“No.” I’ve been too wrapped up in my own thoughts to even check the team’s analytics, let alone his profile.
She grins. “It’s so good. The girls in the comments are losing their minds.”
Curiosity wins. I pull my phone from my back pocket, open his page, and there it is—the photo I took yesterday on the Brooklyn Bridge. Rogue and Patrick O’Shea, each holding one of the drawings. Rogue’s expression is serious, but his eyes carry that faint glint I’ve started to recognize. The caption reads:
Met Patrick O’Shea on the Brooklyn Bridge yesterday. A fellow Irishman and hell of a talent. Picked up two of his drawings, one of Coney Island, one of the bridge itself. If you ever find yourself in New York, find Patrick and buy his art. Good people deserve to be seen.
I blink, that familiar ache rising in my chest.
The comments are already piling up:
@strikerslover99: He’s not even smiling and I’m feral
@footygirl22: Brooding Irishmen who support local artists?? I’min love.
@goaliefiend: Protect this man at all costs.
@nycgirlinblue: Guess I’m going bridge-hunting to find Patrick.
@heartsonpitch: This is why he’s everyone’s favorite. Class act, always.
I look up from my phone. June’s watching me, that same knowing smile playing on her lips.
“That’s incredibly sweet,” I say.
June nods. “He probably just changed that man’s life.”
And she’s right.
If I wasn’t already falling for him, this would’ve completely undone me.
It’s strange how falling for someone can happen in pieces. A look. A message. A single act of kindness that shouldn’t mean much at all yet somehow does.
A few hours later, the New York dream bubble starts to crack.
The team gathers outside the hotel as fans crowd behind the ropes, still buzzing from the win, waving jerseys and Strikers flags. Cameras flash, voices rise, and the night feels like one long exhale.
June and I are still working, phones out, capturing everything we can before reality settles back in.
When the players begin filing onto the bus, June looks at me, eyes bright.
“Can I film inside?”
I nod. “Go for it.”
She hops up the steps, turns her camera toward the team, and shouts, “Strikers on top!”
The entire bus explodes—players, assistants, even coach Whitmore—cheering and pounding on the seats. The sound rattles the windows, wild and joyful.
I grin and follow her on board.
We slide into the same seats we’ve somehow claimed as ours—unassigned but held by superstition—passing Rogue and Thiago deep in conversation. Still, Rogue glances up mid-sentence, and our eyes meet for a fraction of a second. It’s brief, innocent, but it’s enough to send a flutter through my chest.
June sinks into her seat and laughs breathlessly. “That was so good. You have to see this.”
She hands me her phone. On screen, the whole team roars as she yells, “Strikers on top!” Even Rogue, normally all composure, pumps a fist in the air and yells along.
I can’t help smiling. “That’s perfect. Post it and add hashtag Strikers On Top. Great idea, June.”
