He passed off to Wyatt with a nod and jogged back into position without so much as a glance in my direction.
Which only made it worse.
Because I wasn’t here to be impressed. I wasn’t here to feel anything.
And yet—there it was.
Admiration. Annoyance. A traitorous flutter low in my stomach.
The Storm tightened formation as the Vultures pushed harder, getting sloppier in their frustration. The Storm didn’t rise to the bait. They held.
Kieren anchored them—silent, sharp, unshakeable.
It wasn’t just skill. It was control.
Control I wanted to crack.
Because for all his precision and power, there was something just beneath the surface. Something unspoken. Unraveled. The same flicker I’d seen in the interview when I asked about legacy.
And maybe… maybe I wanted to know what would happen if someone pushed.
If I did.
But for now?
I watched.
And damn it, I kept watching.
Because Kieren Walker wasn’t just still good?—
He was everything the Storm needed.
And maybe… everything I couldn’t ignore.
By halftime, I finally remembered I was here to work.
The whole first half, I’d been more focused on watching than writing—more specifically, watching him. Kieren, moving like a machine rebuilt by spite and tape, commanding the field like he hadn’t lost a step. It was infuriating. And… unfortunately impressive.
I shook it off and made my way over to the bleachers, pulling my phone out to start setting up my camera for some sideline b-roll. The sun was creeping higher, the air sticky with February chill and tension, but I needed the footage. A wide shot of the field. A few reaction shots. Player close-ups.
Document the game. Tell the story.
Be professional.
I was halfway up the bleacher steps, camera bag slung over my shoulder, when I heard it.
Low voices. Laughing. Arrogant.
The kind of laughter that came with being twenty-one, overconfident, and lacking any sort of filter.
“Storm’s washed this year,” one of the Vultures players said. His voice carried—loud and smug. “That defender’s got arthritis or something.”
“Who, the one who got roasted by that reporter chick?” another added. “Brutal. Like, put that man on a PR stretcher.”
“I’d still hit it, though,” a third one chimed in, snickering. “She’s hot when she’s mad.”
I froze mid-step, my hand tightening around the camera grip.
