Chapter 19
The next morning, I get to the airport early.
Some of the lads are already there, coffees in hand, designer bags slung over their shoulders, looking far too awake for this hour.
I clear security without a fuss, nodding to fans along the way.
A few ask for photos, and though selfies aren’t exactly my favorite thing in the world, I stop.
Catalina said I should be more open with the fans, and with social media, so I’m doing my part.
At the gate, I shake hands with the pilot waiting by the entrance, nod at the flight attendants, and step inside the aircraft. I scan the cabin, instinctively searching, and thank God when she’s nowhere in sight. Not yet, anyway.
Row twenty-three, calling my name.
Thiago’s already halfway down the aisle and slaps my hand in passing.
“Martínez,” I call. “Everyone in the same seats as last time, yeah?”
“You got it, boss.”
The lads shuffle down, falling into their usual spots like it’s a ritual—which, to be fair, it is. We won in Houston, so now everyone’s terrified to change a thing. I stow my bag in the overhead bin and sink into my aisle seat.
Minutes pass. The plane fills up. Then there she is.
June’s first, all smiles and sunshine, a pink backpack bouncing on her shoulder. Catalina follows right behind her, hair loose around her shoulders, Strikers polo tucked neatly into dark jeans. She looks official. She looks …
Focus, Gallagher.
They pause a few rows ahead, chatting about something, but I know that look on her face. They have plans I’m about to ruin.
June gestures toward an open row, and Catalina nods, but when she glances back, our eyes meet. She freezes. She knows.
Before she can open her mouth, I’m already standing, blocking the aisle. “Kitten,” I say, pointing at the window seat beside me, “your seat.”
She frowns. “Rogue …”
“You’re part of the team,” I state, simple as that.
June looks between us, confused.
“Team superstition,” Catalina mutters, rolling her eyes. “They won last time, so now everyone has to sit in the same exact seats.”
June blinks, unsure what to do.
“Mr. Gallagher …”
“Rogue,” I correct.
“Rogue,” she amends, a polite smile tugging her lips, “I wasn’t here before. Where should I sit?”
I glance down the aisle and spot Luca Moretti settling into his row, one headphone dangling.
“Moretti,” I call.
He turns, thick Italian accent spilling out. “What can I do for you, my friend?”
“This is June,” I say. “She’s sittin’ in your row. Give the lass the window seat, aye?”
He grins like a devil. “For a pretty girl? Ma certo.”
Without missing a beat, he steps into the aisle, takes her bag before she can protest, and lifts it into the overhead compartment. Then, with a little flourish, he gestures toward the seat.
June blushes all the way to her ears. “Thank you,” she murmurs, sliding past him to the window. She glances back at Catalina and grins. Catalina returns the look, equal parts warning and amusement, before turning to me.
“Are we going to do this every time we travel?” she asks.
“Aye,” I say, settling back in my seat. “So you might as well drag that pretty little arse over here, no questions asked.”
We’re an hour into the flight when I realize I’ve been pretending to read the same paragraph for the last ten minutes.
Catalina’s beside me, earbuds in, hair spilling forward over her shoulder. Every few seconds, she tucks it behind her ear again, unaware of the way it drives me mad. She’s scrolling through something on her laptop—probably team footage—and the quiet between us hums.
“Everything all right?” she asks suddenly, turning toward me.
Caught. “Aye,” I say, setting my book down. “Just … enjoyin’ the peace before we land.”
She gives me that look, half smirk, half challenge. “Peace? On a plane full of twenty-five loud men? Impressive.”
I grin. “Years of practice.”
She chuckles, and I swear the sound settles something in my chest I didn’t know was tight.
Before I can think of what to say next, a familiar voice cuts through.
“Gallagher,” Thiago says, appearing beside us with his ever-present thermos and mate gourd. “You want some?”
I sit up a bit. “Aye, cheers.”
Without missing a beat, he turns to Catalina. “You too, Cat?”
She smiles, reaching for it like it’s second nature. “You know I never say no.”
Thiago grins. “That’s my girl.”
She takes a few slow sips, and I can’t help but stare. Those lips—wrapped around the silver straw—Christ above, they’re doing things to me I’ve no business feeling.
She laughs, handing the gourd back, blissfully unaware of the state she’s left me in.
