He disappeared down the tunnel, all swagger and zero shame.
I let out a slow breath. “You know he’s harmless, right?”
Kieren’s jaw was tight. “He doesn’t act harmless.”
“He flirts with anything that breathes.”
“He doesn’t get to flirt with you.”
That shut me up. For a beat too long.
I tried to recover with a smirk. “So, I’m off-limits now?”
He looked at me then—really looked at me. “You always were. If you're mine, you're mine. That's it.”
I blinked, unsure if that was a line, a warning, or something else entirely. Before I could ask, he was already turning toward the locker room.
And I was left standing in the tunnel, pulse hammering, wondering when exactly Kieren Walker had stopped pretending not to care.
The media platform sat just above the Storm’s sideline bench, a narrow stretch of space with an unobstructed view of the pitch and absolutely no insulation from the elements—or the drama.
I set my laptop bag down and pulled out my notes, pretending I wasn’t still replaying what just happened in the tunnel. Kieren had gotten between me and Troy like he was born to do it, like his only job today wasn’t shutting down midfielders, but defending me from snarky innuendos and smirking soccer stars.
I exhaled slowly, adjusting the strap of his hoodie around me. I’d thrown it on without thinking, but now it felt like a neon sign.
I pulled out my phone and texted Nora.
Kieren got jealous and threatened to knock Troy out.
She responded within seconds.
Oh no. How will you survive the possessive soccer god syndrome?
I hate you.
Sure. Say that while wearing his hoodie.
I rolled my eyes, fighting the smile that threatened to break across my face. She wasn’t wrong.
The buzz of the stadium grew as kickoff approached. Fans were already on their feet, chanting, waving flags, a sea of navy and silver moving as one. It was the kind of energy that made your skin tingle, even if you weren’t the one playing. I pulled my laptop onto my knees and clicked open the notes document for the week’s report. Player performance, team dynamics, possible narratives for the press release—my usual beat.
Not “jealous Kieren gets in a locker room brawl because Troy Maddox dared to flirt.”
The commentary team in the booth above was already going, their voices filtering down through the speakers, half-lost in the noise of the crowd. I wasn’t paying attention—until I heard my name.
“—and with Daphne Sommers back on the sidelines, the Walker romance saga continues,” one of them quipped, followed by chuckles from his co-host.
I didn’t look up. Just muttered under my breath as I typed: “If I get called ‘Storm’s sweetheart’ one more time, I’m leaking his Spotify history.”
A snort came from a photographer nearby, who clearly overheard me. I didn’t clarify. Let them guess what kind of embarrassing playlists Kieren Walker had queued up. (I knew for a fact there was an entire folder labeled Sad Brooding Guys.)
The players were already taking the field, and I caught sight of Kieren jogging to back of the field, expression cool, focused—nothing like the man who’d stood in front of me minutes ago like he wanted to tear Troy’s head off.
God, he was so composed in front of the crowd. So calm. You wouldn’t know he was chaos under the surface unless you were close enough to see it.
And somehow, I was.
I straightened, fingers poised above the keys.
