Derek was yelling something ridiculous from the sideline, probably about my thighs or taxes—I didn’t care. I spun around the press, held the ball with a toe tap, and laid it off for Logan, who slotted it clean into the bottom corner like he was taking a breath.
Goal.
No celebration. Just a sharp nod from him and a few sarcastic claps from Beckett.
I jogged back to position, not even winded. My shoulder ached. My knee would probably need ice. But I was still damn good.
I wasn’t the youngest on the pitch anymore. But I was the anchor. The one they looked to when formations collapsed or passes got sloppy.
I saw every moving piece, and I knew how to bend them into place.
That was legacy.
That was leadership.
And yeah, it helped that I still had the best first touch on the team. Reid might never say it out loud, but he knew it. So did the guys.
Still, I caught myself scanning the sideline again.
She was still there.
Clipboard. Knee-high boots. That unreadable expression.
I hated that I noticed. Hated it more that part of me wanted her to see that goal. That control. That flash of brilliance.
Let her write it down. Let her spin it however she wanted.
I was still Kieren Walker.
Still the backbone of this team.
And anyone who doubted that?
They’d find out the hard way.
After practice, the rest of the guys hit the showers or peeled off toward the recovery room. I peeled off too—just in a different direction.
I told myself I was headed to the film room to break down scrimmage footage. Look at the press patterns. Study my own spacing. Pretend I didn’t miss that pass from Caleb because I was too busy watching a reporter’s mouth move on the sidelines.
The room was quiet, cool, the only sound the hum of the equipment. I slouched into one of the worn leather chairs, still in my training kit, damp jersey sticking to my back, sweat drying on my neck.
I should’ve pulled up this morning’s scrimmage footage.
Instead, I opened the raw file from the interview.
No editing. No cuts. Just me and her, sitting across from each other like two chess players pretending not to enjoy the game.
I hit play.
At first, I didn’t even listen. The sound was on, but I barely registered the words. I was watching her face—the sharpness in her eyes, the way her jaw clenched when I said something deliberately awful, the faint twitch in her brow when I hit a nerve.
She didn’t flinch. Not really.
But she felt it.
Most people shut down when you pressed like that. Retreated into their script. Smiled politely. She didn’t. She squared up.
She was better than the league thought.
