I hand the mate back, and Thiago pours another round, this time passing it to Rogue. He takes it without a word, sipping slowly while Thiago watches him like he’s witnessing some sort of miracle.
“Man,” Thiago says, practically vibrating with excitement, “if I told my dad I was drinking mate with Rogue Gallagher, he wouldnotbelieve me.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. “You know, Rogue, I could take a picture of you two right now, for your social media.”
Thiago’s eyes go so wide I swear they might pop out of his head. “Seriously? On your personal account? Hell yea, I’m game.” Thiago hops off his knees and slides into the aisle so he can stand next to Rogue. He slings the thermos under one arm and beams like a kid standing next to his favorite superhero.
I grab my phone, aiming the camera at them. “Okay, Thiago, relax. Smile. Rogue…” I tilt my head and give him a look. “Lose the scowl. Show us you’re enjoying some mate with your new friend.”
Thiago looks like he’s about to combust from joy, his grin enormous. To my surprise, Rogue actually shifts in his seat, loosens his posture, and—miracle of miracles—lets the tiniest twitch of a smile lift the corner of his mouth.
I snap a few pictures quickly, laughing under my breath as I catch Rogue looking… well, human, and so very handsome.
“Let me see!” Thiago leans over as I scroll through the shots, showing them the best one.
“Youhaveto send me that,” he says.
“No worries,” I reply with a grin. “Rogue’s going to post it and tag you… as soon as we connect his phone to the Wi-Fi.”
Thiago looks like he might faint from happiness. Rogue, of course, just mutters something under his breath and takes another sip of mate.
We land in Houston just as the sun sits high overhead, casting sharp golden light across the tarmac and making the buildings in the distance shimmer in the heat. The plane taxis toward a private section of the airport, where a blacked-out team bus is already waiting for us.
We start deboarding, the players filing onto the bus with easy familiarity, their laughter and banter echoing down the aisle. Before I can even think about standing up, Rogue is already reaching into the overhead bin and pulling down our bags. He doesn’t say anything, just hands me my backpack with that unreadable expression of his, then gestures for me to go ahead of him.
“I can take my carry-on,” I say.
“Lass,” he warns, and I know there’s no arguing, he is carrying it. I mumble a quick “Thanks” and move down the aisle, hyperaware of the fact that he’s directly behind me. Like, right there. I can feel the heat of him at my back with every step. It’s stupid how on edge I am just walking off a plane, but having a wall of muscle trailing behind you will do that to a girl. I do my best to focus on the task at hand and pull out my phone to get some footage of the custom-wrapped jet we just stepped offof—because content never sleeps—and a quick pan of the bus waiting below.
It’s not until I’m stepping onto the blacked-out bus that the irony hits me. Really? A “stealth” vehicle? Afterthatplane? What are we trying to hide—the team logo the size of Texas? Someone clearly didn’t think this one through.
I shake my head, smiling to myself as I walk past the rows of mostly filled seats. Thiago’s voice rings out from the middle of the bus, animated and loud as always. Rogue sits beside him, silent and brooding, the contrast between the two almost comical. I catch the slight twitch of his scowl as I pass, and I don’t know why, but it makes me smile wider.
I slip into one of the last open seats toward the back of the bus. My phone is in my hand before I even sit down. It’s time to switch gears into work mode, get some content posted, and pretend I’m not completely thrown by the six-foot-four brooding Irishman who sat next to me on a plane, looked after me and my migraine, had a normal conversation, agreed to post a picture I took of him to his social media, opened my overhead bin like it was his job, and walked behind me like it meant something.
By the time we pull up to the hotel’s private entrance, I’ve got a rough draft of our “Strikers Take H-Town” post queued up and ready to go. Once I finish uploading the last few clips to the team’s story—videos of the players stepping off the bus, their duffels slung over their shoulders, that confident swagger of athletes about to dominate—I finally get the green light to head to my room.
I swipe the keycard and push the door open, greeted instantly by that crisp hotel air-conditioning and the quiet hush of softlighting over sleek wood floors. The room is gorgeous. Modern. Neutral tones with hints of navy and gold. A plush king bed takes up the center, perfectly made, the pillows stacked like little clouds inviting me to dive in face-first. There’s a welcome note on the nightstand from the hotel with a tiny bag of snacks and a water bottle. I drop my carry-on and backpack at the foot of the bed and head toward the window.
The view stuns me into stillness.
I press my hand to the glass, staring down at the Texas-shaped pool a few floors below, the water glinting under the bright sun. Just beyond it, the Houston skyline stretches across the horizon like an old friend. Towering buildings, glass and steel glowing golden in the light, and the faint sound of traffic humming beneath it all like a familiar lullaby.
My heart tugs a little. This city raised me. Every street corner has a memory—high-school nights with Marianna, late-night tacos after concerts, heartbreaks, dreams, the version of me that once thought she’d never leave. If I had just a few more days here, I’d make the rounds. Stop by that old bookshop near Westheimer. Drive past the house we grew up in. Sit at my favorite spot on Buffalo Bayou with a coffee and justbe. But we’re flying back tomorrow evening after the game. If I have enough time to grab dinner with my family, I’ll consider myself lucky. No room for nostalgia when the season’s breathing down our necks.
At least I’ll get to see Marianna today. She’s meeting me at practice, and we’re grabbing dinner after. It won’t be long, but I’ll take what I can get. Tomorrow at the game, I’ll see my parents. I can already hear my dad shouting from the stands in his retro Uruguay jersey like it’s the World Cup. It’s not everything, but it’s something.
I unzip my suitcase and pull out what I need for the night: sleep clothes and my makeup bag. I hang up tomorrow’s outfit—my jeans, white sneakers, and the jersey I’ll be wearing. This one’s number 7, Dupont’s. JB is new this year, but he is already making a name for himself. I try to rotate who I wear each game, partly for the content and partly because… well, it matters to them. Technically, no one ever asked me to wear a jersey at all, but this makes me feel like I am a part of it, part of the club, part of the grind, part of the family. I drape the clothes on the hanger and hook it on the wall rack, then take my toiletries into the bathroom and line up what I’ll need for the night. After that, I zip the suitcase back up and slide it against the wall out of the way.
I kick off my shoes by the door and take my jeans off, letting out a sigh as I cross the room and climb into the giant king bed. The duvet is soft and crisp, the kind that practically begs for a nap. I draw it up over my legs, prop a pillow behind my back, and sink into the mattress for a moment of peace.
Then I grab my phone off the nightstand and send Marianna a quick text with my location pinned.
ME:
This is the hotel. Practice kicks off in 2. See you soon?
ANNA:
