounded by people who look carved from marble: lean, fast, perfect.
Some days, I love myself loud and proud; other days, I shrink a little.
Being the “bigger girl” in rooms full of athletes hasn’t always been easy.
Especially when one of them happens to stand six feet four, with eyes the color of a brewing storm and a way of looking at me that makes my pulse forget what it’s supposed to do.
I sigh, grab my phone and earbuds, shove the phone into my waistband, and head out.
The morning air is salt-sweet, the kind that smells of sunscreen and ocean. One of the perks of living in Great Lakes, our apartment is only two blocks from the beach. Bri calls it her “therapy,” but really, it’s mine.
I start slow, sneakers crunching over sand and boardwalk, music filling my ears. Taylor Swift, obviously, because, apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
Running never feels good while I’m doing it.
My thighs burn, my lungs ache, my brain tries to bargain for a shorter route.
But every time, somewhere around the halfway mark, something clicks.
My thoughts smooth out. My heartbeat and the waves sync up, and it’s just me, the ocean, and whatever chaos I left behind.
Until the music in my earbuds cuts off, replaced by the sound of my phone ringing.
I slow to a jog, then stop, pressing a palm to my knee as I answer, breathless.
“Hello?”
“Catalina! I’m so sorry to bother you on your day off.”
It’s Emily, the assistant coordinator for the Strikers.
“You’re not a bother,” I say, adjusting one earbud so I can hear her better. “What’s up?”
“I actually have great news that I didn’t want to wait to tell you until tomorrow.” Her voice sounds brighter than usual. “The team approved a new budget, congratulations, you’re getting an assistant.”
For a second, I think I misheard her. “Wait, what?”
“You heard me. Full-time position. We’ll go over details tomorrow, but it should cut your workload in half.”
I stop dead in the middle of the beach. “You’re kidding.”
“Not at all.” Emily laughs. “And before you ask, no, you’re not losing your job, your salary, or your end-of-season bonus. Management finally realized, especially after all the amazing feedback from Rogue’s ceremony, that you’ve been doing the work of three people and deserve some help.”
A laugh bursts out of me, pure disbelief and relief tangled together. I throw a little fist pump into the air, then look around to make sure no one saw me.
Emily keeps talking. “We can either go through the formal hiring process or offer the position to one of the interns who helped during Rogue’s ceremony. They’re all prequalified. If you want, we can do a three-month trial period.”
“I want June,” I blurt out before she even finishes. “June Moreira. She’s smart, she caught on fast, we worked really well together.”
“June …” Emily mutters, probably scrolling through files. “Ah, found her! Great Lakes local. Perfect. I’ll reach out to her today and keep you posted.”
“That sounds amazing. Thank you, Emily. Seriously, you just made my week.”
“Thank whoever found the budget,” she teases. “But I’m glad you’re happy. Talk tomorrow, yeah?”
“Tomorrow. Thanks again!”
We hang up, and just like that, “The Life of a Showgirl” blasts through my headphones. I can’t help it, I start dancing right there in the sand, spinning in a messy circle, laughing out loud. The waves crash, the wind tangles my hair, and for a second, I feel weightless.
I close my eyes, smiling, the sun warm on my face. This is the first time in weeks I’ve felt genuinely good. The kind of good that fills your lungs instead of just keeping you alive.
The air shifts, subtle, but enough to make me feel like I’m not alone. It’s probably nothing, I tell myself. Still, the hairs on my arms rise, traitors that they are.
I spin one last time, turn—and freeze.
There he is.
The same wall of muscle I ran into on this beach not long ago.
Rogue Gallagher.
He’s standing a few feet away, hands tucked into his joggers, a towel slung over one shoulder, the morning light catching on the curve of a grin that shouldn’t make my stomach flip the way it does. His hair is still damp, curls pushed back like he’s just finished his own run.
For a heartbeat, the world narrows to the sound of the surf and the thud of my pulse in my ears.
Then his gaze finds mine, slow and deliberate, his grin deepening just enough to make my knees go soft.
And then he speaks, low and steady. “Hey, kitten.”