Still, my gaze kept drifting.
And Kieren, of course, didn’t so much as glance in my direction. Which annoyed me more than I cared to admit.
I didn’t want his attention.
But the fact that I didn’t have it?
That was a whole different kind of irritating.
I pulled out my phone and started recording notes, pretending my pulse wasn’t betraying me every time he shifted his weight or pulled his shirt over his head mid-stretch like this was a fitness ad and not real life.
Nope.
Not today.
I was cool. Collected. Professional.
And completely, absolutely not thinking about Kieren Walker.
At least, that was what I told myself.
I stood near the sidelines, arms crossed, notebook forgotten at my side as the scrimmage kicked off.
It was clear from the first whistle that this wasn’t going to be friendly.
The Vultures came in swinging—figuratively and, at times, almost literally. Aggressive footwork, elbows thrown just out of the ref’s line of sight, smack talk flying like it was part of the strategy. One of their midfielders clipped Adam five minutes in and didn’t even pretend to apologize.
West Michigan didn’t rise to it, but they didn’t back down either. The Storm played smart—tight formation, fast transitions, and communication that was more instinct than words. They moved like a unit that had something to prove.
And right at the center of it?
Kieren Walker.
Of course.
He didn’t yell like some of the other vets. He didn’t showboat or bark orders. He just commanded the back line like it was second nature. Shifting, checking angles, intercepting passes like he knew where the ball would be before it got there. Calm. Calculated.
Effortless.
It annoyed me.
He was good.
Still good.
Not just in the way fans remembered. Not a highlight reel from five years ago on loop. Right now. Present tense. Leading with every step and every read of the field.
I hated that I noticed.
Worse—I hated that part of me was glad.
Because the Vultures played dirty. And if anyone was going to shut them down, I’d rather it be the guy who could throw their entire momentum off with one well-placed tackle.
And Kieren? He didn’t just stop plays. He unraveled them.
At one point, their striker—a six-foot wall of muscle who looked like he bench-pressed smaller teammates for fun—charged down the left side. Kieren cut him off like he’d read the play two minutes ago, stole the ball clean, and spun away like gravity didn’t apply to him.
I caught myself staring. Again.
