I felt it simmering in my chest. That old, familiar burn.
The kind that came right before people start whispering in press conferences and boardrooms.
“What happened to Walker?”
“He used to carry teams, now he just complains.”
“Can’t build around a guy who’s already burnt out.”
I clenched my jaw and glanced toward the sidelines. Daphne was still there—laptop balanced on her knees, brows furrowed behind those oversized sunglasses. She was typing something.
Probably writing that we looked like shit. Because we did.
I tried not to let it get to me, but it crept in anyway.
If this keeps up, they’ll start looking at me like the problem. Again.
My legs were moving on instinct, chasing loose balls, pushing forward, but every time I got possession, the momentum died the second I passed it off. We were like puzzle pieces from different boxes—forced together, corners fraying.
The final whistle cut through the tension like a guillotine.
Two–nil.
I dropped my hands to my knees, catching my breath as the scoreboard mocked us overhead.
Another loss.
The crowd cheered, happy the home team won.
Troy stalked past me without a word. Beckett kicked at a cone on the sideline. Griffin didn’t even lift his head.
I stayed there for a second, hands on my thighs, breathing hard and furious. Letting the weight of it settle on my shoulders like I could carry it if I just braced hard enough.
But the truth?
It wasn’t just mine to carry anymore.
And if we didn’t figure that out fast, this whole season was going to implode.
The second the final whistle blew, I knew someone was going to stick a mic in my face.
We’d lost. 2–0. Away. And I was already pissed off enough to chew steel. But rules were rules. PR obligations, brand appearances, all that bullshit. So I didn’t even make it to the tunnel before one of the sideline reporters came jogging up, camera crew in tow and mic at the ready.
“Walker!” the guy called out, practically glowing with smug energy. “Got a minute?”
Didn’t matter if I said no. He was already rolling.
He angled the mic up toward me, grin wide and teeth whiter than should be legal. “Rough game out there. You losing your edge, or just too distracted by your new girlfriend?”
My jaw locked.
I could hear the crowd still buzzing in the stands behind me, some of them probably waiting to see if I’d lose my shit. Again. Cameras were pointed straight at my face, ready to dissect every blink and breath.
I kept my tone clipped. “The only thing I lost was patience with lazy questions.”
His brows lifted. Like I’d just confirmed something for him.
“Sure about that?” he said. “Because it looked like you were babysitting half the match. Bit of a mess on the field today. Is Storm falling apart—or is it just you?”
