Freeze-frame.
There she was—backlit by studio lights, her spine straight with fury, her jaw set, her eyes lit with that spark that said I don’t run. You’ll have to knock me down to stop me.
She didn’t flinch.
Didn’t hesitate.
She didn’t back down.
She never even blinked.
Hell.
Maybe she was the only one playing the game better than me.
Chapter 5
Daphne
The next morning, I arrived early, coffee in hand and notes tucked under one arm like a shield. No heels today—just boots, black jeans, and a high pony that said don’t test me. I was determined to keep my cool this time. No tossed microphones. No dramatic exits. No giving Kieren Walker the satisfaction of knowing he’d gotten under my skin.
Again.
The PR rep met me at the entrance with her usual tight smile and a clipboard full of waivers no one actually read. “Just a heads-up,” she said as we walked. “Storm’s scrimmaging with the Vultures today.”
I blinked. “Kalamazoo?”
She nodded, grimacing. “Yep. Cross-town rivals.”
I took a sip of my coffee and muttered, “What is this, soccer Hunger Games?”
Because of course it was the Vultures.
The team everyone hated playing. Gritty, aggressive, full of cheap shots and bad facial hair. Their captain once got suspended for throwing a ball at a ref’s head. Another guy bit someone last season. Bit.
I followed the sound of whistles and shouting onto the training field, the air crisp and already buzzing with that strange blend of testosterone and early morning turf burn.
And there he was.
Kieren Walker.
On the far side of the field, earbuds in, stretching with his usual intensity—head down, jaw tight, eyes on the ground like the universe had personally offended him. His shirt clung to him in all the wrong—okay, fine, right—places, and his forearms flexed with every slow movement.
He looked like the personification of do not approach.
I told myself I wasn’t going to look at him.
I looked anyway.
He looked annoyingly good.
The kind of good that pissed me off because I knew he didn’t try. He just existed like that—scowling and infuriating and somehow still magnetic enough to make perfectly reasonable women say regrettable things on live television.
I turned away, pretending to jot something down on my notepad. I wrote the word “neutrality” in all caps and underlined it three times.
Today wasn’t about him.
Today was about the story. The full-access feature. Locker room dynamics. Player rivalries. Maybe a glimpse into what made this team work—if I could get someone other than Adam to stop trying to flirt and give me a quote with substance.
