I looked away first. Adjusted the clipboard in my hands like it needed my attention. Like my pulse wasn’t thundering in my ears.
It didn’t mean anything.
I told myself that. Over and over again.
But even as I moved across the gym, even as a teacher pulled me aside to thank me for being there, I could still feel his eyes on me.
Still looking.
I found a quiet moment near the edge of the gym, tucked beside a rack of cones and forgotten pinnies. My clipboard hung limp at my side, and I was trying not to look like I was gasping for air after ten minutes of helping herd toddlers into something resembling a line.
My hair was sticking to my neck. My shirt was damp from where one overexcited kid had launched himself into a full-body hug. I was flushed, sweaty, and borderline delirious from the noise.
Which, of course, is when he found me.
Kieren rounded the corner with his usual easy swagger, his hair damp and sticking out from under his beanie. He was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed, but his grin was maddeningly relaxed.
“Thirsty?” he asked, holding out his water bottle like a peace offering.
I gave him a look.
“Still too good to share a drink with me?” he teased.
I didn’t answer. Just stared at the bottle like it had personally wronged me.
He chuckled, low and warm. “Come on. It’s not poisoned.”
I lifted a brow. “I just watched five children sneeze on your jersey.”
He looked down at himself, as if just now realizing the wet splotches and glittery stickers stuck to his chest.
“That’s a no, then,” he said with mock resignation.
But I reached out anyway.
I took the bottle.
He went still. Just for a second.
I twisted off the cap and drank, ignoring the part of my brain screaming about germs and boundaries and very bad ideas.
His eyes stayed on me the entire time.
When I handed the bottle back, our fingers brushed. He didn’t say anything. The air between us felt like it had thickened—warmer, heavier, crackling with something neither of us wanted to name yet.
Before it could settle into something too real, one of the coaches called for another drill rotation. Kieren nodded once, almost to himself, and stepped away.
I watched him go.
Back on the gym’s makeshift pitch, he was chaos and calm all at once. Laughing as he chased a ball across the gym floor, letting three kids cling to his legs like he was some kind of human jungle gym. He scooped one onto his shoulders, twirled another in a lazy circle, and never once looked bored. Never once looked like he was doing it for the cameras or the press releases or the headline about athletes giving back.
This wasn’t for show. This was just… him.
The noise of the gym faded into the background as I watched him.
Kieren Walker. MLS bad boy. Reluctant media darling. The guy who drove PR teams to drink.
And here he was, letting a six-year-old braid friendship bracelets into his wrist tape.
