“God, that’s insane.” I glance at the phone again, at the flood of breaking news headlines. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” June says. “She called me before you got here. She’s just trying to figure out what to do. She’s got some big interview and doesn’t want to miss it.”
Before I can answer, Emily bursts through the door, phone in hand and stress practically radiating off her.
“Did you hear?” she asks, and June and I nod in unison.
“Yeah, June was just filling me in. What’s our plan?”
“At this point, we wait,” Emily says, pacing a little. “The league’s already aware. If the Strikers can’t travel, it’s out of our hands. It’ll be up to the MLS to decide how to handle it.”
My brain kicks into gear. “Is there an official statement ready for the fans yet?”
“Working on it,” Emily says. “I’ll loop you in the second it’s approved. For now, business as usual. We can’t assume anything until we know more.”
“Got it.” I drop my bag by my chair, unzip my backpack, and pull out my laptop.
As it boots up, I look over at June, who’s still scrolling through her phone like it might give her answers. “Let’s keep planning as usual,” I tell her, forcing a calm I’m not sure I feel. “If things change, we’ll pivot.”
She nods, straightening up. “Got it, boss.”
I smile faintly at that, though somewhere beneath the professional panic, my thoughts drift to him, like they always seem to lately.
By the time June and I finish finalizing tomorrow’s travel plans to New York, my brain is being held together by caffeine and sheer willpower. We go over every last detail—flight schedules, hotel logistics, content ideas—and even make a contingency list in case the game gets rescheduled. If that happens, we’ll have to coordinate statements and fan updates with PR.
It’s a lot, but it finally feels manageable now that I’m not doing it all alone.
Once everything’s set, we grab our gear and head out to the practice field.
The sun’s high and sharp, glinting off the players’ jerseys as they run drills. The moment we step onto the turf, I spot him.
Rogue.
The second our eyes meet, the rest of the field blurs. He’s across the pitch, gloves on, body coiled and ready, but somehow still looking straight at me, then, without even breaking eye contact, he moves.
Tomas Reyes sends a rocket toward him, and Rogue catches it one-handed, the muscles in his arms flexing, all effortless power and control.
He still hasn’t looked away. Then he lifts a hand and waves.
A small, subtle gesture, but it knocks the breath right out of me. I wave back before I can think, pretending it’s casual and that my heart isn’t skipping beats.
Some of the guys call out greetings as we walk by. I wave, smiling, and introduce June to a few of them. “You all better behave,” I say, half joking. “Be as nice to June as you are to me.”
That earns me a round of playful groans and mock promises, and June laughs, wide-eyed and thrilled.
We circle the field, and I point things out to her, the best spots for angles, the kind of shots that get the most fan engagement. “Today I want you to take all the photos and videos. Show me your vision. Your POV. We’ll compare notes later and see what works best. Plus, I want us to be able to fill in for each other if one of us can’t be here. Emergencies happen.”
June grins. “What have you been doing all this time, then? Doing this on your own?”
“Taking vitamins and praying I don’t get sick,” I say deadpan. “And working even when my period’s killing me and all I want to do is curl up in bed.”
Someone clears their throat behind me.
I turn, and there he is.
Rogue.
His brows are drawn together, concern written all over his face. “Hi, Rogue,” I say slowly.