“Let’s take a picture like we did last time,” she says, reaching across to grab her phone from the middle seat. “Keep the whole superstition circus alive. Goalkeeper besties and all?”
Thiago lights up. “Sí! Good idea. Gallagher, smile.”
“I don’t smile on command,” I mutter, but I lean in anyway as she lifts her phone. She snaps a few shots, trying not to laugh.
“Perfect,” she says. “You look like you’re about to scold him for breathing too loud.”
“Accurate,” Thiago says.
I roll my eyes. “Go sit down, would ya?”
He chuckles but doesn’t move. “So, how is your sister?” he asks Catalina, eyes glinting with curiosity.
She squints at him. “She’s okay. She’s actually coming into town next week.”
Thiago’s grin widens instantly. “Oh? Will she be working for the team as well? I’d like someone to sit with too.” He winks, and Catalina snorts.
“Noted,” she says. “But maybe try impressing the coach before you start flirting with my sister.”
Thiago laughs, gives her a playful salute.
She shakes her head. “He’s impossible.”
“He’s harmless,” I say, though I’m watching her closely. “But aye … a flirt through and through.”
She smiles. “Guess that’s contagious on this team.”
Thiago finally walks off, and the plane seems quieter without him. Too quiet. It’s just me and her now, and the silence feels heavier than it should.
After a moment, she shifts again, crossing her legs. “Oh, by the way, I heard back from Liam.”
I turn to her, surprised. “Aye? You reached out?”
She nods, eyes bright. “He was so excited to talk to me, it made me even more excited to help SGA. We’ll have a video call next week to go over some ideas.”
I blink, a little thrown. “You didn’t have to do that, you know.”
“I know.” She shrugs one shoulder. “But I wanted to.”
There’s something in her tone—earnest, soft, and completely disarming.
“Thank you,” I mutter. “Really.”
She meets my eyes, and for a second, neither of us look away.
“You’re welcome,” she murmurs, then turns back to her screen without a clue that she just knocked the air out of me.
I clear my throat, forcing myself to focus. “What plans do you have for this trip?”
“Oh, I’m excited,” she says right away, her whole face lighting up. “I went to NYU, actually. Had my first ever apartment in the city. I miss it sometimes, so I love any excuse to come back.”
“I get it. There’s a kind of ache that comes with missing somewhere that made you who you are.” I lean back, letting the words sink in. “I’ve been to New York a few times, but it’s always been for matches or media. Never had the chance to actually see it meself.”
“You’ve never done the real New York experience?” she asks, mock scandalized.
“Define 'real,’” I say.
“Pizza from a street cart. The chaos of Times Square. Dodging taxis. Getting lost on the subway at least once.”
I chuckle. “Can’t say I’ve done any of that.”
She gasps. “Rogue Gallagher. The man who’s faced penalty shootouts in front of a hundred thousand people but hasn’t survived a New York City crosswalk.”
I shake my head, biting back a grin. “When you put it like that …”
“You’ve got a full day before the game,” she says, “you should do something. Live a little.”
“Haven’t thought that far ahead,” I admit. “Was plannin’ to rest, keep me legs fresh.”
She studies me for a moment. “You could still rest after a hot dog.”
I blink. “A what?”
She grins. “A hot dog. From a street cart. Preferably while you’re walking. That’s the rule.”
I arch a brow. “That’s your big plan for the day? A hot dog?”
“It’s not just a hot dog,” she insists, her eyes lighting up. “It’s the hot dog. It’s nostalgia, it’s chaos, it’s ketchup that stains your shirt no matter how careful you are. It’s New York.”
Her enthusiasm is contagious, so I can’t help but smile. “You make it sound like a religious experience.”
“Maybe it is,” she says with a wink. “You’ll just have to find out.”
I look at her for a long moment, the corners of my mouth lifting. “Maybe I will.”
She turns back to her laptop, pretending to work, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile. The air between us feels charged now—warm and electric and dangerous in all the ways I don’t want to name.
She’s not just under my skin anymore—she’s in my head. Every word, every grin, every bloody mention of a hot dog.
I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes, but all I can think about is her voice, the curve of her grin, the way she made me say, “Maybe I will.”
And for the first time in a long while, I realize I might actually mean it.