We need to talk. Tomorrow. 9am.
I let out a groan that started in my soul and flopped back onto my couch like I was auditioning for a soap opera.
Pillows flew. Tea nearly spilled. I stared at the ceiling and cursed the stupid defensive menace I roasted on live TV.
“Of course he’s trending with me,” I muttered. “Stupid cheekbones. Stupid left foot. Stupid… everything.”
I closed my eyes.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Maybe this would blow over.
Maybe I wouldn’t get fired.
And maybe, just maybe, Kieren Walker hadn’t even seen it yet.
I checked Instagram.
He had.
Because the last story on his feed?
A black screen. White text.
“Bet.”
I dressed like I was going into battle.
Not the usual blazer-over-jeans combo I pulled together most mornings with whatever was clean and didn’t smell like takeout. No, this was war armor. Black pencil skirt, tucked silk blouse, heels sharp enough to draw blood. I even straightened my hair—straightened, like it was prom—and did actual makeup with more than tinted moisturizer and lip balm.
There was no way I was showing up to that 9 a.m. meeting looking like I’d been crying over Twitter threads in sweats. Even if I had scrolled way too long, deep into memes and fan theories about whether I secretly dated Kieren Walker and this was all “a lover’s feud.” (Barf.)
I capped my eyeliner, caught my reflection, and paused.
This job wasn’t handed to me.
Eight years ago, my first big break was covering MLS full-time. Before that, it was a long stretch of minor league games in empty bleachers, writing post-game recaps at midnight on bumpy bus rides, nodding along while some editor with coffee breath explained how I was “too emotional” in my reporting—when really, I was just accurate.
I earned my seat at the desk. Every uncomfortable press pass, every locker room interview where a player called me “sweetheart,” every story I had to fight to publish. I didn’t get here by being nice.
I got here by being right.
Accountability mattered. Stories mattered. And if a man in cleats with a six-figure temper couldn’t handle a little heat, maybe he shouldn’t have ghosted a charity event or walked out of my interview when I brought up his third red card.
Yeah. That happened. He stood up mid-question, muttered something about “tabloid trash,” and left me staring at an empty chair on live feed.
And I still suspect he tanked that charity match last summer out of spite. Because heaven forbid Kieren Walker show up and be decent.
The man was allergic to being nice.
And maybe—maybe—I was still mad about it.
But personal or not, I built my career on being blunt, funny, and fearless. I was the youngest woman to ever host the post-game desk segment for MLS. I’d gone toe-to-toe with legends.
This?
This was just another day in the office.
