Thiago finishes and passes the gourd to Rogue, who takes it like he’s done it a hundred times, confident, comfortable,toocomfortable. I can’t help but think about how this moment would make my father proud.
Thiago turns to me. “You want some?”
“Maybe later,” I say, lifting my to-go cup. “I’m going to stick to my chai for now.”
I reach into my back pocket and pull out my work phone. “Actually… would it be okay if I take a picture of you two? The fans would love to see the goalkeepers already bonding.”
Rogue shrugs with one shoulder, the mate still in hand.Damn, he’s attractive.
Thiago, on the other hand, lights up. “Yes, of course!” He practically jumps into place beside Rogue, holding the thermos with his left arm like it’s part of his uniform. He gives a big thumbs-up with his right hand, grinning so hard I feel the joy through the screen before I even snap the shot.
Rogue stands there, stoic, mate in hand. Not smiling, but not scowling either, which is probably as good as it’s gonna get.
I take a couple of pictures, different angles, good lighting. “Got it. Thanks, guys.”
As I lower the phone, Thiago steps closer—shoulder brushing mine—and leans in just slightly. “Can you send those to me?” he whispers, voice softer now. “I gotta show my dad.”
My heart does a little flip. He’s so genuine it’s impossible not to smile.
“Of course.”
With that, I turn and push through the glass doors to the media offices, smiling to myself as I walk, the cool blast of AC brushing against my skin. I settle my things into one of the desks and open my laptop, watching them through the wall of windows.
Thiago’s animated, gesturing with his thermos while Rogue listens, occasionally nodding. He doesn’t look irritated or annoyed, just… there.
Okay, maybe even a little amused.
I slide into one of the rolling desk chairs and set my chai down beside the laptop. Before I even touch the keyboard, I grab my phone again and pull up the team’s social media account.
The photo loads beautifully. Thiago’s huge grin, Rogue’s broody glare softened just enough by the steaming mate in his hand. It’s pure gold.
I type out a caption:
The keepers are keeping it cool. Day one of practice and the bond is already strong. #StrikersSeason #GoalieGoals #BroodymeetsSunny
I hit post.
Within seconds, the likes start ticking up.
Yep. The fans are gonna eat this up.
Chapter 5
There’s a reason I wear gloves for a living. My hands have always been better at the job than my mouth ever could be.
Unfortunately, being Roger “Rogue” Gallagher—World Cup winner, European league veteran, miracle-save maker, Irish legend, insert all the fecking hype here—means I don’t get that luxury anymore.
Not when I’m standing in the middle of the bloody Florida sun, surrounded by fresh-faced teammates who all look at me like I piss gold.
Not when every camera in a ten-mile radius is pointed in my direction.
Not when I’m supposed to be grateful for this—one last year, one last paycheck, one last ride.
A legacy contract, they called it. A chance to end my career on my terms.
I should be honored. Instead, I’m… tired.
Not in the bone-deep, physical kind of way. No. My body can still keep up. I train hard, I take care of myself, and I know I’ve got a few good matches left in me. But beingwantedfor who I used to be? That’s a different kind of exhaustion.
