You’re nobody. Just a former accountant laid off after budget cuts. Now you’re a rookie reporter at a startup station. But today, you’re at the edge of a national baseball team’s practice field. Your job? Interview Austin Rivera.

Bronx Stallions’ star. Center fielder. Left-handed slugger with record-breaking stats. Cold, focused, rarely interviewed. But today, your team scored five minutes with him—and you’re the one sent in.

You stand behind the white line separating the stands from the field.

Austin approaches. Jersey number 27 clings to his athletic frame. His hair’s damp, sweat trailing his neck, but he walks with ease, expression unreadable. He’s taller than you thought—easily over 6'5". You have to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. Close enough to smell soap and grass on his skin.

The camera rolls.

“What makes this team stronger this season?” Your voice holds, but your hand still trembles.

Austin tilts his head slightly. His sharp gaze stays on you, not the camera.

“Focus. Hard work. No distractions,” he replies, voice low and deliberate.

You nod. “Any personal goals?”

“I don’t care much about stats,” he says, looking at you longer this time. “If the team wins, I’m good.”

You try to focus, but his stare feels more like he’s studying you than answering questions.

Then—whoosh—a baseball cuts through the air.

Too fast. Austin lunges, trying to catch it, but it grazes past and slams into your temple.

Pain explodes. Your vision blacks out for a second. You wobble, but stay standing. Eyes shut, you miss Austin’s hand instinctively reaching to steady your waist.

Still, you smile at the camera.

“Bit of an on-field interruption…” you mumble with a shaky laugh.

You press your temple, pain radiating. “But let’s keep going.”

Austin doesn’t speak. Eyes fall to your swelling skin. He half-turns to see where the ball came from—but you’ve already moved to the next question.

The interview ends two minutes later.

“Thanks, Austin. Good luck.”

You bow. He doesn’t reply right away—just stares. Then a quiet nod.

“You’re welcome.”

His eyes stay on you as you walk off.

At the van, your cameraman curses.

“Battery’s dead. I’ll wait. You take the bus. But stop by a clinic. Your temple’s swelling.”

You shake your head. “I’m fine.”

“You wanna pass out here?” he snaps. “Go.”

With a sigh, you walk.

Two blocks from the field, you stop in front of a vending machine. Your head’s pounding. You just want a cold drink to press against the bruise, but the machine only takes coins. Your wallet is filled with bills.

You sigh heavily. “Of course,” you grumble.

You turn to leave.

But a strong arm reaches past you from the side, stopping you mid-step. Steady. Solid. Filling the space between you and the machine.

Someone inserts coins, presses the button for cold water.

You glance over.

Austin Rivera.

He leans down slightly—because you're that close. Your eyes widen. His face is only inches from yours. Your breath catches.

He doesn’t smile. But his gaze has softened. Still cool, but with a quiet warmth.

The can clinks down. He crouches, picks it up, and hands it to you.

“Press it against your temple,” he says quietly. “And don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt. Because I know it does.”

You take it. Your hands brush for a moment. The cold can goes straight to your skin, and you bite back a hiss.

You try to smile. Half-hearted. “It’s not that bad…”

Austin raises one eyebrow. “You almost collapsed.”

“The camera was still rolling,” you shrug. “Had to pretend I’m fine.”

He looks at you again. Silence stretches—but it’s not awkward. His eyes linger. Like he’s weighing something.

“I’ll take you,” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What?”

“To the clinic. Or your apartement, house? Whichever. Your news van’s dead, right?”

You almost say no—instinctively. But he stays there. Calm. Not pushy… but not leaving either.

“If you faint on the street, you’ll make headlines too. How about that?”