Chapter 25
Minute forty-two.
The Strikers are up by one, and I haven’t been able to take my eyes off him.
It’s ridiculous, really. I’m supposed to be focusing on the camera feeds, the live updates, and the timing of highlight reels. But every time he moves, every time his gloves flash, his shoulders tense, his voice carries over the field, gravity drags me toward him all over again.
Thank God for June. Without her, I wouldn’t even know where to start today.
She’s beside me, cool and composed, switching between her tablet and her phone like she was born to multitask. It’s hard to believe this is her very first away game. She’s been handling most of the updates for the team account, giving me the space I clearly needed but was too proud to ask for.
I don’t think I will ever be more grateful for her. If she weren’t here, I’m not sure I’d be able to keep up with everything. My head is still stuck on last night, replaying it on a loop.
After she opened the door, I said goodnight to Rogue and slipped inside, leaving a very confused June in the doorway. I set my backpack down on the bed, kicked off my shoes, peeled off my jacket, and just stood there—heart pounding, lips still tingling.
June just closed the door and looked at me for a long moment, then must’ve decided I didn’t want to talk. She gave me space—no questions, no comments—and I love her for that.
This morning, I woke up to a text from him.
Rogue:
Couldn’t stop thinking about you. Having a wall between us is bloody torture.
The message made my stomach flip. I stared at it for way too long before I could even breathe, cheeks burning. With just a text, the butterflies from last night came back in full force. His lips, his voice, the way he said I was his …
The referee’s whistle slices through my thoughts, signaling halftime. I blink, bringing my attention back to the field. The Strikers make their way toward the tunnel. Cameras flash. Fans cheer, then his gaze finds mine.
It’s just a second, maybe two, but it’s enough to knock the air out of me. I forget to breathe.
He doesn’t look away, and neither do I.
Beside me, June is finishing a post, fingers flying over her screen. Then, without even glancing up, she says under her breath, “Man, you are done for.”
I blink out of my daze. “What?”
June smirks, still working. “You heard me. I’m terrible at relationships, but I’ve got a sixth sense about other people’s. I saw it the day we met, but damn, what happened yesterday that’s got you looking like this?”
Heat crawls up my neck before I can stop it.
I could deny it, pretend she’s imagining things, but she saw us.
She saw him. His hand on my face, his body so close there was no space left between us.
And the worst part? He didn’t even flinch when she opened the door.
He just kept looking at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
June laughs. “Don’t worry, if you’re keeping this a secret, no one’s finding out through me. Sister code.”
She raises her pinky.
I smile, hook mine around hers, and squeeze. “Thank you. I don’t even know what this is yet, so I appreciate you keeping it to yourself.”
“You really like him, huh?” she asks, voice softer now.
I nod before I can talk myself out of it.
“Well,” she says, eyes flicking toward the field, “he definitely likes you. The man’s protecting the net while keeping his eyes on you. He’s like—bionic or something.”
That makes me laugh for the first time all game. And just like that, the world shifts back into focus—my camera feed, the noise, the fans, the work.
I finally tear my eyes away from him and force myself back to the job I’m here to do, queuing up the next replay and reminding myself why I’m here.
After two minutes of added time, the referee blows the whistle and the match is over.
Strikers on top, two–nothing. One by Wes Holloway, the captain. The other by Malik Dembélé, the name stretched across the back of the jersey I happen to be wearing today.
The stadium erupts. Music blasts through the speakers. Fans are on their feet, waving their little Strikers flags, purple and sky blue fluttering against the night sky, and for the first time all day, the weight in my chest lifts, just a little
June and I walk along the sidelines, phones and cameras up, capturing the victory chaos. Players hug, high-five, toss water bottles into the air. Confetti cannons go off near the stands, and Malik spots me immediately.
“That’s a nice jersey on you, Cat,” he calls out with a grin, jogging over before wrapping me in a quick hug that smells of sweat and adrenaline.
“Don’t get used to it.” I laugh, trying to keep the camera steady.
Thiago appears next, grinning like a kid. “When are you gonna wear my jersey, Catalina?” he teases, pulling me into another hug.
“I’m going to have to wear it soon,” I say, laughing. “You were great today! You got twenty-two whole minutes, and that save?” I clap once, impressed. “That was amazing.”
He beams, and we do a ridiculous little handshake, both of us laughing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him.
Rogue’s on the opposite sideline, surrounded by a small cluster of young fans leaning over the barricade. He’s signing jerseys, footballs, shoes, and Strikers flags, his gloves hanging from his waistband.
“Excuse me,” I tell Thiago and Malik, “I’ll catch up in a bit.”
June glances at me as I lift my camera. “I’ll head to the locker room,” she says. “Get the postgame stuff ready.”
“Perfect,” I say, already focused on the viewfinder.
I remove the lens cap and shoot from across the field. Rogue shakes hands with kids, signs autographs, ruffles a little boy’s hair, and even takes a fan’s phone to snap a selfie. No smile, of course, but the fans adore him anyway. The broody Irishman pretending he doesn’t have a heart.
I shift positions, zoom in, and keep shooting, and then he turns.
Through the lens, his gaze locks with mine.
My breath stumbles. Butterflies erupt in my chest, wild and reckless. I keep clicking, pretending I’m just doing my job, but he’s walking toward me now, slow, deliberate. A faint grin curving at his mouth.
