I’ve got to go for now. I can’t wait to talk to you again.
I press my phone to my chest for a beat, then reply.
@OneLastLine:
Me too.
Stay safe, okay?
I tuck my phone under the pillow with a fluttering chest and a stupid grin. Whoever he is… he’s starting to feel like something Ireallydon’t want to lose. Dangerous how quickly impossible starts to feel inevitable.
Chapter 12
The alarm I set an hour ago blares beside me, far too soon for my liking. I groan softly, stretch, and sit up in bed, my eyes adjusting to the bright Texas sun peeking through the hotel curtains. No time to waste, I hop into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and get ready.
Jeans, sneakers, and my favorite Strikers team T-shirt. My hair goes into two neat braids—practical for the heat and chaos of open-field practices. It’s going to be a scorcher out there, but I’m ready.
I check my backpack one last time: camera, lenses, backup batteries, tripod, charger, gum, sunscreen, all the essentials. Just as I zip it up, my phone rings.Marianna.
“We’re in the lobby!” she says, cheerful as ever.
“I’ll be down in five,” I reply, grabbing my hotel key and slinging the backpack over my shoulder.
As I step out into the hallway and press the elevator button, my pulse picks up for reasons that have nothing to do with the heat.
When the doors slide open, there they are. Thiago, all tousled curls and warm, playful eyes that light up when he spots me, and Rogue, stormy as ever, his tall frame filling the corner of the elevator like he owns it. They glance up at me.
“Hey,” I say with a shy smile.
“Que paso jefa?” Thiago beams.
Rogue simply nods. His version of hello.
I step between them, acutely aware of the space—or lack thereof. The ride down is quiet, too quiet. I’m sandwiched between sunshine and storm clouds, trying not to combust from nerves.
When the elevator doors part, chaos meets us. The hotel lobby is packed. Guests checking in, fans loitering near security, pretending not to stare. The Strikers may have blacked out their bus like they’re a government agency, but we all arrived on a literal branded plane. Not exactly subtle.
Right as we step off, a man and his young son are waiting near the elevators. The little boy’s eyes go wide as he spots Rogue, and I swear the world slows down. The dad gently places a hand on his son’s shoulder, keeping him close.
Rogue notices them, and to my absolute shock, he turns on his heels and walks right over.
“Hey, mate,” he says, voice surprisingly soft.
The sound makes something trip in my chest. He’s always all steel edges and clipped words, but right now, with this kid, there’s a gentleness that slips past his armor. It’s unfair how much it makes me feel.
The boy lights up. The dad smiles and says, “He’s your biggest fan.”
Rogue nods, offering one of those quiet smiles that only people paying close attention would catch. “What’s your name, then?”
“Matthew,” the boy says.
“Well, Matthew,” Rogue replies, “have you met my mate Thiago here?”
Thiago steps up and kneels next to the kid, wrapping him in a friendly one-armed hug. “It’s an honor, man.”
“When I grow up, I want to be a goalie too,” Matthew says.
“You work hard, then,” Rogue says, “and don’t let anyone tell you it can’t happen.”
