Had breakfast yet?
She replies before I can draft a proper follow-up.
CATALINA:
Having breakfast with my sister. See you at the stadium!
Right. Her sister.
I toss the phone onto the table and scrub a hand down my face.
What are you doing, Gallagher?
There’s a knock at the door. I walk across the room wondering who it could be, but when I open the door, Thiago is on the other side. The cheeky lad’s holding a plate piled high with bacon, eggs, fruit, and bread. Of course, he’s also got his thermos andthat bloody mate gourd. The young lad is slowly getting to me, and I can’t help but actually like him.
“Hungry?” He grins.
He doesn’t wait for an invite, he just strolls in like he owns the place and plants himself at the table.
“You brought breakfast?” I ask, closing the door behind him.
“I figured if I don’t feed you, you’ll go out there looking like a miserable skeleton.” He winks, pouring the yerba into the cup. “Gotta protect the asset, sí o no?”
I sit, and for a while, we eat in comfortable silence, passing the mate back and forth, watching the sky turn a shade lighter. It’s peaceful, but my thoughts… my thoughts are still all concentrated on her.
The bus smells like liniment and nerves. Everyone’s quiet, focused, but all I can think of is that Catalina is not on the bus this morning.
She said she was with her sister, but this is game day. I thought she always shows up for kickoff. Shouldn’t she be here?
Why am I even thinking about this? What, I made one post and suddenly I care about social media?
I exhale through my nose, rolling my shoulders as I stare out the bus window. My hands flex on my thighs, taped and ready, but my kit’s still in my bag, waiting for me in the locker room. No boots yet, just nerves, quiet ones. Trying to keep it together and live up to the name stitched across the back of my jersey.
As soon as I step off the bus, the noise hits me like a bloody wave. Fans shouting, reporters scrambling, the low rumble of anticipation building.
Then I see her.
Standing just past the barriers, camera in hand, braid falling over her shoulder, wearing that damn smile that makes my chest feel too tight in my warm-up jacket. She’s in her element—focused, glowing, mouth moving as she calls out to players and clicks away.
And even though I shouldn’t—fuck it—I smirk.
Not a big one, barely there, but enough.
Her eyes snap to mine, and in perfect Catalina fashion, her jaw drops like I just told her I’m retiring to become a ballet dancer. She grips the camera with both hands and dramatically gasps, like my half-arsed smile is breaking news.
It makes me want to laugh. Actuallylaugh.
Instead, the corners of my mouth twitch again, almost dangerously close to a second smirk, and I have to look away.
What the hell is that about?
I’ve played in front of sold-out stadiums. Stared down some of the best strikers in the world. Never once did I feel the urge to smile like an idiot just because some girl caught me looking.
But here I am.
Smiling.
Because of her.
