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 tooI 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.
