I leaned back against the wall, arms folded across my chest, and let myself smile.
Maybe I didn’t believe in forever. Maybe I didn’t believe in fairytales.
But right then, in that too-bright gym, with the sound of laughter echoing off the walls and sweat drying on my skin…
I kind of believed in him.
From the sidelines, I tried to pretend I was focused on something else—my clipboard, my notes, the lineup of kids waiting for the next drill. But my eyes kept drifting back to him.
Kieren was crouched on the floor again, gently fixing the shin guards on a little boy who couldn’t have been more than five. His voice was low, steady, calming. The kind of voice you trusted without even knowing why. He tied the kid’s shoe with one practiced tug and gave him a soft nudge forward, sending him running back into the fray.
No one was watching him. No cameras, no reporters, no staged photos.
Just him and a gym full of hyper kids. And he was glowing.
He wasn’t putting on a show. He wasn’t trying to win anyone over.
He was just… kind. Patient. Good.
I felt something in my chest tip. Not dramatically. Not all at once.
Just a slow, almost imperceptible shift. Like something that had been hanging in midair finally landed.
Kieren wasn’t the guy I thought he was.
He wasn’t just the cocky striker who annoyed the hell out of me in interviews. He wasn’t just the guy with the smirk and the bad press and the headline-ready reputation.
He was also this.
This version of him—quiet, steady, good with kids and better with people—was the part he didn’t advertise.
I forced myself to look away, flipping open my planner like it held the answers to anything. The words blurred slightly as I stared at them, my pen stalling halfway through a sentence.
The flutter in my chest was still there. Warm. Persistent. Infuriating.
I glanced back at Kieren.
He was laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, as a kid threw a ball that smacked him square in the thigh. He pretended to collapse, clutching his leg dramatically, and the kids howled with laughter as he flopped onto the ground.
God help me, I smiled.
I was supposed to be keeping my distance. Maintaining objectivity. Managing a reputation—not falling for the man behind it.
But here I was, standing on the edge of something that felt suspiciously like hope. Or something worse.
I closed my planner and held it to my chest like a shield.
This wasn’t the job anymore.
This was personal.
And I wasn’t ready for what came next.
By the time the last scrimmage ended, the gym looked like a battlefield of empty water bottles, scattered cones, and puddles of kid-sized sweat. The noise was deafening—squeaky shoes on hardwood, high-pitched laughter, the occasional whistle blast from Adam or Derek still in full coach mode.
I hovered near the wall, still clutching my clipboard like it had any actual purpose beyond giving my hands something to do.
Kieren clapped his hands once, loud and commanding but somehow still gentle. The kids slowly quieted. Not instantly—but enough that the other players followed suit, encouraging their groups to gather.
