The dad glances at Rogue, nervous but hopeful. “Would it be okay to get a picture?”
Rogue gives a small nod, his voice low but steady. “Sure, mate.”
I step in before the moment can turn awkward, smiling warmly. “Here, I’ll take it so you can both be in it.”
Rogue moves to one side of the boy while Thiago starts to step away, but Matthew calls out “No, Thiago! Please be in the picture too!”
Thiago laughs and proudly joins on the other side of the boy and his dad. I snap a few pictures, the three of them flanking little Matthew, who’s standing impossibly still, though his face is lit up in a grin he can’t contain.
I hand the phone back to the dad and say, “Tag the team on socials, and we’ll repost you.”
“Thank you so much,” the dad says, clearly moved.
My heart squeezes as he shakes Rogue’s hand, gratitude written all over his face. For a moment, I see my dad in him. The same pride, the same reverence. Then I catch Rogue accepting it with quiet humility, and the ache in my chest deepens.
When I turn around, I spot Marianna, radiant as always, grinning wide, and next to her… my dad.
My breath catches, and I rush to them, throwing my arms around both. “You’re here!”
Marianna kisses my cheek. “Of course we’re here. Look at you absolutely thriving.”
My dad hugs me tight. I haven’t seen him in months. “Mija, I’m so proud. Look at you tan hermosa, living your dream.”
“I’m so happy you’re here,” I whisper.
Just then, Thiago walks up behind me. “That was something, huh?” he says, grinning and clearly still very excited for the moment he just lived next to his own hero.
“Thiago, meet my sister, Marianna, and my dad, Fernando.”
Thiago lights up again. “It’s so nice to finally meet you both. Mr. Fernando, my fellow Uruguayan!” He hugs my dad and kisses Marianna’s cheek. “It’s a pleasure.” Then he whispers so only I can hear. “Catalina, por favor, you didn’t tell me your sister was this gorgeous.”
I gently smack him on the chest, and that’s when I notice Rogue lingering nearby, a respectful distance away, as if he’s unsure if he’s allowed into this moment.
“Rogue,” I say, motioning him over. “Come meet my sister, Marianna… and this is my dad, Fernando.”
Rogue steps forward, reserved but respectful.
My dad gives him a firm handshake. “Young man, it’s a pleasure to meet one of the best goalkeepers in football history.”
Rogue accepts the handshake with a small genuine nod. “Thank you kindly. That means a fair bit.”
Just like that, right in front of my eyes, my worlds are merging—my family, my job, and the man who’s been creeping into my thoughts more and more.
And I cannot say that I hate it.
By the time we pile into Marianna’s car, I’m sweating through my T-shirt, but my heart’s full. The three of us—me, Marianna, and our dad—make our way across Houston to a private practice field that’s been secured for the team. I’ve done away practices before, but nothing like this.
As we turn the corner onto the access road, I nearly gasp. There arehundredsof people already waiting behind barricades, holding posters, wearing team merch, shouting for glimpses of the players. Rogue’s name is on more than a few signs. It feels surreal, as though a fever dream of international football has been conjured into the sweltering heart of Texas.
Marianna parks in a reserved media space, and I grab my backpack, slinging it over my shoulder. Security checks our badges and lets us through, and I lead them toward the sideline where they can watch. I’m barely through the gates before I’m back in content mode, camera in hand, lens cap off, battery fully charged.
The team bus rolls up, and I catch it all. Players descending in their practice kits, sweatbands already on, the low rumble of their laughter and focused chatter filling the air. Leo Petrovic flashes me a peace sign as he steps off. Luca Moretti and Noah James jog past, already tossing a ball back and forth like they can’t wait to get started. Thiago is bouncing on his toes, grinning like it’s game day.
And Rogue?
Focused, controlled, a storm behind those gray eyes, as always. His jersey clings to him, soaked and taut across his back. I do my best not to drool behind the lens. It’s almost unfair howhe wears control like armor, when all I can see is how close he is to unraveling me. My camera clicks, but my pulse is out of focus.
That’s when I spot my dad on the sidelines, holding Thiago’s thermos and pouring mate like he’s part of the staff. I blink, and sure enough, he’s serving it up to JB Dupont and Bruno Silva like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
