Just then, I sense her coming closer, and my breath catches for no damn reason.
She doesn’t say a word—she doesn’t have to. She angles the camera slung from her neck and starts taking photos.
Click. Click. Click.
The lens follows me as I move back into position. I glance her way, she doesn’t flinch, she doesn’t smile. She’s all business.
She drops to the sidelines near my post, legs crossed, phone in hand—scrolling, editing, posting, doing her thing.
Probably figuring out how to Photoshop a smile onto my face.
Good luck with that, sweetheart.
A whistle blows and I straighten, rolling out my shoulders as Thiago jogs over, his curls stuck to his forehead, thermos nowhere in sight for once.
“You all right, man?” he asks, eyeing me too casually to be casual.
“Grand,” I mutter.
“You sure? Because”—he glances toward the sideline and back again— “you’ve been clocking more time staring than saving.”
I squint at him. “What’re you on about?”
He grins, all too proud of himself. “Come on, Gallagher. You’re practically devouring Cat with your eyes. She walks past and you forget what a football looks like. I’m just saying, when you’re ready, I make anexcellentwingman.”
I nearly choke.
“I’m here toplay,Martínez, not flirt.” My tone comes out sharper than I intend, but he doesn’t flinch. Bloody kid’s got nerves of steel.
He throws his hands up in surrender. “All good. I’m just saying, you’ve got that look, man. Like one more smile from her and you’d forget what offside means.”
I grunt. Loudly.
“Focus on your game,” I tell him. “That’s where your head should be. You want to be first string by the time I’m gone?”
He nods, all traces of teasing replaced by something real.
“Then give a thousand percent. Every day, every feckin’ second. You’ve got fire, kid, but it’s not enough to just have it. You’ve got tofeedit, sharpen it. Let it burn until there’s no doubt you belong in that net. You want the Strikers jersey? You want to wear blue for Uruguay?”
He swallows hard. “Yeah. I do.”
“Then I’ll help you, as long as you earn it.”
His eyes light up. “Seriously? That’d mean everything.”
I nod once. “Let’s get to work, then.”
We run drills, one after the other. Footwork. Reflexes. Set pieces. I correct his stance. He listens, he adjusts. He’s sharp, a fast learner, and has that raw edge I remember having at his age, before the pressure, before the spotlight turned everything heavy.
Still, I feel her.
Iknowshe’s there. Cat, sitting off to the side, legs crossed, camera in hand. Watching, recording, capturing every bloody moment.
She hasn’t said a word to me. Just moves around us like she’s part of the team’s rhythm. But for me, she throws the whole thing off.
I glance her way, and she’s scrolling on her phone, probably lining up a post, maybe staring at another grim-faced photo of me and wondering how to make me look less miserable for the fans.
Should I make her job easier?
