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 scanthe pitch but don’t reallyseeit. 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.
