“This way,” I mutter, turning and nearly walking into the wall.
Behind me, Emily giggles and he chuckles.Chuckles, like the villain in a Netflix thriller who somehow still gets the girl.
I swallow hard and keep walking.
I donot likeRogerGallagher.
I don’t care how famous he is, or how nice his arms look in a team-issued T-shirt, and Idefinitelydon’t care that the wordlassnow lives rent-free in my brain.
No. Absolutely not.
This man is a walking red flag in cleats, and I am not catching feelings for the damn goalkeeper.
If testosterone had a smell, it would be this room.
Suits. So many suits. All of them sweating through their overpriced blazers like they’re auditioning for theWall Street Strikers. It’s a miracle the cameras aren’t fogging up.
You’d think we were interviewing a Victoria’s Secret model with the way these guys are panting. Their panties are so soaked someone might need to call facilities for a mop.
Meanwhile, I’m posted up off to the side of the stage—camera slung over one shoulder, one phone in my hand and the other mounted on a tripod beside me, streaming live on the Strikers’ official account. The fans love getting an inside look before the networks roll out their polished version. It’s how I’ve been able to grow the page so quickly, keeping them in the loop with everything, and Rogue arriving? That’s huge.
I’m working double-time—filling feeds with photos and updates before the networks can catch up, while also snapping official shots with my camera, the kind that could end up in the Strikers’ museum one day. The bag at my feet is packed with backup batteries; if today decides to test me, I’ll be ready.
This is why I have this job—and why I’ve kept it, even though the Strikers are one of the newest teams in the MLS. I don’t just post the final score. I show the fans their favorite players’ sweaty jerseys, the pregame rituals, the unfiltered chaos. I bring them inside. I make them feel part of the team, and right now, I’m trying to figure out how to make a brick wall in cleats look human.
Rogue Gallagher sits center stage, jaw tight, arms crossed, looking like someone just asked him to donate a kidney.
I snap a burst of photos, shifting angles and playing with the zoom, then scroll through them. All serious, all brooding, alldeeply allergicto joy.
Smile, I mouth to him, raising my brows and gesturing with my camera.
He meets my eyes dead-on and gives me adeath glareso sharp it could cut through turf.
Well, then.
I roll my eyes and pick the least-murdery photo from the set. It’s either that or post a black square that says,“We tried.”
I tap out the caption:
The Rogue is in the house. Try not to faint. #WelcomeRogue #StrikersFC #StillNoSmile
The second I hitpost, the likes start rolling in.
@soccerhoney13:literally deceased.
@goaliegirl88:he could death stare me into next week and I’d thank him
@strikerswife:finally someone hot enough to make our team relevant
@catlewisfan:give him a hug from us
No. I will not.
I glance back at the live stream.
Twenty… no,twenty-three thousandactive viewers.
Huh. Not bad.
