Daphne
I walked into the Storm media room with my game face on—high ponytail pulled tight enough to give me a facelift, camera-ready makeup in place, blazer fitted, heels sharp. My smile was just tight enough to pass for pleasant if you didn’t look too close.
I knew the look. I’d perfected it.
Confidence as armor.
Poise as deflection.
Inside, I was chewing on nerves like they were gum I couldn’t spit out. Not because I was afraid of confrontation—I’d made enemies before. PR reps, coaches, even a retired player or two. Occupational hazard when your job was “hold powerful men accountable with a smile and a mic.”
But this one?
Kieren Walker?
He wasn’t like the others.
He was 6’3” of brooding storm cloud wrapped in muscle and resting scowl. A human glacier with a god-tier jawline and a reputation for treating interviews like root canals. If emotional availability were currency, he was broke.
And now I had to sit across from him with nothing but a notepad, a mic, and a smile that was rapidly turning into a grimace.
“Walker is already in the back, waiting,” the intern mumbled as he fiddled with the mic levels.
I nodded, only half-listening, already reviewing my questions in my head. Start soft. Ask about team goals. Ease into the spicy stuff about his rep.
My phone buzzed in my blazer pocket. I glanced at the screen.
If he growls, run. If he smirks, marry him.
I huffed a quiet laugh and typed back,
If I go missing, it was the smirk.
I tucked the phone away and adjusted my mic pack.
Any second now, Kieren Walker would walk through that door.
And I’d have to pretend I hadn’t spent the night freeze-framing his scowl on my living room TV.
This was fine.
Totally fine.
The door creaked as I stepped into the Storm’s designated media room, my heels clicking against the polished concrete like war drums. Everything in me was pulled tight—shoulders squared, chin high, smile pre-loaded and camera-ready.
He was already there.
Kieren Walker sat like he owned the air—sprawled out in the interview chair, one arm hooked over the back, ankle resting on his knee like this was a casual brunch and not a PR-mandated interview with the woman who’d called him a fossil on live television. He didn’t stand. Didn’t offer a handshake. Didn’t even blink like someone raised in polite society.
Just lifted one eyebrow and drawled, “Didn’t think you’d show up, Sommers.”
I didn’t skip a beat. “Didn’t think you’d be this… conscious.”
One of the assistants let out a choked laugh. Kieren didn’t smile, but the glint in his eye said he heard it.
I made my way to my seat, keeping my expression neutral as I clipped the mic to my blazer. My producer gave me a thumbs up from behind the camera setup. We were rolling in less than thirty seconds.
Cue lights.
