After two minutes of added time, the referee blows the whistle and the match is over.
Strikers on top, two–nothing. One by Wes Holloway, the captain. The other by Malik Dembélé, the name stretched across the back of the jersey I happen to be wearing today.
The stadium erupts. Music blasts through the speakers. Fans are on their feet, waving their little Strikers flags, purple and sky blue fluttering against the night sky, and for the first time all day, the weight in my chest lifts, just a little
June and I walk along the sidelines, phones and cameras up, capturing the victory chaos. Players hug, high-five, toss water bottles into the air. Confetti cannons go off near the stands, and Malik spots me immediately.
“That’s a nice jersey on you, Cat,” he calls out with a grin, jogging over before wrapping me in a quick hug that smells of sweat and adrenaline.
“Don’t get used to it.” I laugh, trying to keep the camera steady.
Thiago appears next, grinning like a kid. “When are you gonna wearmyjersey, Catalina?” he teases, pulling me into another hug.
“I’m going to have to wear it soon,” I say, laughing. “You were great today! You got twenty-two whole minutes, and that save?” I clap once, impressed. “That was amazing.”
He beams, and we do a ridiculous little handshake, both of us laughing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him.
Rogue’s on the opposite sideline, surrounded by a small cluster of young fans leaning over the barricade. He’s signing jerseys, footballs, shoes, and Strikers flags, his gloves hanging from his waistband.
“Excuse me,” I tell Thiago and Malik, “I’ll catch up in a bit.”
June glances at me as I lift my camera. “I’ll head to the locker room,” she says. “Get the postgame stuff ready.”
“Perfect,” I say, already focused on the viewfinder.
I remove the lens cap and shoot from across the field. Rogue shakes hands with kids, signs autographs, ruffles a little boy’s hair, and even takes a fan’s phone to snap a selfie. No smile, of course, but the fans adore him anyway. The broody Irishman pretending he doesn’t have a heart.
I shift positions, zoom in, and keep shooting, and then he turns.
Through the lens, his gaze locks with mine.
My breath stumbles. Butterflies erupt in my chest, wild and reckless. I keep clicking, pretending I’m just doing my job, but he’s walking toward me now, slow, deliberate. A faint grin curving at his mouth.
The closer he gets, the bigger that grin becomes. I capture every frame of it, unable to stop myself. When he’s right in front of me, I lower the camera.
“Congratulations,” I say. “That was a hell of a game.”
“Thank you, lass.” His voice is quiet but threaded with that low rasp that always seems to find the weakest parts of me.
For a moment, neither of us say anything. The noise of the stadium fades, replaced by the pulse of something heavier. Electricity. Want. Maybe both.
Then he tilts his head slightly, a smile ghosting his lips. “Shall we?”
I nod, and we walk side by side, the distance between us careful, measured. The last few players drift off toward the tunnel. The stands are emptying, echoing with laughter and the fading sound of drums.
By the time we reach the locker-room area, June’s already immersed in her phone, scrolling through footage. Rogue veers off toward Hiro Tanaka, chatting as they disappear down the hallway.
“I think I’ve got enough for the first end-of-game reel,” June says without looking up. “I can probably even edit it right now and post it. Did you get anything you want to add?”
“No.”
She looks up, smirking.
I roll my eyes. “I just took a few shots of Rogue with the fans. We talked about getting him to use his socials more. I figured if he’s active on his account, it’ll help drive traffic to the team page.”
June’s lips twitch. “Oh, speaking of, did you see Rogue’s post from today? The sweetest thing ever.”