The closer he gets, the bigger that grin becomes. I capture every frame of it, unable to stop myself. When he’s right in front of me, I lower the camera.
“Congratulations,” I say. “That was a hell of a game.”
“Thank you, lass.” His voice is quiet but threaded with that low rasp that always seems to find the weakest parts of me.
For a moment, neither of us say anything. The noise of the stadium fades, replaced by the pulse of something heavier. Electricity. Want. Maybe both.
Then he tilts his head slightly, a smile ghosting his lips. “Shall we?”
I nod, and we walk side by side, the distance between us careful, measured. The last few players drift off toward the tunnel. The stands are emptying, echoing with laughter and the fading sound of drums.
By the time we reach the locker-room area, June’s already immersed in her phone, scrolling through footage. Rogue veers off toward Hiro Tanaka, chatting as they disappear down the hallway.
“I think I’ve got enough for the first end-of-game reel,” June says without looking up. “I can probably even edit it right now and post it. Did you get anything you want to add?”
“No.”
She looks up, smirking.
I roll my eyes. “I just took a few shots of Rogue with the fans. We talked about getting him to use his socials more. I figured if he’s active on his account, it’ll help drive traffic to the team page.”
June’s lips twitch. “Oh, speaking of, did you see Rogue’s post from today? The sweetest thing ever.”
“No.” I’ve been too wrapped up in my own thoughts to even check the team’s analytics, let alone his profile.
She grins. “It’s so good. The girls in the comments are losing their minds.”
Curiosity wins. I pull my phone from my back pocket, open his page, and there it is—the photo I took yesterday on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Rogue and Patrick O’Shea, each holding one of the drawings.
Rogue’s expression is serious, but his eyes carry that faint glint I’ve started to recognize. The caption reads:
Met Patrick O’Shea on the Brooklyn Bridge yesterday. A fellow Irishman and hell of a talent. Picked up two of his drawings, one of Coney Island, one of the bridge itself. If you ever find yourself in New York, find Patrick and buy his art. Good people deserve to be seen.
I blink, that familiar ache rising in my chest.
The comments are already piling up:
@strikerslover99: He’s not even smiling and I’m feral
@footygirl22: Brooding Irishmen who support local artists?? I’m in love.
@goaliefiend: Protect this man at all costs.
@nycgirlinblue: Guess I’m going bridge-hunting to find Patrick.
@heartsonpitch: This is why he’s everyone’s favorite. Class act, always.
I look up from my phone. June’s watching me, that same knowing smile playing on her lips.
“That’s incredibly sweet,” I say.
June nods. “He probably just changed that man’s life.”
And she’s right.
If I wasn’t already falling for him, this would’ve completely undone me.
It’s strange how falling for someone can happen in pieces. A look. A message. A single act of kindness that shouldn’t mean much at all yet somehow does.
A few hours later, the New York dream bubble starts to crack.
The team gathers outside the hotel as fans crowd behind the ropes, still buzzing from the win, waving jerseys and Strikers flags. Cameras flash, voices rise, and the night feels like one long exhale.
June and I are still working, phones out, capturing everything we can before reality settles back in.
When the players begin filing onto the bus, June looks at me, eyes bright.
“Can I film inside?”
I nod. “Go for it.”
She hops up the steps, turns her camera toward the team, and shouts, “Strikers on top!”
The entire bus explodes—players, assistants, even coach Whitmore—cheering and pounding on the seats. The sound rattles the windows, wild and joyful.
I grin and follow her on board.
We slide into the same seats we’ve somehow claimed as ours—unassigned but held by superstition—passing Rogue and Thiago deep in conversation. Still, Rogue glances up mid-sentence, and our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. It’s brief, innocent, but it’s enough to send a flutter through my chest.
June sinks into her seat and laughs breathlessly. “That was so good. You have to see this.”
She hands me her phone. On screen, the whole team roars as she yells, “Strikers on top!” Even Rogue, normally all composure, pumps a fist in the air and yells along.
I can’t help smiling. “That’s perfect. Post it and add hashtag Strikers On Top. Great idea, June.”
She smirks, fingers already flying over her phone. “I wish I could say it was my idea, but you came up with it. You did the same thing for the Houston Panthers, remember? When they made the finals? I saw that clip and knew we had to recreate it.”
I pause, remembering. The noise of the Panther stadium, the confetti, the players’ faces. Another life. Another version of me.
“You’ve been stalking me?” I tease, elbowing her.
“Just doing my research,” she fires back, grinning.
We laugh, the kind of easy sound that untangles the tension that’s been twisting in my chest since last night.
“I’m just happy to learn from the best,” she adds.
I’m about to respond when my phone buzzes on my lap. I glance down.
Rogue:
Is your car at the airport? Or is your roommate picking you up?
I blink, heart doing that inconvenient skip it’s started to perfect.
Me:
Briana is picking me up.
Rogue:
Tell her she doesn’t have to. I’ll take you home.
My pulse stutters. I stare at the message, biting my lip, my thumb hovering over the screen.
Me:
Are you sure that’s a good idea?
Three blinking dots appear, vanish, then return.
Rogue:
I have a driver picking me up. Let me take you home, lass.
The bus hums around us; engines, chatter, laughter blending together, but my world has narrowed to those words.
I glance up, searching for him. He’s a few rows ahead, looking out the window as if nothing has changed.
Except everything has.