Chapter 38
Iwake before the alarm, staring at the ceiling and slowly remembering where I am, who I am, and what today means.
For the first time in days, I made it through the night without waking up several times.
It wasn’t a peaceful sleep though; it was full of him.
His hands at my waist, the warmth of his breath on my neck, the way his eyes soften when he lets his guard down, and that secret little smile he only ever gave to me.
Even in dreams, he pushes a strand of hair behind my ear like I’m someone precious. Even in sleep, he reaches for me.
And now I’m awake, thinking about being in his arms again.
I roll to the side and see June on the bed next to mine, still curled beneath the covers, breathing steadily, blissfully unaware of me overthinking every emotion I’ve ever felt.
I slip from bed, gather myself in the half dark, and move quietly, doing the small morning things that make me feel steady—bathroom, teeth brushed, hair twisted into a bun.
I pull on my oversized hoodie, step into my sneakers, and decide on a coffee run for June and me.
Something simple. Something I can control.
Professional Cat. Game-day Cat. The version of me who doesn’t fall apart over a man, no matter how big his shoulders are or how gentle his voice gets when he talks to me.
The hallway is quiet when I step out, the soft click of the door sounding louder than it should in the stillness.
I pass room 523 and my heart trips, wondering if his room is once more right beside mine, if a single wall is all that separated us last night.
The thought pulls at me, sharp and dangerous, so I shut it down.
Not today. Not this morning. Focus, Cat. Big day ahead.
The elevator opens, and for a moment, I breathe.
Yesterday sits with me like mist in my hair, impossible to shake off.
Multnomah Falls. The rushing of the water, the cold on my cheeks, the truth in his voice when he told me I was his happiest memory.
I don’t know how to hold that. I don’t know how to pretend those words didn’t settle somewhere deep in me, warm and terrifying.
By the time I walk into the hotel restaurant, I’m repeating my mental checklist—coffee, breakfast, media prep, locker-room content, sideline shots, postgame edits. Keep moving, keep working, keep breathing.
Then I see him.
He’s sitting toward the back in a corner booth. His shoulders relaxed, his head bent slightly as he wraps both hands around a mug. He looks up the moment I enter, like he felt me before he saw me. There is nothing dramatic about it, yet it sends heat under my skin.
Just like that, every carefully built wall in my chest wobbles. I want to walk up to him, slide next to him, and curl up against him. I want him to hold me and tell me everything is going to be all right.
Thankfully, he is not alone. Thiago sits across from him. Rogue doesn’t look away, but I do, because if I don’t, I’ll go to him, and life is rarely kind enough to let things be that simple.
Thiago calls, cheerful and loud, “Good morning, Catalina!”
“Good morning,” I manage, heading toward the coffee station, clinging to the comfort of routine. Cups, pods, the steady hum of the machine, ordinary things. Predictable things. The kind of tasks that don’t ask me how I’m feeling or who I dreamed about all night.
In seconds Thiago joins me, all warmth and sunshine in human form. “Campeona,” he says, and I smile.
“Buenos días,” I answer.
Without a word, he wraps me in one of those warm, full-body hugs that don’t ask permission but somehow still feel perfectly timed. My shoulders loosen before I can stop them, my body remembering how to soften even though my brain is still stuck in self-preservation mode.
He lets go and steps back, giving me a quick once-over before asking, “How are you?”
I lie. “I’m good. Just grabbing coffee for me and June. You?”
One eyebrow lifts, unimpressed. “Are you really going to lie to my face?”
A breath of a laugh slips out. “What exactly do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell me you’re going to forgive him.”
My pulse stutters. “He told you—”
“No, Marianna did.”
That knocks the wind out of me for an entirely different reason. My hand shoots out on instinct and smacks his chest. “Oh my God. That’s right! You slept with my little sister.”
He winces, but he’s grinning too, which is honestly rude. “Yeah … about that. I know I should have talked to you first, but in my defense she’s … well, she’s her, and you were a little busy emotionally drop-kicking Rogue into the void.”
