My pulse ticked up, and I quickly glanced down at my notes again.
Walker: playing like it’s personal.
I tracked everything. Every shift in pace. Every reckless play. Every glance that wasn’t part of the official stats but still told the story.
Kieren picked up a warning in the twenty-third minute—late tackle, heavy contact. The kind that drew a sharp whistle and a talking-to from the ref. He didn’t argue. Just nodded once and jogged back, chest rising and falling like he was barely keeping himself in check.
I jotted a note in the margins of my spreadsheet:
“Too tight. Playing too close to the edge.”
Logan cut across the field on a sharp run. It was smooth, precise, almost beautiful, and it gave me something to focus on for a breath or two. The midfield passed clean, quick—until Beckett overran it and botched a clear opportunity. The shot curled wide, and the groan from the crowd was collective.
Beckett ran both hands through his hair, frustrated, and I felt it in my gut too. They weren’t syncing up. Something about the team’s energy tonight felt off. Like they were playing through static.
Then Troy Maddox glanced toward the media platform.
And winked.
Dead at me.
I sucked in a breath through my teeth and immediately looked away, trying to pretend it didn’t happen. I didn’t even need to check—I could feel the heat from Kieren’s stare across the field. I glanced up in time to see the death glare aimed straight at Maddox, who only smirked wider and trotted backward, completely unfazed.
I muttered to myself, “Damn, I hate him.”
Tension ratcheted higher as the clock ticked toward halftime.
Chicago pushed hard, trying to close out the first half with a goal. Kieren met them head-on, cutting off a pass, shoving the opposing forward just a little too hard in the scramble. The whistle blew a beat later. No foul called, but it was a warning shot. Tempers were simmering. One spark, and this match would ignite.
I sat back, fingers flying over the keyboard.
Walker: controlled violence. Barely. Maddox making it worse.
The first half ended with a frustrated Storm team walking toward the tunnel and an energized Chicago squad shouting and high-fiving each other like they’d already won.
Kieren didn’t look up.
Didn’t glance at me.
Didn’t even pretend to relax.
He disappeared down the tunnel like a man on a mission to tear something apart.
I stared at the screen for a long second. Then typed a line just for myself. Not for the official match report. Not for the team notes.
Just me.
Walker plays like he’s trying to outrun something. Or someone.
I didn’t know if that was me or his past or whatever twisted memory had its claws in him tonight, but I knew the look on his face.
It wasn’t just focus.
It was a man trying not to crack under pressure.
And failing.
Chapter 14
