CHAPTER 1 #2
Ava’s grin widens, because apparently youth development no longer includes basic survival instincts.
Before she can ask anything else, the whistle blows.
Thank you, Coach Ramirez. I take back three percent of what I said about your training loads.
I turn toward the drill.
That should be the end of it.
It is not.
I feel Nathan’s attention before I confirm it. That sounds ridiculous, and I know it sounds ridiculous, which only makes it more irritating. But defenders know when they are being watched by someone who understands angles.
I glance once.
His laughter has stopped.
Not all the way. Not enough for Colton to notice. Not enough for the cameras to catch. But enough for me.
Our eyes meet across the fence, across the training complex, across years of silence that apparently still have excellent cardio.
The sun catches on the metal links between us.
A whistle blows too close.
My fingers curl once against the bottle.
Nathan does not look away.
Of course he doesn’t. Nathan always did have a very unfortunate relationship with retreat.
Fine.
I look away first because I am smarter, not because I am weaker.
“Next sequence,” I call, sharper than necessary.
Ava’s head snaps toward me. “Yes, Captain.”
I toss my bottle back into the cooler and jog into position.
Too fast.
The pain under my ribs gives one bright warning spark.
I ignore it.
The attacker comes at me again, and this time I attack the play with a little too much edge. I know it as I move. My first step is clean, but my second has teeth. I close the space, win the tackle, and send the ball hard enough toward midfield that our assistant coach lifts both brows.
The contact jars through my left side.
I go down to one hand, palm scraping against turf. Not a fall. Not even close. Just part of the motion. I push up immediately.
Too immediately.
Ava is looking at me.
I hate that.
“You good?” she asks.
“Perfect.”
Her eyebrows move.
“Fine,” I correct. “I’m fine. Reset.”
She hesitates for one second, then turns back into position.
Good.
The media crowd beyond the fence has grown louder. The Kings are doing some staged arrival shot now, all champion smiles and controlled chaos. I can hear Colton’s laugh again. Someone from their staff calls for Nathan.
I do not look.
I don't.
I win the next ball. Then another. I make my movement smooth enough to be boring. No hitch. No favour. No invitation for concern.
When Coach finally calls the end of the drill, I walk toward the sideline with deliberate ease. My left side is hot now, the pain spreading under my ribs in a way that makes my jaw want to tighten.
I reach for water.
And feel it again.
Nathan’s attention.
Not on my face.
Lower.
My stance. My weight shift. The tiny delay when I transfer off my left side.
The bottle crackles in my grip.
He saw it.
Of course he saw it.
Most people see what you show them. Defenders see what you try to hide.
Nathan knew my tells before he had any right to. Apparently time, distance, and a complete lack of basic communication have not fixed that.
He has not spoken to me.
He has not apologized.
He has not earned one inch of access.
And somehow, from across a fence, he already knows too much.
“Emily,” Coach Ramirez calls.
I turn, grateful for any voice that is not his. “Yeah?”
“Good work with Ava. Keep that channel communication sharp.”
“Always.”
Coach studies me half a second longer than necessary. I keep my face open, calm, captain-like. The kind of expression that says I am composed, hydrated, and not currently held together by spite and compression fabric.
She nods once and moves on.
I exhale carefully.
Training ends in pieces: cooldown, staff notes, players drifting toward recovery, media crews being guided away from areas they are definitely trying to reach.
I keep my pace measured. Ava walks beside me, talking through the last drill and whether she should have stepped earlier on the third sequence.
I answer because that is what captains do. We steady others, even when something in us is not steady.
“You waited better,” I tell her. “But don’t let waiting turn passive. Patience still has teeth.”
Ava squints. “That one might actually work on a poster.”
“I’m billing you if it does.”
She laughs, and for one second, the morning feels almost normal.
Then I step behind a temporary equipment wall near the recovery corridor, away from cameras, away from the field, away from blue-and-gold gear and the man attached to it.
The shaded hallway smells like rubber mats, cut oranges, and sports tape. Someone has left a crate of recovery drinks stacked beneath a sponsor banner. I reach for one, already thinking through ice, compression, and whether I can get ten quiet minutes before Coach notices anything else.
My phone buzzes.
I glance down.
Nathan’s name lights the screen.
For a second, I just stare at it.
Years.
Years of nothing, and now he has chosen this.
My thumb moves before I decide whether I want it to.
The message is short.
You’re favouring your left side.
The air in the corridor goes too still.
Fury hits first. Clean and hot.
Then fear, because he is right.
Then, buried under both, a tiny flicker of relief so humiliating I want to throw my phone into the nearest laundry bin.
He saw me.
No.
No, that is not relief. That is muscle memory. That is an old bruise mistaking pressure for comfort.
Nathan Bellows does not get to see me like that anymore.
He doesn't get to walk back into my life through concern. He doesn't get to open the door marked injury because he abandoned the one marked honesty years ago.
I open the message.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I type exactly what I should not send, which is usually the most honest category of sentence.
You lost the right to notice.
I stare at it.
Too sharp?
Good.
Too true?
Better.
I'm about to hit send when the air shifts behind me.
A step.
A presence.
A voice I have not heard this close in years.
“Emily.”
My hand freezes over the screen.
Of course.
Of course Nathan Bellows wouldn't wait for a reply.
I close my eyes for one breath.
Then I turn.
***