The first speaker noticed me first.
He elbowed his friend, grinning. “Hey, you’re the girl from that clip! The one who verbally murdered the washed-up god. Respect.”
My jaw clenched. “Kieren,” I said coolly. “His name’s Kieren. And he’s twice the player any of you are on your best day.”
The air shifted.
Their grins flattened. The third guy—tall, smug, too much cologne and not enough brain—took a step closer like we were about to have a flirty exchange instead of a reckoning.
“Relax, princess,” he said, voice lowering. “We’re just having fun. You don’t have to defend Daddy Storm.”
My stomach turned, but I didn’t step back.
I’d dealt with guys like this before—on the sidelines, in locker rooms, even in press booths. Smirking, entitled, and certain the world existed to revolve around them. The second you pushed back, you were the problem. Too cold. Too sensitive. Too much.
I smiled, sharp and thin. “Is this the part where I’m supposed to be intimidated? Or just impressed you can string that many words together without spraining your ego?”
His smirk faltered.
“Let me give you a free PR tip,” I added, voice low. “You don’t earn respect by punching down. And you sure as hell don’t scare me.”
He stepped back—just slightly.
And I stepped forward, keeping my chin high and my spine straight.
Because I wasn’t about to be the girl who flinched.
Not here. Not ever.
Especially not in front of the man I’d just defended without thinking.
And maybe… that was something I’d have to unpack later.
But right now?
I had a camera to set up—and a story to tell.
I turned to walk away.
I’d said my piece, delivered the kind of cool, cutting line that would make my best friend proud. I wasn’t here to fight teenage egos in cleats—I was here to do my job. Capture the game. Write the story.
But the Vultures weren’t done.
The tall one—the same one who called Kieren Daddy Storm like he thought it was funny—snorted and muttered just loud enough for me to hear, “Bet she barks louder in bed.”
My feet stopped moving.
I didn’t turn around. Not yet. My hands clenched into fists around the strap of my camera bag, white-hot fury pulsing in my chest. I was used to offhanded comments, to being underestimated, to locker room boys who didn’t know the difference between a woman doing her job and a woman performing for their entertainment.
But this?
This was gross.
Before I could whip around and say something that would definitely get me banned from press access, I felt his presence first.
Too close.
The Vulture stepped into my space—shoulder brushing mine, smirk firmly in place, breath reeking of orange Gatorade and arrogance. “Aw, c’mon, princess,” he murmured. “Don’t pout. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”
