I shrugged. “I haven’t ruled it out.”
Cameron stopped pacing long enough to glare at me.
“You’re trending for the wrong reasons, man. Again.”
“So?” I asked, dragging a hand through my hair. My shoulder twinged—still tight from yesterday’s match. “I’ve trended before.”
“For goals. For saves. For things that make you look like an athlete, not a Bond villain with abandonment issues.”
I snorted. “That’s specific.”
He held up his phone. “I just read it in the comments section, don’t flatter yourself.” Then he softened—slightly. “Look. I know you hate this crap, but the league wants better player-media engagement. You are the face of this team. That means damage control.”
“Right,” I said. “Smile. Give quotes. Take a selfie. Do my job.”
“Yes,” he said, like I’d finally understood long division. “Exactly that. Show people you’re not a moody cryptid who sleeps upside down.”
I leaned back in the chair, arms crossed.
I was too old for this.
Too tired.
I’d played for three clubs. Two countries. One World Cup. I’d survived turf burns, blown knees, and media storms bigger than this one.
And now, what? I was being asked to fix my image with a ring light and a hashtag?
This was the hill I was supposed to die on?
I let the silence stretch long enough to make him uncomfortable. Then said, flatly, “Retirement sounds nice.”
Cameron stopped cold.
His phone lowered.
“Don’t joke like that.”
But I wasn’t joking.
Not really.
Cameron didn’t speak for a long moment.
Just stared at me like I’d grown a second head.
“Okay,” he said eventually, slowly, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. “Let’s just… rewind. What are we actually talking about here? Are you serious? Like, serious serious?”
I didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
He dropped into his chair, the leather squeaking beneath him. “Jesus, Kieren.”
“I’m thirty-six, Cam.”
“You’re thirty-four.”
“Feels like thirty-six.”
