CHAPTER 2
NATHAN
The Global Cup trophy isn't here, but somehow I still feel like I’m carrying it.
The area behind the equipment wall is cooler, shaded by stacked cases, sponsor banners, recovery bins, and temporary flooring that smells like rubber and citrus cleaner.
Somewhere nearby, someone is slicing oranges.
The scent punches me back to youth tournaments, long weekends, and Emily laughing under a rain hood with mud up the side of her leg.
She stands with her back half turned, phone in one hand, recovery drink unopened in the other.
I can see the message thread on her screen.
I should leave.
Instead, I say her name.
“Emily.”
She freezes.
Not completely. Emily Smith doesn’t do anything completely when contained willpower can make it look intentional. But her thumb stops above the screen.
She closes her eyes for one breath.
Then turns.
And there she is.
Close enough for me to see the faint salt drying at her temple.
Close enough to see the tiny crease between her brows that used to appear when she was deciding whether to yell or win.
Close enough to remember, with absolute physical clarity, that I once knew what it felt like to stand beside her without being an intruder.
Her eyes land on me like a tackle.
“Nathan.”
Just my name.
No hello.
Fair.
I try to find the right opening. Something normal. Something human. Something that doesn't make the last several years stretch between us like a caution sign.
“You look good,” I say.
Absolutely outstanding.
Emily’s face does not change. “I am good.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It never is with you.”
The words hit clean.
I deserve that.
The sponsor banner beside us flutters lightly in the air conditioning. From the pitch, a whistle blows, muffled by the wall. Footsteps pass beyond the corridor, then fade.
I look at her face.
Not her stance.
Not her side.
Her face.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Her eyebrows lift.
For one dangerous second, I think maybe I have chosen the right words.
Then my fear, being a complete idiot, adds, “I shouldn't have text you about noticing your left side.”
Her expression closes.
There it is.
Wrong door.
“Nathan.”
“I saw you come out of that tackle, and you were guarding through the turn.”
“I know what I was doing.”
“I’m sure you do.”
“No, you’re not.” She steps a fraction closer. “If you were sure, you wouldn’t be standing here.”
My jaw tightens. “I’m not trying to interfere.”
“Interesting approach.”
“I’m concerned.”
“Yes. That was always your favourite justification.”
The words land so hard I forget the air for a second.
She's not only talking about the text.
Of course she's not only talking about the text.
I lower my voice. “Emily, you’re favouring your left side.”
Her mouth curves, but there is no humour in it.
“You don't get to walk back into my life through the medical entrance.”
I flinch.
Not outwardly enough, I hope. But she sees it anyway because Emily has always noticed the useful things and the painful ones.
“I’m not trying to walk back into your life.”
The lie tastes bad before it leaves my mouth.
Emily’s gaze flicks over me. Not cruel. Worse. Accurate.
“Then this should be easy,” she says. “Walk away.”
I should.
I know I should.
But she's standing in front of me, and years of silence have suddenly become a room I cannot breathe in.
There are so many things I should have said before this.
Things I rehearsed too late. Things I buried under family and Morgan and medical appointments and work and Briarwood and the lie that disappearing was cleaner than dragging someone into my mess.
“I was wrong,” I say.
Emily stills.
That gets through.
Not enough.
But it changes the air.
“Back then,” I add. “I handled everything badly. I had Morgan and my mom and home, and I thought stepping back was the right thing. I thought it was better than pulling you into something I couldn’t manage.”
Even as I say it, I hear the polish.
The old noble shape.
The version where I was overwhelmed, which is true, and therefore less responsible, which is not.
Emily hears it too.
Her face changes before I finish.
Not softer.
Colder.
“Wow,” she says quietly.
I stop.
“You really did keep the press-release version.”
My chest tightens. “That’s not what I meant.”
“It never is with you,” she says again.
This time, it hurts worse because I have earned the repetition.
Outside, a ball hits the fence with a sharp metallic snap.
I want to start over.
I want to say: I was scared. I wanted you too much. I decided for both of us because choosing you would have made me selfish and not choosing you made me cruel, so I picked silence and pretended it was honour.
I want to say all of that.
But wanting the right words and finding the courage to use them are different skills.
Emily shifts her weight.
Tiny.
Left side protected for half a second.
My eyes drop before I can stop them.
Her face hardens.
Another mistake.
“Don’t,” she says.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You looked.”
“I’m a defender.”
“You’re a problem.”
“That too.”
Her mouth almost moves.
Almost.
The almost disappears before it becomes anything useful.
A golf cart beeps nearby. A media coordinator rounds the equipment wall, badge swinging from her lanyard, headset slightly crooked, face bright with relief when she sees us.
“Oh, perfect,” she says. “You’re both here.”
Emily closes her eyes for half a second.
I look at the coordinator because I need one person in this corridor who has not just watched me emotionally trip over my own cleats.
The coordinator checks her tablet. “We had a scheduling update. Since the defender panel tested well in pre-promotion, tournament media would like to pair you both for tomorrow’s joint defender panel and the Briarwood youth clinic.
Global Cup champions, Ocean Cup programming, local development roots. It’s a great connection.”
Emily’s smile appears.
Professional.
Camera-ready.
Terrifying.
“Of course,” she says.
The coordinator beams, unaware she has tossed a lit match into a storage room full of old dynamite. “Wonderful. We’ll send timing to both teams. We’re looking for smart defensive conversation, some youth coaching, maybe a few shared-development anecdotes.”
“Perfect,” Emily says.
I don’t say anything because my internal organs are busy rearranging themselves.
The coordinator glances between us. “You two know each other from development programs, right?”
Emily’s smile holds.
“Yes,” she says. “Nathan and I learned a lot about defensive spacing.”
I look at her.
Her eyes stay on the coordinator.
The subtext hits me in the ribs.
Keep your distance.
The coordinator laughs like that was charming. “Excellent. That’s exactly the kind of thing we want. I’ll send the brief.”
She hurries away, already speaking into her headset.
The corridor goes quiet again.
Emily’s phone is still in her hand. I glance down despite myself.
The typed message sits unsent on her screen.
You lost the right to notice.
My throat tightens.
She sees me see it and doesn't hide the phone.
Good.
Maybe she wants me to read it.
Maybe I should.
“I did,” I say.
Her expression flickers.
“I lost the right,” I add. “I know that.”
For once, I do not add anything else.
Emily’s grip shifts around the phone. Her thumb brushes the side button, and the screen goes dark.
“Knowing doesn’t give it back.”
“I know.”
She studies me for a second, and I can't tell whether that helped or made things worse.
Maybe both.
Then she steps past me, close enough that the air changes but not close enough to touch.
At the edge of the equipment wall, she pauses and looks back.
The morning sun catches the red of her Team Canada jacket. Her face is composed again. Captain. Defender. Woman who has rebuilt every wall I once walked through and left behind me.
“Defenders are good at standing beside people they don’t trust,” she says.
Then she walks back toward the pitch.
I stand there with the smell of oranges, rubber, and sports tape around me, watching her go.
Tomorrow.
A defender panel.
A youth clinic.
Less than twenty-four hours to figure out how to stand beside Emily Smith without becoming the man who left.
Or worse.
The man who thinks staying gives him the right to step in.
***