I can’t help it; I look over.
Rogue is still at the booth, elbows on the table, fingers tracing slow circles around his mug. Something tugs inside me, low and deep and stubborn.
Thiago lowers his voice, serious now. “He’s been gone for you since day one, Cat. Anyone with eyes can see it. And I know you feel something too. Just … maybe give him a little grace.”
It isn’t the teasing that gets me. It’s the softness. The genuine hope in his eyes.
I swallow past the lump forming in my throat. “I just need a little time.”
He nods, accepting that without pushing. “Fair enough. Big day ahead. Eat something.” He starts back toward the booth, then pauses and points at me. “And you and I are talking about me and your sister when we get home.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He responds with the most shamelessly proud salute I’ve ever seen before wandering back to Rogue.
Suddenly, it’s just me, two empty paper cups, and a heart doing backflips in my chest. I can feel Rogue’s gaze from across the room, steady and warm, like sunlight on the back of my neck.
I turn back to the machine and inhale. Coffee first. Then breathe. Then … whatever comes after.
Who decided an open-air stadium in Portland was a good idea? Whoever it was clearly never spent a winter here.
“It’s cold as balls,” June mutters beside me, bundled like she’s hiking the Arctic, and I laugh under my breath.
We’re minutes from kickoff, walking through the tunnel toward the field, braced against the bite of icy air. Both of us are in oversized jackets, silently bargaining with the weather gods that the rain stays away at least until the final whistle.
The stadium is already alive. Tens of thousands of voices rolling over each other like waves. Chants, drums, the kind of buzz that crawls up your spine and settles in your ribs. Portland always shows up, and today feels bigger than usual.
The Strikers have never beaten Portland at home. Ever.
Not once in franchise history. The stakes hum in the air like electricity.
We step out onto the sideline and spot two little boys in Strikers gear hanging off the front railing, chanting as if their tiny lungs are powering the stadium. I lift my camera, capturing the moment, bright cheeks, homemade signs, pure childhood hope.
“I grabbed a few shirts before we left,” June whispers. “Want to give them to the kids?”
“Yes, absolutely. Let me record it.”
I pull out my phone, and we walk over. June unzips her backpack, grabs two shirts, and tosses them to the boys with a grin.
“Courtesy of the team,” she says.
They catch them and scream. “Thank you!!”
I grin behind the camera, the kind of grin that happens when joy is contagious, and they wave, proud and glowing.
“Is it okay if we share this?” I ask the parents.
“Please do,” the mom says with a smile.
One of the boys looks up at me, practically vibrating. “Can you ask the players to come say hi after the game?”
I play along. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Wes Holloway,” he says without hesitation.
“Our captain.” I nod. “Good choice. And you?” I ask, looking at the younger one.
He clutches his new shirt like it might fly away. “Rogue,” he whispers.
My heart does a full somersault. Mine too I want to tell him. Instead, I smile and say, “We’ll do our best, okay?”
They cheer and high-five each other, and June and I laugh before heading back to the tunnel.
The players are lining up, shoulders squared, jaws set, every one of them looking like they’re ready to run through walls for this moment.
June moves down the line filming them, posting as she goes, while I hang back with my camera, catching them in profile, shadow and light cutting dramatically across their faces.
The announcer calls the Great Lakes Strikers to the pitch, and the stadium erupts.
I lift my camera as the line moves, shooting frame after frame. Cleats, stony expressions, determination carved into every line of their bodies.
Click. Click. Click.
And then—him.
Rogue steps into view, and the rest of the world fizzes out. Light-blue jersey stretched across his chest, gloves in hand, that focused expression that could cut glass. Every inch of him is commanding and quiet fire.
My breath catches, and I lower the camera for one beat too long.
His eyes find mine immediately. Of course they do.
As he passes, he slows. His hand lifts—gentle, certain—and he tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear, fingertips brushing my cheek in the softest sweep.
