Derek snickered.
I didn’t say a word. Just dragged a hand down my face and exhaled slowly.
Great.
PR babysitting and babysitting rookies.
A perfect Thursday.
I leaned back against the locker, arms crossed, as Lawson started assigning squad pairings. The guys were only half-listening, probably already planning new ways to showboat while Sommers was watching from the sidelines with her carefully arched brow and that smug, unreadable expression.
She’d be there with a camera. Maybe a notepad. Definitely judgment. And probably already rehearsing her next zinger at my expense.
Because why not? This was her moment. She had the media darling glow and a mic that apparently doubled as a weapon.
Meanwhile, I was dragging thirty-four years of wear and tear across the field, expected to smile for the cameras and set a good example for rookies who still thought pre-season was “fun.”
Retirement was starting to sound romantic.
Quiet mornings. No cameras. No PR meetings. No post-game ice baths. No Sommers with her clipped tone and killer heels and questions I didn’t want to answer but couldn’t stop thinking about.
I rubbed the back of my neck and shook the thought off.
Not today.
Today, I had a scrimmage.
And a storm to ignore.
Scrimmage was underway.
The sun was brutal; the rookies were overeager, and my shoulder was already screaming by the second rotation. Reid had us in mixed squads, running full field with no mercy. Standard preseason punishment.
I was locked in. Focused.
Until I wasn’t.
She showed up ten minutes in—clipboard in hand, sunglasses perched on her nose, standing just off the sideline beside the PR rep like she ran the whole damn organization.
Daphne Sommers.
I noticed her immediately.
And I couldn’t stop.
Her hair was pulled back in a high, sharp ponytail, not a strand out of place. All black. Boots. Lip gloss like war paint. She looked less like a reporter and more like an executioner who’d traded her scythe for a mic.
She looked like she came to bury a career.
Maybe mine.
I told myself I wasn’t watching her.
I told myself I didn’t care.
And then I missed the pass.
Caleb Ford, our veteran striker and low-key locker room dad—sent a clean through-ball my way. It skimmed right past my foot while I was too busy watching Daphne adjust her clipboard and say something to the PR rep that made her laugh.
