Chapter 1
There’s nothing quite like the smell of freshly watered grass in the morning. A weird thing to love, I know, but for me, it smells like possibility. Like a clean slate and a good lighting setup. Like adrenaline and fresh reels just waiting to go viral.
The stadium hums with quiet energy. In two days, it’ll be packed with fans and noise and overpriced nachos. But today, it’s just me, my camera, and the team I’ve been capturing for three seasons.
I’m Catalina Arismendi—Cat, unless you’re my abuela—and I’m the social media manager for the Great Lakes Strikers Football Club. Which means, for the entire season, from opening day to the final whistle, my life revolves around cleats, chaos, and content.
Honestly? I love it. I love the thrill of documenting wins, the vulnerability in a postgame loss, the way a single photo canmake someone feel like they’re part of something bigger. I get to tell stories through the lens without ever having to be in front of it. Which is perfect since I hate being the center of attention.
Except this season? That spotlight is about to burn brighter than ever.
Becauseheis here.
Roger Gallagher. Rogue. Legendary Irish goalkeeper. Former Premier League giant. The man with hands of stone and a fanbase that might actually shut down the Florida Turnpike.
Everyone’s talking about him. The league. The media. My group chat. One of the waterboys almost cried when he learned he’d be on towel duty during Rogue’s first home game. I wish I were exaggerating.
And me? I’m trying not to gag.
Don’t get me wrong—he’s good, one of the best, but he’s also cold, impossible to work with, and has a reputation for hating the press. And guess what I am? Press. With a camera and a mandate from the club to make him look lovable.
He’s scheduled to arrive today. His first official practice is in three hours. But of course, because the universe loves irony, he’s already here.
The Rogue has landed.
I sling my camera strap across my body and head toward the commotion because apparently, I enjoy emotional damage and secondhand embarrassment.
“Cat! There you are!”
That’s Emily, our brand-new assistant coordinator, and she’s practically skipping down the hallway like she’s about to meet a boy band. Clutching a clipboard to her chest, she’s sporting a Strikers polo with every button undone, showing off her assets, and wearing enough eyeliner to survive a thunderstorm. Confidence, clearly, is not something she’s short on.
“You’re just in time,” she gushes, grabbing my elbow as if we’re besties, which we arenot, for the record. “I was told to escort Mr. Gallagher to the media office, and I thought,who better to introduce him to than our content queen herself?”
“Wow, lucky me,” I say dryly, trying to school my expression into something that doesn’t screamabort mission.
And then I see him.
Six-feet, four inches of lean, muscular, camera-unfriendly brooding intensity.
His dark hair is tousled in a way that says he doesn’t even have to try to look that good. Gray eyes that should be illegal in daylight. Arms—thick with muscle— stretch the sleeves of his gray Strikers tee in a way that has me questioning the structural integrity of the cotton.
He’s walking behind Emily, duffel in hand, shoulders squared, jaw set, not a hint of a smile anywhere near him.
“Mr. Gallagher!” She beams, stopping right in front of me. “This is Cat. She’s in charge of social media for the Strikers Football Club, so you’d better get acquainted. You’ll be seeing a lot of her this season.”
His gaze lands on me, slow and assessing, unreadable. His eyes sweep from my messy bun to the camera at my hip, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
“Cat,” he says, his voice low and steady, touched with an Irish lilt that makes my name linger on his lips. “Short for something?”
“Catalina,” I answer, proud of myself for saying an entire word.
He nods once. “Grand. Nice to meet you, lass.”
Lass.
What is this,Braveheart?
My spine snaps straight, like I’ve wandered into a Jane Austen adaptation and come face-to-face with Mr. Darcy for the first time—angry, broody temperament and all.
