And suddenly, it clicks—if he’s feeling even a fraction of what I’ve been feeling this week, then of course he’s struggling. I spent days walking around like a ghost, barely able to string a full thought together. I still don’t feel fully steady. I’ve only survived it because June has been glued to my side, quietly catching everything I dropped, filling every gap I couldn’t.
But him? He doesn’t get a June on the pitch. He doesn’t get anyone to carry the weight when his chest feels tight and his head is static. He’s on that field with nothing but pressure and expectation pressing down on him.
And he’s doing it alone.
Which means I know exactly what I need to do.
I shrug off my jacket, ignoring the cold that hits my arms instantly. I step forward, into a spot where I know he’ll see me when he looks up. My heart hammers hard against my ribcage as I stand there in the open.
The stadium is roaring. The players are moving. The ref raises his whistle.
And I’m standing at the edge of the field wearing a Strikers jersey with his number stretched over my heart.
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.
