“Nope.”
“Why?If you like him, you should totally meet up.”
I shake my head, pulling the blanket up over my knees. “I like what we’re building right now. It’s different. There’s no pressure. We’re just… talking. And he’s sweet. Likereallysweet.”
Marianna narrows her eyes. “So, is he flirty? Or are you just making friends with this mysterious internet man?”
I grin at the ceiling. “Oh, there’s definitely tension. Like,chargedtension. I don’t know. I really want to see where it goes.”
She watches me for a beat, then smiles softly. “You deserve someone sweet, Lina. Someone who sees you. Who makes you feel good.”
I blink a few times too quickly, my throat catching unexpectedly. We fall quiet, letting the weight of everything settle. On the screen, Julia Roberts is walking barefoot across a hotel suite, and Richard Gere is about to say something that’ll make us both sigh. I don’t know where things are going with the man on the app, or Rogue, or anything, really, but tonight, with my sister by my side and the city I love just outside our window, I feel good, and for now, that’s enough.
Chapter 13
Game day.
Mornings like this are meant to be quiet, easy. Maybe stretch a bit, have some tea, let the nerves settle. Instead, my gut’s doing somersaults, and not the good kind. It’s not the match I’m worried about. I’ve played in plenty of them, bigger ones even. It’s thebloody attention. The eyes, the cameras, the expectations.
First game with the Strikers, and in a city like Houston, it’s a whole show. I’m the headline, and I can already feel the spotlight burning through me. Never liked it, never wanted it. I just want to do the job, guard the net, go home.
Still in my hotel room, I sit at the little table by the window, sunlight creeping in through the slats. I’ve got a piece of toast and some half-cold scrambled eggs from room service. Bland as cardboard, but it’s something. I pick up my phone, bracingfor whatever fresh nonsense is flooding my feed. The Strikers’ profile is the first thing that pops up.
It’s a video. A feckin’ good one too. Edited clips from yesterday’s practice. Slow motion shots of the lads doing footwork drills, sweat glinting off foreheads, balls rocketing into the back of the net. Even I look half grand caught mid-dive, palms stretched, focus sharp.
Catalina.
I don’t need to check the caption to know it’s her work. The timing, the energy, it’s all her. Posted just minutes ago too.
I tap over to my own page. The photo I shared yesterday—me, Thiago, and that wee lad, Matthew, from the lobby—is still getting likes by the second, and the comments are flooded.
“This is the Rogue Gallagher we needed”
“Protect him at all costs.”
“You can take the grump out of Galway but he’s still our wall.”
I blink. Huh. Didn’t expect that. I’ve never really been one for posting much, but there’s something about seeing it, something human in it, I suppose.
I scroll back to the practice video and tap open Catalina’s contact. She gave me her number yesterday when she transferred the shots over, and I haven’t used it till now. I consider if an unsolicited text will be considered out of line, but I text her anyway.
ME:
Thanks for the help on the socials. That post’s getting a lot of love. You’ve got some serious talent, kitten.
I stare at it, thumb hovering. Too stiff? Too bloody formal? I delete the word “serious” but then add it back again. Feck it, send.
Her reply comes quicker than expected.
CATALINA:
You’re welcome. You’ve got a massive fanbase, show them who you really are. They’ll love you for it.
I stare at her message a beat longer than I should, thumb hovering.
Should I ask her down for coffee? Maybe room service, something easy. I go for simple and straight to the point.
ME:
