I tensed, every instinct in my body screaming get out of his orbit, but I refused to back down. My chin lifted. My jaw set.
And then I heard it.
Not a shout.
Not a warning.
Just the thud-thud-thud of cleats hitting turf. Hard. Fast.
I glanced sideways.
Kieren was crossing the field.
Storming across it, actually—his entire posture coiled, shoulders tight, eyes locked not on me, but on him.
He didn’t say a word.
Didn’t ask what was going on.
He just reached the sideline, stepped up behind the Vulture player, and shoved.
Hard.
The guy stumbled backward with all the grace of a knocked-over trash can, arms pinwheeling before crashing into the bottom row of the bleachers with a metallic clang that echoed across the field.
Everything froze.
Practice stopped. Whistles blew. Teammates turned. Coaches shouted.
But all I could do was stare at Kieren—broad chest rising and falling, fists flexing at his sides, eyes still locked on the guy now sprawled in the dirt and looking stunned.
The Vulture scrambled upright, red-faced, looking ready to bark back.
Kieren finally spoke—calm, cold, dangerous. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
Six words.
That was it.
But they landed like a wrecking ball.
No posturing. No raised voice.
Just absolute finality.
I blinked, heart hammering. Heat rushed to my cheeks—not from embarrassment, not really, but from something I couldn’t name yet. Shock, maybe. Or the realization that despite everything—the interview, the tension, the unfinished business—he’d been watching.
He’d heard.
And he’d crossed the field for me without hesitation.
And for a moment—just a moment—I forgot why I ever hated him in the first place.
The second the Vulture player hit the bleachers, everything exploded.
“The hell is wrong with you?” the guy shouted, scrambling to his feet, brushing dirt and ego off his shorts.
Kieren didn’t flinch. He stood there like a loaded weapon—still, sharp, dangerous.
