Chapter 39
Rogue’s eyes go straight to the number on my chest, and something shifts in him—subtle, but powerful, a turning tide. The heaviness from before lifts, and for the first time all match, I see the man I know. Steady. Fierce. Alive.
The referee’s whistle cuts through the stadium, sharp and cold.
The corner taker for Portland, number ten, Alvarez, places the ball down with the kind of confidence that has us all collectively holding our breaths.
He backs up, scans the box, and we feel the anticipation shift like a storm cloud rolling in.
Players crowd the penalty area—shoulders pressed, jerseys tugged, hearts in throats. June grabs my arm, and I clutch my camera, the noise around us fading into a single vibrating hum.
Alvarez runs up and sends the ball curling into the air, high and dangerous, spinning toward a sea of bodies crashing together in front of our goal.
The whole world slows.
For a second, I swear I hear nothing but my pulse.
Then Rogue moves.
He explodes upward through the crowd—long body stretching, timing sharp and instinctive—beating every rushing attacker by inches and catching the ball clean in both arms. He falls to his knees with it, holding tight, holding everything, and the stadium erupts around us in a roar that shakes the concrete beneath my feet.
He rises slowly, waiting for the team to reset, then sends the ball flying across the pitch with one clean strike. It lands at Malik Dembélé’s chest, and he’s off in a flash, cutting through space like the field belongs to him.
Malik drives forward, defenders closing in, and slips the ball to Wes Holloway, who barely hesitates before carving past another challenge. The stadium rises all at once, and Wes shoots.
Top right corner. Clean. Perfect. Impossible.
The roar hits like a wave. June screams and throws her arms around me, both of us jumping, laughing, shaking, posting updates with fingers that can’t keep up with our excitement. The Strikers are on top.
And through all of it, I feel him. His eyes on me, the shadows that were deep within him just moments ago no longer there.
Two minutes go up on the board, and the stadium reacts like someone lit a fuse.
Portland throws everything they have forward, but the Strikers don’t budge.
They hold the ball, pass cleanly, slow the tempo like they’re collectively choosing calm over panic.
Every touch feels intentional. Every second earned.
It’s not flashy, but it’s controlled, disciplined, a team protecting something precious.
“Get the post ready,” I murmur to June, unable to stop the smile pulling at my mouth.
She grins, fingers flying over her phone, and for a moment, we are fans instead of the people responsible for broadcasting this beautiful chaos to the world.
The referee brings the whistle to his lips, and the sound cuts through the stadium like a bolt—final, undeniable. For the first time in club history, the Strikers conquer Portland on their own turf.
The stadium erupts the second the whistle blows.
Players rush the field, shouting and laughing, grabbing each other in disbelief.
Coaches are jumping, hugging, shaking hands, and for a moment, it feels like the ground itself vibrates with the energy of it all.
The traveling Striker fans are going wild in the corner stands, scarves waving, voices cracking from screaming. It’s loud and chaotic and electric.
June throws her arms around me, and I laugh into her shoulder, breathless and dizzy with relief and joy.
I turn in a slow circle, taking in every piece of it—the cameras flashing, the confetti drifting from somewhere above, teammates collapsing to their knees and jumping into each other’s arms, the sense that something huge has just shifted for all of us.
And then I see him. Surrounded by teammates, squeezed in tight by congratulating arms, coaches shouting in his ear, staff trying to reach him—and still, somehow, he’s the calmest thing in all that chaos.
His chest rises and falls, breath heavy, hair plastered slightly to his forehead, gloves hanging loose in his hands.
He isn’t looking at the crowd. He isn’t looking at the staff. He’s looking at me.
The noise fades, and suddenly, I’m very aware of how still he is in all that motion, how his eyes hold mine like everything else is background noise.
He starts walking. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just steady and sure, like he’s made a decision and there was never another option.
Something in my chest loosens, then tightens all over again.
My feet move without thinking, just a few steps forward, as if my body refuses to let him come the whole way.
I don’t think about the cameras or the crowd or the fact that my hands are still shaking from the match. I just … move toward him.
The field is still a riot of celebration, but none of it touches us. It feels like we’re walking toward the same point from opposite ends of the universe, and the space between us keeps shrinking, drawn together by something I stopped trying to deny a long time ago.
Reporters call his name, cameras turn toward him, hands reach, and he doesn’t look at any of them. His eyes stay on mine the entire time, steady and sure, and my heart aches with every step he takes.
When he reaches me, he doesn’t speak right away. His gaze drops to my jersey, to his number right over my heart, and when he looks back up, there’s something soft and certain in his eyes that almost undoes me.
His hand, warm and gentle, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear like he has all the time in the world and no one watching matters. His fingers graze my cheek, and I lean into his touch because I cannot pretend anymore.
“Catalina,” he says, quiet and sure.
I smile, my heart settling in a place it’s been circling for weeks. “You can call me kitten if you want,” I whisper.
Something shifts in his expression—relief, affection, wonder—and then his hands slide to my lower back, steady and warm as he draws me closer. The stadium is still roaring, cameras flashing, the world spinning hard around us, but all I feel is him.
And then he kisses me.
Not rushed. Not for show. Soft at first, asking for permission. Then real, true, and certain, like he’s finally home.
I curl my hands into his chest, holding on like he’s the only solid thing in a world still shaking from the win, and I kiss him back without hesitation, without fear, without anything left to hide.
The field, the noise, the lights, all of it fades until it’s just us—finally, fully us—and for the first time in days, I can breathe again.