Idon’t lower my camera, not for a second; because this? This is gold. The kind of shot that’ll blow up on socials. Veteran goalkeeper in a brand-new jersey, stepping into the spotlight, hand raised, crowd going feral.
My heart is hammering, ready to explode out of my ribcage, because he’s not looking at the fans, or the press, or the giant screen with his name in lights.
He’s looking at me, right at me.
And for one tense, breathless beat, I think he won’t do it. That he’ll stand frozen in place, refusing to play the part. Too proud, too guarded, too… Rogue, but then I give the tiniest nod, with a simple wave, and he waves at the crowd.
Click.
I snap the shot like a reflex, but everything inside me feels unsteady. My job is to capture the story, not fall headfirst into it.
I shift focus. Ortega, Dupont, Holloway adjusting his jersey. Frame, focus, capture, repeat.
But I’m still thinking about him. Still feeling that look he gave me—like I was the only one in the stadium who mattered, and that’s dangerous because I know better, especially with him.
But I still feel it.
The moment. The way his eyes lingered a beat longer than they probably should have. The way he didn’t smile but didn’t look away either.
And just like that, it’s game time.
Halftime.
The Strikers are up 1–0, and somehow, the stadium is even louder than it was at kickoff.
Houston came on top of the league. Undefeated, overconfident, and fully expecting to steamroll their way through another win, but they didn’t account for one very important detail, Roger Gallagher is a goddamn wall.
They’ve tried everything. Headers off set pieces, long-distance rockets, sneaky tap-ins from inside the box, but nothing’s made it past him. He blocked a point-blank shot with his knee, punched a screamer over the crossbar like he was swatting a fly, and at one point—swear to God—he dovebackwardmidair like he has wings and somehow clawed the ball out of the top corner.
It’s the kind of performance that makes the highlight reel before the game’s even over, and I got every second of it.
Now the team is in the locker room, sweaty and regrouping, and I finally have a moment to do what I’ve been dying to do since kickoff, see my family.
I duck under the security tape, flash a smile at a staffer I know, and weave my way through the VIP section toward the front row. The moment I spot them, my chest tightens.
My mom is waving, my dad is beaming, and Marianna, my partner in rolling our eyes, is already standing with her phone half raised as if she’s about to documentmefor once.
I climb up the steps and fall into my mom’s open arms.
“You look so beautiful, mija,” she says, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “So professional, running around on the sidelines like you belong there.”
I laugh and hug her tighter. “Gracias, Mami.” I pull away from her to hug my dad, only to freeze, because my dad? He is wearing aStrikersjersey, and not just any Strikers jersey, a goalkeeper jersey with a big 23 on its back.
“Papá… last time I checked you were a die-hard Houston fan since the team wascreated, and now you’re suddenly a Striker?”
He pats his chest proudly. “Rogue gave me his own jersey, how could Inotwear it?”
“Wait…” Marianna grins. “Just wait until you hear this.”
“Papá, what do you mean you’re wearinghisjersey?” I ask, narrowing my eyes. “That’s actually his?”
My dad shrugs, smug. “Well, it’s mine now, but yes, he gave it to me yesterday, during practice.”
My jaw drops. “When? Why didn’t you tell me anything during dinner?”
“Because I knew you’d make me give it back!” He laughs, holding his hands up like a guilty kid.
We all burst out laughing, even Marianna, who rolls her eyes but can’t hide her smile, and for a ridiculous heartbeat, I envy my dad. He got Rogue unguarded, mate shared, jersey in hand, while all I’ve had so far are glances, half smiles, and too many questions.”
