The Football King’s Secret Heir

DEFENSIVE MEASURES

RILEY’s POV

The diesel exhaust fumes of the Westbrook city bus mingle with the damp rain sticking to my coat, but I barely register the cold.

My knuckles are white where I grip the metal handrail above my head. Beside me on the faded vinyl seat, Kess sits quietly, his tiny fingers wrapped tightly around the handles of the sleek black sports bag Mateo Moretti bought him. Every time the heavy bus jolts over a pothole, my eyes dart down to that bag like it’s a ticking explosive.

I want to snatch it. I want to throw it out the narrow bus window straight into the wet gutter. But I keep my lips pressed into a tight, pale line, forcing my breathing to stay slow and steady.

Don't panic. Don't scare him, I repeat like a desperate mantra in my head, feeling the cold sweat clinging to my neck. Kess is too smart. If you snap now or lose your temper, he will ask why.

When the bus finally squeals to a halt at our stop, I take Kess by the hand and practically hurry him up the three flights of stairs to our apartment. I unlock the door, usher him inside, and immediately slide both deadbolts into place, resting my forehead against the cold wood for a fraction of a second to catch my breath.

The moment Kess sets the dark shopping bag on the living room rug, I drop my tote bag on the counter and kneel directly in front of him.

"Kess," I say, keeping my tone as soft and measured as humanly possible, though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "What is in that bag?"

"Mr. Mateo bought them for me," Kess answers instantly, his dark eyes shining with quiet, innocent pride. "New boots and two jerseys! He said every rising star needs proper gear."

My chest tightens so violently it physically aches. A sharp wave of nausea hits me, but I swallow it down. It isn't his fault. He is five years old.

"Kess... what did I tell you yesterday about strangers?" I ask gently, taking his little hands in mine. "We talked about this."

"I told him!" Kess insists quickly, stepping forward to defend himself, his small face serious. "I told him you said he was a stranger! But Mr. Mateo said he isn't a stranger to me anymore. He said we met at school, and once you talk to someone, you know them, so they aren't strangers anymore."

I freeze. The air leaves my lungs in a cold exhale. The arrogant bastard. Mateo talked my five-year-old son out of his own safety boundaries with smooth, charming athlete logic in under two minutes.

I open my mouth to dispute it—to tell Kess that talking to someone once on a football pitch doesn't make them safe—but I stop myself just in time.

If I push too hard, Kess will start asking why I hate Mateo Moretti so much. He will ask why I am terrified. And those are heavy, dangerous questions a five-year-old brain should never have to carry.

I run a trembling hand through my hair, letting out a long, quiet exhale. "Kess... can you do Mommy a big favor?"

He tilts his head, watching me with absolute attention. "What favor?"

"Can you... not wear the shoes and jerseys Mr. Mateo bought for you?"

The bright, cheerful light in his face instantly extinguishes. His small shoulders slump, his lower lip trembling slightly as he stares down at the glossy black bag on the floor. He doesn't throw a tantrum or yell. He just gives a slow, agonizingly sad nod.

The sight of his crushed spirit hits me like a blade straight to the ribs.

"I'm sorry, baby," I whisper, reaching out to gently cup his soft cheek.

Kess looks up at me, his dark eyes brimming with genuine confusion and hurt. "Why, Mommy? Do you hate Mr. Mateo? Or do you hate football?"

The question catches me entirely off guard. My heart hammers violently against my ribs. "Why... why would you think I hate him?"

"Because you don't want me to wear what he got for me," he says quietly, his small voice thick with emotion. "He didn't try to hurt me, Mommy. He bought me dark chocolate gelato, too."

"I know he didn't hurt you," I say softly, struggling to find words that won't betray the sheer terror inside me. "But sometimes, people might not look like they want to hurt you, and at the end of the day, they still end up bringing trouble. Mommy is just trying to protect you."

"But Mr. Mateo is a celebrity," Kess argues innocently, holding his chin up stubbornly. "Celebrities don't hurt people! On the radio and TV, everyone says Mr. Mateo is a really good person. My friends at school said their daddys watch him on TV and say he's the best player in the world. He won't hurt me."

A bitter, somber smile touches my lips. If only you knew, Kess. If only you knew what that 'good person' did to us six years ago.

"Maybe he is a good person to them," I say gently, brushing a lock of dark hair from his forehead. "And maybe he didn't mean any harm today. But mothers are always scared when it comes to their children. That's just how we are."

I look down at the floor, staring at the plain brown paper bag containing the mid-tier shoes I bought him with my hard-earned savings, and then at the sleek black bag containing Mateo's luxury gear.

"Let me ask you something, Kess," I say softly, meeting his eyes. "Between the shoes Mommy bought for you and the ones Mr. Mateo bought... which do you prefer?"

Kess looks down at the two bags, then looks back up at my face. I can see the careful, loving calculation happening in his small mind—he is trying so hard not to hurt my feelings.

"The ones you bought, Mommy," he says softly.

"Are you sure?"

He nods firmly. "Yes."

I feel a small, tearful smile break across my face, my chest swelling with love. "Okay. Since you prefer the ones Mommy bought, those are the ones you'll wear to school."

Kess hesitates for a second, shifting his weight nervously from foot to foot. "Can I... can I wear Mr. Mateo's shoes once in a while? And the jerseys at home? We didn't get jerseys today."

I look into his hopeful, wide eyes and suppress a heavy sigh. Pick your battles, Riley.

"Okay," I concede softly, giving in just a little. "At home. But never to school, and never outside this apartment."

"Okay!" he beams, his mood instantly lifting as he picks up the black bag to carry it carefully into the tiny bedroom.

As the door to the room clicks shut, I sit down on the edge of our worn sofa, burying my face in my trembling hands.

Mateo will not see my son again. This encounter at the mall was a cruel, twisted coincidence, but it ends today.

To make sure of it, I need to go back to my old, painful obsession. Six years ago, right after I fled Cooperswell and buried my past, I spent months religiously monitoring every detail of Mateo’s life—his match schedules, his team press conferences, his public appearances, and his brand endorsements—just to guarantee I never walked into a room or a street he was on. Over time, as the years passed without incident, I grew comfortable. I stopped checking.

That was a massive mistake.

Starting tonight, I will track his schedule religiously again. I will know every stadium he visits, every charity event he attends, every training session time, and every route his team bus takes through Westbrook. I will build an invisible wall around our lives so our paths never cross by accident again.

You're being paranoid, Riley, a small, rational voice whispers in the back of my mind. Why would a global billionaire athlete come looking for a random five-year-old kid from a public school? He was just playing the charming celebrity for a fan.

I force myself to take a deep, shaky breath, leaning my head back against the cushion. It's true. Mateo Moretti isn't a man who searches for random children. He has trophies to win, millions to earn, and a life of global fame to live. To him, Kess was just a cute kid with decent football touch at a mall. He doesn't know who I am. He didn't see my face.

The next morning, as I drop Kess off at his elementary school, I walk directly into the administrative office before heading to my shift. I speak with his main teacher and the principal, my tone firm, cold, and unyielding as I request a strict, permanent note on his file: no unannounced publicity visits, no media interactions, and no outside guests allowed near my son under any circumstances.

As I walk out through the heavy iron school gates toward the bus stop, I pull up my phone, opening an incognito browser tab to search the official Westbrook FC public fixture schedule.

I will keep us invisible. I have to.