I still knew how to lead.
Still had something worth leading.
The drive home was quiet.
Just the low growl of the engine, the occasional hum of tires over pavement, and the buzzing in the back of my skull that hadn’t stopped since the PR meeting. The sun had dipped low, slicing gold across the windshield, and I didn’t bother turning on music. I didn’t want noise. I had enough of that in my head.
Storm HQ faded in the rearview. The rookie’s ankle, Cam’s lectures, the words “you and Sommers have heat” circling like a damn mosquito I couldn’t swat.
My condo sat on the edge of downtown—top floor, corner unit. Clean. Cold. Efficient. I keyed in, kicked off my shoes, and dropped my gear bag by the door.
Inside, it was all sleek surfaces and silence. Polished cement floors, gray-on-gray walls, black fixtures, brushed steel. A minimalist’s wet dream. Or a bachelor’s bunker, depending on who you asked.
The only thing that looked even remotely lived-in was the couch—battered leather, slumped from years of post-game collapses and ice-pack therapy. The dog used to sleep on it before she claimed my bed full-time.
I tossed my keys in the bowl by the door, shrugged off my hoodie, and headed straight to the kitchen. Microwaved leftover stir-fry. Ate standing up, fork in one hand, phone in the other.
Muscle memory had me queuing up old match footage on the flat screen. I let it play in the background—Storm vs. Portland, last year. One of my cleaner games. Tactical. Controlled. Not flashy, but solid.
Then I did what I told myself I wasn’t going to do again.
I scrolled to the clip.
The one with her.
I watched it like it was game tape. Like maybe if I analyzed it enough, I could figure out the angle of impact, the precision of the strike.
“He’s the most overrated player in the league,” she said, smiling like she’d just complimented my haircut. “And possibly the grumpiest. I’m just waiting for him to throw hands during a post-game interview.”
And the smirk. Fucking hell.
It wasn’t mean. That was the worst part. It was amused. Like she knew exactly what nerve she was hitting and didn’t care if it twitched.
I hit pause. The frame froze on her expression—smug, composed, camera-ready. Hair curled at the ends. Lipstick just slightly too bold for morning TV.
“She’s got bite,” I muttered, tossing the remote on the couch and leaning back. “I’ll give her that.”
I didn’t follow journalists. I avoided them like shin splints and hamstring strains.
But when I opened my phone again, I didn’t think twice.
I typed her name.
Scrolled past a few fan pages, a couple of viral clips, a professional headshot with too much lighting.
Found the real account.
@daphsommers
MLS Correspondent. Holding people accountable, one coffee-fueled segment at a time.
Follow.
One tap.
Done.
Didn’t mean anything.
