“Need a word with you, kitten.” His voice is low, calm but insistent. “Just for a minute. In private.”
I glance at June, who immediately catches on. “I’ll, uh, start getting some videos on the other side of the field,” she says before disappearing.
I look back at him. “What’s going on?”
He hesitates, eyes flicking over my face like he’s checking for signs of distress. “Are you all right, kitten?”
“What?” I blink, thrown off.
“I couldn’t help but hear part of what you said,” he continues. “Are you feeling okay? Do you need to go home? I can talk to someone if—”
I stop listening halfway through, replaying what I was saying before he walked up. Oh God. The period comment.
I laugh, loud, surprised, and a little horrified. “I’m not on my period, Rogue.”
He blinks, confused.
“I was giving June an example of times I’ve had to come to work even when I didn’t feel great,” I explain, still laughing. “You know, when I didn’t have anyone to cover for me.”
His frown deepens slightly. “You don’t get days off? Sick days? Medical leave?”
“Social media never stops,” I say, smiling at his earnestness. “But it’s fine. I’ve got June now, and that’ll help next time my uterus tries to kill me.”
He doesn’t smile. Not at first. His eyes are still stormy, serious. Concerned. “So, you’re okay?”
“Yes,” I mutter. The way he’s looking at me—like I’m something fragile he’s afraid to break—hits me somewhere I didn’t know was unguarded. “I’m okay. Promise.”
He exhales, relief flickering across his face. “Good.”
“Thank you for your concern,” I add, reaching out and patting his arm. Friendly, harmless, except my brain clearly didn’t get the memo. Holy hell, those biceps.
“Did you need me for something?” I ask, pulling my hand back before I stare too long.
“Aye.” He shifts his weight, voice softening. “I spoke to Cormac this morning. He gave me the name of the young lad running the socials for SGA. Told him about your offer to help, and he’s keen to talk to you. If you’ve the time, I’ve his email.”
My smile widens. “I’d love to talk to him. Send me the info, I’ll reach out and schedule a call.”
“You’re sure?” he asks, cautious. “I know you’re busy during Strikers season. I don’t want to add to your load.”
“I told you, Rogue,” I say, meeting his eyes, “Iwantto help. Besides, now I’ve got June, so I might actually have time to breathe.”
He studies me for a moment, something unspoken flickering in those gray eyes. Then he nods. “Thank you, lass.”
When he walks away, I can’t help watching him go. Broad shoulders, steady stride, calm confidence that borders on infuriating.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and it’s June. A few messages in a row. I open them and nearly snort out loud. All photos, taken from across the field—ofme.
In every single one, I’m staring at Rogue with what can only be described as pure heart-eyes.
I groan, half mortified, half amused.
June:
You’re so subtle, boss.
I spot her across the field, camera in hand, smirking.
I shake my head, trying, and failing, not to smile.
