His eyes flick to mine. “I don’t like to see myself in pictures.”
“Why?” I tilt my head toward him, genuinely curious. “You look great in literally all of these.”
I turn the screen toward him anyway, clicking to the next image, and, oh…
It’s a candid shot I almost skipped over. Rogue standing on the field, head slightly back, mouth curved in a real smile—an actual smile—while he’s talking to Thiago. The sunlight caught in his hair, his posture relaxed, his face so stupidly gorgeous it makes my chest tighten. It hits me then, this is him, unguarded, the man behind the legend, and it feels like I’ve stolen something rare, something not meant for me. The world sees Rogue Gallagher, stone-faced keeper. But here? Here’s proof he’s more than that.
I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he realizes he’s beautiful when he’s happy.
“You should post more pictures like this on your socials,” I say, grinning, still looking at the candid of him laughing with Thiago. “The fans would love to see more of you than your permanent scowl.”
He scowls at me, which only makes me burst out laughing.
“I’m not big on social media,” he mutters, leaning back in his seat. “I don’t use it much.”
“I know,” I say, still smiling as I click through the next few photos. “It’s incredible, honestly. You’ve built a career so great that you have over three hundred million followers, and you’ve never once posted anything personal.”
His jaw tightens slightly. “I’ve made it my priority to keep my personal life… personal.”
“I get that,” I murmur, and I mean it. “You should keep your personal life personal, but…” I glance at him, hesitating for half a second. “With the audience you carry, you could make an even bigger difference than you already do.”
He turns his head toward me, his stormy eyes focused and unreadable, clearly trying to figure out what I’m really saying and possibly even wondering my motive.
“When I was hired as the Strikers’ social media manager two years ago, the team had a smaller following than most of the other MLS teams in the country. I spent every day posting, chasing algorithms, following the team everywhere, and basically forgetting I even had a personal life. After two years of grinding, we finally hit eleven million followers.”
He doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching me closely, his attention locked on every word.
“You know how many followers we have now?”
He shakes his head.
I pull out my phone, open the team’s profile, and tilt the screen toward him. “Twenty-three million. The last twelve million came in the last month, basically from the moment it was announced that you signed your contract to today.” I pause, letting that sink in before I add, “I really believe that if you showed this side of yourself, this side that smiles, that connects, it would make people see you differently. They’d like you even more than they already do.”
For a second, I think I’ve overstepped. He just stares at me, serious, unreadable, and my stomach flips.
Finally, he mutters, “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Relief washes over me, and I give him a soft smile. “I can help you, if you’d like. I love taking candid pictures, and I don’t post all of them. I can share some with you, and captions are easy once you get the hang of it. Plus, you already have the following, so you don’t have to worry about hashtags, or algorithms, or anything like that. Anything you post will be seen by millions.”
He studies me a moment longer, then nods slightly. “I’ll think about it.”
Thiago appears in the aisle. “Mate time!” he announces with his usual grin. He spins into the row in front of us like a whirlwind, dropping to his knees on the seat and leaning over the backrest. He’s already got his thermos tucked under one arm and a gourd in the other. He starts pouring the steaming tea with a grin and passes the cup toward me first.
Before I can take it, Rogue says in that low, commanding voice, “Catalina has a migraine.”
Thiago freezes mid-gesture, looking at me, then back at him.
“It’s fine,” I say, taking the mate and cradling the warm cup in my hands. “Mate is always good.”
“Mate’s high in caffeine,” Rogue adds, his tone almost scolding. “It might make your migraine worse.”
Thiago glances between the two of us, watching the drama unfold. “Wow,” he says slowly, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That’s… very thoughtful.” Rogue scowls at him, which only makes Thiago grin wider. “What are you guys doing all the way back here, anyway?”
“I always sit back here,” I say, taking a careful sip.
“Row twenty-three,” Rogue says, his voice dry. “Seat G.”
Thiago’s eyes widen. “Ahhh, superstition, I get it.” He nods knowingly. “I always sit in row thirteen, totally understand.”
