“Why not? He’s European. He’s hot. I’m just using adjectives.”
“He’s also a nightmare,” I mutter, pushing through the employee entrance. “Didn’t smile once during the press conference. Glared at me like I keyed his car, and now I have to make him look good for the entire season.”
“Oof. Grumpy and famous. Your kryptonite.”
“I’m being serious, Anna. I have to put my best foot forward. Like him or not, he’s a World Cup champion. This is massive for the team. Probably the biggest acquisition since Miami signed Messi. The fans are obsessed. Every post I made yesterday practically set the internet on fire.”
“Right, right,” she says. “But we’re just gonna ignore the fact that he’s totally your type?”
“He is not my type.”
“Oh, sorry, tall, emotionally unavailable, and Irish isn’t your thing anymore?”
“I hate you.”
“You love me.”
I open my mouth to fire back, but I round the corner into the hallway that leads to the media offices… and stop short. He’s already here, standing at the far end of the hall in front of the practice field doors, stretching one arm across his chest like this is his natural habitat.
Six feet four, lean but solid—broad shoulders, strong legs, carved like someone designed him to block the sunandshots on goal. I’ve seen him play. The goalpost looks almost comically small behind him.
His brown hair is a little tousled on top, like he just rolled out of bed, and he still looks criminally good. Sharp jawline, deep-gray eyes, serious expression—and, dammit, unfairly perfect.
My brain short-circuits for one embarrassing second, and I freeze mid-step.
“Hello?” Anna’s voice crackles in my ear. “Are you still alive or did you spontaneously combust?”
I startle. “What? No. I just…”
“Oh my God. You’re looking at him right now, aren’t you?”
I don’t respond fast enough.
“You are! You’re totally checking him out! What’s he wearing? Wait, no, don’t answer that, I want to imagine it. Is it tight?”
“You are the worst,” I mutter, keeping my voice low and hoping to keep Rogue from hearing me.
I fail.
He turns, catches me mid-stare, and instead of looking away, he checks me out—head to toe—with the same broody, unreadable expression he wore yesterday. Not flirty, not interested, just… assessing. Like he’s trying to decide if I’m a threat or a technical glitch.
I scramble.
“Okay, gotta go,” I whisper into the phone.
“Tell him I said hi!” Anna chirps.
“Stop. Also, don’t forget this weekend.”
“Oh, as if I could forget! Can’t wait to see you! Love you, bye!”
“Love you.” I end the call as I’m a few feet away from him. He’s still watching me.
Of course he is.
“Morning, lass,” he says, voice low and rough, as if it hasn’t fully woken up yet.
I freeze.
