Chapter 1
Daphne
There wasn’t enough espresso in the tri-state area to make this morning tolerable.
I was already two shots deep, one eyelash away from a breakdown, and still clutching my notecards like they were the last lifeboat on the Titanic. The greenroom buzzed with pre-show nerves and fake smiles, but I was immune. Jaded, even.
And frankly?
Over it.
Good Morning MLS. High-profile, nationally broadcast. Big deal. I’d covered two World Cups, a scandal involving someone’s wife and someone else’s transfer clause, and I was currently being asked to talk about—check notes—an “aging soccer dinosaur.”
Kieren freaking Walker.
And not in the fun, Silver Fox, still-has-it kind of way. No. The script literally used the phrase dinosaur. I nearly snorted my coffee when I read it.
But that wasn’t even the worst part.
“Hey, Daph,” my producer had chirped over comms fifteen minutes ago, too chipper for my liking. “Can you sneak in a little something about Kieren Walker? You know, get the fandom frothing. Just mention him when you talk Storm defense.”
Right. Kieren Walker.
West Michigan Storm’s infamous defender. Tattooed menace. Media nightmare. Man who ghosted the children’s cancer benefit I was covering last year, punched a teammate during preseason, and once told my colleague—and I quote—“I don’t talk to microphones.”
Naturally, I was told not to “stir the pot.”
So obviously, I brought a spoon and a flamethrower.
I tucked my hair behind my ear, scanned the teleprompter one more time, and mentally revised the segment into something less PR fluff and more… honest journalism with a splash of sass.
Let them call me difficult. I preferred “dangerously caffeinated and devastatingly accurate.”
My name was already trending from that time I compared a team’s midfield to lukewarm oatmeal. What was one more storm?
“Thirty seconds!” someone called.
I straightened my blazer, flashed a razor-sharp smile at the mirror, and thought of all the players who could’ve shown up. And of all the ones who didn’t.
Walker had fans, sure. That mysterious, broody, scarred kind of hot. But I wasn’t in the mood for broody.
I was in the mood for blood.
“Just hype up the season,” they said. “Don’t stir the pot.”
But they put me on air with a live mic and a vendetta.
And that, bestie?
That was their first mistake.
The lights hit like a sucker punch—bright, hot, and immediate. My lips curved into the kind of smile that made PR teams nervous.
I was live.
The camera panned, the countdown ticked down in my earpiece, and the host launched into his welcome with that practiced, syrupy enthusiasm that screamed network anchor. I nodded politely, legs crossed, hands folded over my notecards like a good little soccer correspondent.
But beneath the surface?
