Back to work.
No distractions. No drama. Just professional reporting from a totally unbiased, emotionally detached PR rep.
Wearing her fake-boyfriend’s hoodie.
With his Spotify secrets locked and loaded.
The moment the Storm took the field, the stadium came alive—chanting, stomping, cheering so loud it rattled in my chest. I stood at the edge of the media platform, notebook in hand, pretending I was totally focused on the team dynamics, the formations, the plays.
But let’s be honest—I was watching him.
Kieren was sharp tonight. All clipped movements and cold intensity. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, and every step he took seemed calculated. Like he had something to prove.
Maybe he did.
I told myself it was for work—that I had to keep an eye on him because he was the team captain, the center-fullback, the face of the franchise. But that was only half true.
The real reason? He moved like he owned the field. Like no one could touch him. Confident. Controlled. A little angry in a way that made something low in my stomach twist.
It was hard to look away.
Across the pitch, Chicago was already asserting themselves. Physical. Aggressive. Within the first five minutes, they had possession and were pushing hard. Storm dropped into a defensive stance, and I could see Kieren barking out commands, pointing, adjusting the line like a general preparing for battle.
My fingers tightened around my pen as I tracked the motion.
He blocked a shot with his chest and didn’t even flinch. Just reset. Repositioned. That was the thing about Kieren—he never wasted movement. Everything he did was purposeful. Sharp turns. Calculated fouls. Timed slide tackles that made the crowd roar and the opposing striker curse under his breath.
God, he was good. Not just technically—but emotionally. He made the whole team feel like a brick wall.
And yet, I could see it—the fire under the surface. The flicker in his eyes every time Chicago made a play that got too close to the net. The tension in his shoulders when the ref let something slide.
He was playing tight tonight.
Tighter than usual.
I scribbled a note just to look busy:
Walker commanding defense. Clipped. On edge.
That was putting it mildly.
I opened the team’s stat tracking software on my laptop and pretended to check live updates, but my gaze kept sliding back to the pitch—to him.
It had been months since I stood on these sidelines. Months since I saw Kieren like this. And even though so much had changed, this part hadn’t. Watching him lead out there still felt… electric.
Like I was watching the storm before the thunder.
One of Chicago’s midfielders went in with a late challenge—too high, too rough—and Kieren shoved him off balance. Not enough to draw a card, but enough to send a message.
The ref blew the whistle. Warning only.
Kieren didn’t break eye contact with the guy. Not even when the crowd booed. Not even when the commentator made a snide remark about his “temper.”
I knew better.
He wasn’t reckless. He was intentional. Every move meant something.
Including that one.