Heat sparks across my skin. My pulse trips. The stadium roars, but all I feel is that impossibly tender touch and the ghost of his fingers as he walks away.
Then he’s gone, heading toward the center of the field for the team photo, and I’m standing there with a camera in my hand and absolutely no idea how to make my legs work again.
Minute seventy-five, and my nerves are shot.
The score has been frozen since before halftime, and the stadium is holding its breath. Portland won’t let us breathe. The second we win possession, they take it back and push forward again.
The Strikers haven’t struggled like this all season, and every fan in here feels the shift.
A sudden break down the left sweeps the crowd into a roar. Portland threads a perfect pass through our back line, and before I can even brace for it, their striker is in the box. He takes the shot, low and vicious toward the near post.
Rogue launches, body stretched long, fingers grazing the ball enough to redirect it to the post. It smacks the woodwork and bounces out.
The entire stadium gasps, and my heart practically claws its way up my throat.
June clutches my arm. “Oh my God.”
I don’t respond because I can’t breathe properly yet.
Portland regains possession almost instantly, pushing again. They send another rocket at the goal, and Rogue reacts late—but he still gets there, punching it over the bar. Another save. Another too-close moment.
“He’s not all there today,” I murmur.
I feel it. He’s doing everything right, but focus isn’t just skill; it’s breath and mind and heartbeat, and his is tangled somewhere not on this field.
“Look,” June says, nodding down the sideline. “Coach has Thiago warming up.”
I see movement near the bench. Thiago jogging, stretching, loosening up.
My heart drops. They’re preparing the backup.
Rogue has only ever been subbed when we’re coasting, when the game is ours and the risk is zero.
But now? While he’s fighting for every breath out there? No. This can’t be happening.
“I don’t know if he’ll go in,” I say, but my voice is tight. My pulse is a drumline.
I can’t take my eyes off Rogue. His shoulders rise and fall once, steady but strained, like he’s holding the world up instead of just the back line.
“Let’s get closer,” I say, already moving. “I need to film from the other angle.”
Maybe it’s true. Maybe it’s an excuse. But my feet are already taking me toward him, and June follows without question.
We weave behind cameras and press staff, hearts in our throats. Just as we reach the corner area, chaos erupts. Santiago Rivas goes shoulder-to-shoulder with a Portland midfielder—clean, tough, and absolutely enough for the other guy to act like he’s been hit by a bus.
He throws himself to the ground, rolling like someone auditioning for a telenovela.
Whistle.
Corner kick.
The team protests, waving their arms, faces flushed with anger. The ref doesn’t even blink, pointing decisively at the flag again. Portland fans go wild. The announcer booms his excited commentary over the speakers, spiking the tension.
Players begin to take their positions, shoving for space, adrenaline pumping off the pitch like heat.
We’re right behind the corner arc now. So close I can see everything—the crease between his brows, the way his eyes scan the pitch but don’t really see it. There’s something sad tucked in there, right behind the focus.
Everyone around us is cheering, chanting, roaring. But when I look at him, I know better. He’s out there on an island, trying to hold back a storm, and the weight of it is dragging him under.
And suddenly, it clicks—if he’s feeling even a fraction of what I’ve been feeling this week, then of course he’s struggling.
I spent days walking around like a ghost, barely able to string a full thought together.
I still don’t feel fully steady. I’ve only survived it because June has been glued to my side, quietly catching everything I dropped, filling every gap I couldn’t.
But him? He doesn’t get a June on the pitch. He doesn’t get anyone to carry the weight when his chest feels tight and his head is static. He’s on that field with nothing but pressure and expectation pressing down on him.
And he’s doing it alone.
Which means I know exactly what I need to do.
I shrug off my jacket, ignoring the cold that hits my arms instantly. I step forward, into a spot where I know he’ll see me when he looks up. My heart hammers hard against my ribcage as I stand there in the open.
The stadium is roaring. The players are moving. The ref raises his whistle.
And I’m standing at the edge of the field wearing a Strikers jersey with his number stretched over my heart.