Chapter one
Amara’s POV
If there was one thing I hated more than lukewarm office coffee, it was Monday morning chaos in the newsroom.
Phones ringing, printers screaming, chairs rolling around like possessed grocery carts
and me, sitting in the corner, trying to finish a political analysis that nobody was going to appreciate enough.
I was halfway through a sentence about trade policies when a file landed on my desk with the grace of a dying pigeon.
I looked up.
Rowan Sterling.
My editor-in-chief.
A man who believed emotions were optional and stress was a vitamin.
“Morning,” he said.
“It was,” I replied.
He didn’t smile. He rarely did. “You’re being reassigned.”
I blinked. “To what? And please don’t say food reviews, if you put me on another restaurant article, I will walk into the ocean.”
“Sports,” he said simply.
I froze. “Sports?”
A snort came from the desk next to mine.
Finn.
Of course.
Finn Turner, my annoyingly cheerful coworker, leaned back in his chair and grinned like Christmas arrived early. “Congrats, Amara. Finally joining the fun side of journalism.”
“Fun side?” I repeated. “This is sports, Finn. I don’t care about who kicks a ball into a net.”
Finn gasped dramatically. “The disrespect. The absolute violence of that statement.”
I ignored him and turned back to Sterling. “Sir, I write politics. Countries, agreements, corruption—big things. Important things.”
“Football is important to people,” Sterling replied.
“Not to me.”
“That’s why I’m sending you. You’re the only reporter in this building who won’t faint the moment Kai Navarro walks into a room.”
My throat tightened.
Kai Navarro.
The name alone carried weight. Even someone like me, who still confused free-kicks with foul-play, knew him.
International superstar.
Record-breaking striker.
Ridiculously handsome in a way that should be illegal.
And, most importantly—
He loathed journalists.
“Sir,” I said carefully, “I don’t think that’s a good idea. He has a history of refusing interviews.”
“Lucky for you,” Sterling said, “his manager just approved one exclusive interview for the season. And guess who’s doing it?”
My stomach dropped.
Finn clapped loudly. “Look at you, Hale! Starting the week on legendary mode.”
I glared at him. “Not helping.”
Sterling placed both hands on my desk. “Your job is simple. Cover his transfer to the Hawthorne Eagles, follow the team for two weeks, write clean, honest pieces. Don’t irritate him.”
“How am I supposed to avoid irritating a man who gets irritated by oxygen?”
“Figure it out. Interview is tomorrow at the stadium. Be early.”
And just like that, he walked away.
Finn whistled low. “Well, well… Amara Hale in the lion’s den.”
“I don’t want to interview a lion.”
“You’ll be fine. Worst case,” he leaned closer, whispering, “he glares at you and you melt into a puddle.”
“Finn—”
“What? The man is genetically created to be beautiful.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I saw my childhood.
“Just don’t fall in love,” Finn added teasingly.
“I’d rather fall off a building.”
He laughed. “I’ll keep that quote for your wedding speech.”
“Finn!”
But he was already typing, humming happily, enjoying my suffering a little too much.
⸻
The stadium looked bigger than I expected.
The next day , wind pushed against my jacket as I hugged my press pass tightly and walked toward the security gate. I wasn’t nervous. No. Not at all.
Just… very aware that one wrong sentence might get me kicked out by a superstar who hated my profession.
A security guard scanned my pass. “Press entrance down the hall. Kai Navarro’s manager is waiting.”
My pulse jumped.
As I walked deeper into the stadium, the muffled sound of the team practicing echoed through the halls. Fresh-cut grass, cold air, and adrenaline filled my lungs.
A man in a sharp suit waved me over.
He looked like someone who managed million-dollar athletes for breakfast.
“You must be Amara Hale,” he said. “I’m Matteo Cruz, Kai’s manager.”
I shook his hand. “Thank you for arranging the interview.”
“We don’t normally do interviews this early,” Matteo said as we walked. “But Kai is… transitioning. New team, new environment. The club wants positive coverage.”
Positive.
Right.
Because Kai Navarro was famous for everything except positivity.
“When you speak to him,” Matteo continued, “don’t push too hard. He’s not very open on first meetings.”
“No problem,” I said. “I’m not trying to write a scandal.”
He smiled a little. “I like you already.”
We reached the corner of the hallway. Through a glass door, I saw him.
Kai Navarro.
He stood alone near the tunnel, stretching, adjusting the tape around his wrists. His posture was relaxed, but something about him radiated sharpness—
like a blade that didn’t know how to be dull.
Matteo called out, “Kai! This is Amara Hale. The journalist for today’s piece.”
Kai turned.
And the air changed.
Those dark eyes swept over me once, quick, unreadable but something cold and assessing flickered there.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t nod.
He didn’t say hello.
He simply said:
“Five minutes. That’s all.”
My spine straightened. “Ten.”
He raised a brow. “You negotiate fast.”
“It’s my job.”
He huffed something like a laugh more breath than sound. “Fine. Ten. Don’t waste them.”
Matteo gave me an apologetic look before stepping aside.
Kai leaned against the wall, arms crossed, gaze piercing.
“So,” he said, “ask.”
I lifted my notebook, meeting his eyes without flinching.
“I’ll start when you stop acting like you’re being forced to talk to me at gunpoint.”
For a split second, just a split second
the corner of his mouth twitched.
Not a smile.
But something close to it.
“Interesting,” he murmured. “This might not be as boring as I thought.”
And just like that, the storm named Kai Navarro finally looked at me like I wasn’t invisible.
Like I was a challenge.
Like this interview was only the beginning.
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