@OneLastLine:
Are you my alarm clock or my doctor?
@HalfWritten:
Both. But the kind that wants to prescribe breakfast in bed.
The laugh that slips out of me is embarrassingly loud for seven in the morning. I’m standing in my kitchen, clutching my coffee mug, grinning down at my phone like an idiot, and God, I hate how much I wish I could take him up on it.
No matter the words, his messages fill me with butterflies that last all the way to the stadium. It’s ridiculous how much I anticipate that little vibration on my phone. I barely know this man, don’t even know his name, but he checks on me more than anyone has in years, and I can’t help but crave it.
The days themselves are a whirlwind of content creation. Practices, press conferences, media meetings. Most of the guys are a dream, still early in their careers, eager to be seen and liked. They jump at every TikTok trend I pitch, filming dances,goofy locker-room skits, and POV clips I know will rack up views. Thiago, our baby Uruguayan goalkeeper, has practically made it his mission to star in as many videos as I can post.
And then… there’s Rogue.
Roger Gallagher is the exact opposite. He doesn’t need the spotlight. Hell, he’d probably pay someone to take it away. He radiates that quiet, dangerous confidence of a man who doesn’t need attention to be unforgettable. But then I think about his speech and how he stayed locked on me. June noticed the way he was looking at me, and even took a picture I keep looking at every chance I get. It was taken from behind me, and within the crowd, you can see Rogue looking straight at me. If I didn’t have the picture to prove it, I would think I had imagined that moment between us. Every time I see it, it’s proof he wasn’t focused on the crowd, he was looking at me. He’s always so serious, so professional, so to himself… so I keep my distance.
I film him from the sidelines, catching the moments that make him the legend he is. The impossible saves, the muscles flexing under the sun, the sweat dripping down his temple as he mutters to himself in that Irish brogue I can practically hear even from thirty yards away.
But nothing compares to when he peels off his practice jersey after a scrimmage. The shirt lifts, revealing abs so sharp they look carved from marble, and my camera nearly slips from my hand. My mouth goes dry, my brain turns to static, and every single time, I pray he doesn’t catch me staring. Half the time, he does.
Several times throughout the week, our paths cross in hallways, on the practice fields, near the parking lot. He’ll glance my way, his gray eyes dark and unreadable, and if looks could kill, I’d be drafting my own obituary.
I try to play it cool, seeming busy with my camera or phone, pretending my saliva isn’t about to betray me every time hemoves, but it’s hopeless. Watching Rogue Gallagher command a field is like watching a storm roll in. You know you should be cautious, but you can’t look away.
The week settles into a rhythm, one that feels both exhausting and addictive.
Mornings belong to the Strikers. Early alarms, stadium coffee that tastes like burnt toast, and a camera in my hand from the moment I step onto the field. The players are loud, playful, and endlessly entertaining, except for the one who manages to occupy my thoughts even in his silence.
Afternoons are mine. As soon as I leave the stadium, I drive home, drop my bag, and trade my work clothes for running shoes. Then it’s thirty minutes on the beach, lungs burning, waves chasing my ankles, salt in my hair. I hate every second until I finish, and then, like clockwork, I feel invincible.
Dinner is low-key. Bri and I settle into our tiny apartment routine. She meal-preps for the week while I steal bites and complain about sand in my shoes. Then we collapse onto the couch, turn on whatever trashy TV will help us pretend life is simple, and lose ourselves for an hour in other people’s drama.
But the real highlight comes after. The second the credits roll, I run to my room, close the door, and grab my phone. And like clockwork, there it is, a message from @HalfWritten.
Sometimes, it’s simple.How was dinner?
Sometimes, it makes my heart trip over itself.How is my baby girl tonight?
I live for these late-night conversations. We talk about everything and nothing. About life, about what it feels like to be wanted but misunderstood, about how sometimes the quiet moments are the loneliest. We both know what it’s like to have high expectations for life, for love, and how that makes it so much harder to find someone to share it with.
It’s insane, really, how strong the connection feels and how I can feel so seen by a complete stranger.
Every night, I fall a little deeper, and every night, I’m terrified to take the next step and ask him to meet, because… what if that ruins the magic?
Travel day comes faster than I expect. I arrive at the airport when it’s still barely light out, coffee in hand, and for once, I’m not dreading the chaos of TSA. My Strikers media badge is basically magic. I get to bypass the endless snaking lines of bleary-eyed travelers, families juggling toddlers, and people arguing with the check-in kiosks. Instead, I’m guided down a quiet hallway to a private security entrance. As I walk past the sea of miserable travelers, I can’t help whispering a silent thank-you to whoever decided media should travel like this.
I breeze past them through private security, flash a smile, and within minutes, I’m on the quiet side of the airport where the chartered flights wait. Stepping onto the tarmac, I finally spot our plane… and stop dead in my tracks.
It’s not just any plane.
The entire fuselage is wrapped in the Strikers’ colors, purple and light blue, with the team logo splashed across the tail in bold, gleaming letters. And as if that isn’t extra enough, there’s a giant vinyl sign slapped across the side of the stairs that reads: WELCOME ROGUE.
I stare for a moment, half amused, half floored. Of course Rogue Gallagher isn’t just a player. He’stheplayer. Big enough that a major airline will basically cosplay as his personal Uber. Honestly, why not just slap his scowling face on the nose of the plane while they’re at it? It’d probably scare away turbulence.
Clutching my carry-on, I climb the steps, the hum of the engines vibrating through the metal beneath my feet. Inside, the air smells of leather seats and fresh coffee, and a flight attendant with perfect hair greets me with a smile as I step on board.
The plane is massive, there is room for at least 120 passengers, but with only about forty of us traveling, it feels almost indulgent. Entire rows are empty, overhead bins gape wide, and there’s so much legroom I could do yoga in the aisle if I wanted to. A few of the guys are already sprawled out, headphones on, laughing, or chatting in low voices.
