Bloody hell. She’s cute when she does that.
The tunnel thrums with noise. Footsteps pounding, radio static crackling from nearby security, and the low hum of anticipation vibrating off the concrete walls. I walk behind Aiden, boots laced tight, gloves in hand, my jersey clinging to my shoulders in the stifling humidity. The rest of the lads are ahead of us, already stepping into the light.
This is it. First match in a new kit. Usually, it’s the home team that draws the noise, but not today. Today, it’s all for me, and I hate it.
My palms are damp. Every chant, every camera flash presses against me like a weight. I’ve faced penalties with less pressure than this walk to the pitch.
As soon as we step out onto the pitch, the crowd erupts like a wave crashing over. Sky blue and purple stretch across the stands, fans rising to their feet. Banners wave, flags ripple, chants break out, and for a second, it’s as if the stadium is vibrating beneath my boots.
“Gallagher! Gallagher!” My name booms like a drumbeat, and every muscle in my body tenses. Then I hear it. They are chanting more than my name.
“Rogue! Rogue! Saves the net!
“Best damn keeper you’ve ever met!”
I don’t smile, I don’t look. I just keep walking, straight to the touchline where the rest of the squad is gathering. Camera shutters click like a swarm of locusts. Phones point from every direction.
I hate this part, I always have.
As we line up to take the customary team photo, I glance up, and there she is.
Catalina.
Standing along the sideline with the other press, camera in hand and eyes locked on the team, she looks like she belongs there, focused, poised, and somehow still the most striking thing in the entire stadium. She’s wearing the team jersey—our team jersey—and somehow looks better in it than anyone on this damn field. Her braid falls over one shoulder, a few strands loose around her cheeks from the late summer heat. Her badge is pressed tight to her chest… and underneath it, the number 7.
Dupont’s number.
My jaw tics.
She wears his jersey like it belongs to her, and it grates in a way it shouldn’t. He hasn’t earned that, not from her.
They’re always chatting, laughing. She seems comfortable around him, easily so. Are they…?
A horn blares through the speakers, and the stadium announcer’s voice booms across the pitch, louder than everything else.
“And for the first time on the pitch as a Great Lakes Striker… all the way from Galway, Ireland… give it up for number twenty-three, Roger ‘Rogue’ Gallagher!”
The entire stadium rises again, deafening. My name rolls like thunder from every direction.
My chest tightens. I stand there, frozen for a beat, unsure what to do. I’ve played in plenty of matches before, even World Cup finals, but this, this kind of welcome? It’s never been for me.
I shift, unsure, my hand twitching at my side, and then I see her again.
Cat.
She’s aiming her phone right at me, her lips parted in a knowing grin, as if she’s been waiting for this moment. Her eyes meet mine, and she lifts her other hand and waves, deliberate, slow, gesturing for me to wave.
It’s ridiculous. She’s not even saying a word, and somehow, I know what she wants me to do.
So I do it.
I raise my right arm and give a proper wave. The crowd loses it, as if I just scored the bloody winning goal. When I glance back, Catalina’s smiling so wide it’s like the sun just cracked through the clouds, and for a moment, the pressure lifts.
Not because of the fans. Or the game. Because she’s looking at me and I’m starting to realize, I don’t hate being seen.
Not if it’s her doing the seeing.
Chapter 14
