It wasn’t much. Just a shadow behind the eyes. But it was there.
The brush of vulnerability.
And suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so victorious.
Maybe I’d gone in swinging. Maybe I’d been so focused on the sound bite, on the viral moment, that I hadn’t stopped to ask whether I was throwing punches or pressing on bruises.
I closed the tablet and stared at the dashboard, my heart still hammering—just not from anger anymore.
Kieren Walker was still a jerk. Still defensive. Still exhausting.
But maybe that interview hadn’t been about ego.
Maybe it was about fear.
And maybe—I hadn’t just walked into an interview.
Maybe I’d walked into a man unraveling at the seams.
And I hadn’t even realized it.
By the time I got back to my apartment, my makeup was smudged, my ponytail was falling out, and my heels felt like medieval torture devices.
I kicked the door closed behind me, tossed my keys in the dish, and immediately beelined for the couch. My bag slid off my shoulder and hit the floor with a dramatic thump. I collapsed onto the cushions like I’d just returned from war.
Because I had.
Verbal warfare, anyway.
God, Kieren Walker was impossible.
Not difficult. Not mildly annoying.
Impossible.
I was still running through every awful thing he’d said when my phone rang.
My producer’s name flashed across the screen.
I winced. Sat up. Answered.
“Hey.”
“I watched the footage,” she said, her voice unreadable.
I braced myself. “Do I still have a job?”
There was a pause.
“Depends.”
I closed my eyes. “Oh, no.”
“Can you do it again next week?”
I blinked. “Wait—what?”
“Another sit-down. Same setup. Maybe pre-game or post-practice. Think of it as a recurring segment.”
