I didn’t. I wasn’t here to cheer. I was here to work.
Mostly.
As we turned the corner, the stadium came into view—steel and glass and banners fluttering in the breeze. One of them had Kieren’s face on it. That same expression I’d seen a hundred times. Intense. Unreadable. A little broken, if you knew what to look for.
The car rolled to a stop outside the media entrance. I thanked the driver, stepped out, and immediately regretted wearing joggers. The air was already heavy with heat. My ponytail stuck to the back of my neck. I tugged my Storm jacket a little tighter, slid my badge from under the zipper, and walked toward the gate.
The security guard barely glanced at me before waving me through. Inside, the tunnel was cooler—darker, too. The concrete walls soaked up the outside noise until it was just a dull hum behind me. My footsteps echoed, soft and steady, as I made my way past equipment crates and cases labeled with STORM in black tape.
The smell hit next. That familiar mix of sweat, menthol, and whatever brand of cologne the rookies were obsessed with this month. Someone laughed down the hall. A stick cracked against something hard. Voices carried.
The guys were here. Which meant Kieren was too.
I adjusted my laptop bag and kept walking, trying not to picture him already in the locker room, pulling on his gear in that methodical, brutal way he always did. No hesitation. No emotion.
Just game mode.
I swallowed hard.
Time to do my job.
The tunnel was cooler than the outside chaos, but the concrete echoed with every step like it was trying to remind me I didn’t belong. I tightened the grip on my laptop bag and adjusted my badge. Game days were always like this—controlled mayhem, nerves hiding under professionalism, stories waiting to be written between the lines of the match.
I was halfway through the hallway when I rounded the corner and—of course—walked straight into Troy Maddox.
“Whoa,” he said, catching his balance with the kind of cocky ease only Troy could pull off. “Didn’t realize the media crew was packing heat this morning.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re blocking the tunnel, Maddox.”
He leaned against the wall like he had nowhere better to be. His Storm hoodie was half-zipped, revealing the kind of abs that were definitely not regulation issue. Sunglasses tucked into his collar. That permanent smirk on his face.
“You showing up to make sure Walker doesn’t get himself sent off again?” he asked, all teasing charm. "Or are you just rooting for your man?"
I gave him a dry look. “I’m here for the journalistic integrity, obviously.”
“Uh-huh.” His gaze dipped just enough to make my skin crawl, not because he was gross—but because he was calculated. “If you get bored, my hotel room’s two floors up. I’ve got leftover room service and great taste in movies.”
I opened my mouth, ready to fire off a snarky comeback, when a shadow cut across the tunnel.
Kieren.
He moved in without a word, stepping between us like he’d been summoned. His shoulder clipped Troy’s—not enough to start a fight, but enough to make it clear this wasn’t a casual meetup.
Troy raised both hands, grinning. “Damn, bro. Didn’t realize the girlfriend came with a guard dog.”
Girlfriend. My stomach flipped—because that wasn’t the part that Kieren reacted to.
“Back the fuck off, Troy.”
His voice was low. Controlled. But there was steel behind it.
Troy laughed, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “Relax, Walker. It was a joke.”
Kieren didn’t move.
Neither did I.
Troy finally stepped back with a wink. “See you on the field, sweetheart.”
