CHAPTER 5
EMILY
The photographer asks Nathan to move closer.
I consider defecting.
Not from Team Canada. That would be excessive and involve paperwork.
From this photo.
This exact moment.
This cluster of sweaty, smiling youth defenders beneath the Briarwood FC banner with Nathan Bellows on one side of me and an entire media crew waiting to catch the wrong expression on my face.
“Just a little closer,” the photographer says, waving one hand like distance is the only problem here.
Nathan doesn’t move.
That’s the problem too.
He looks at me first.
Not obviously. Not dramatically. Just one small check, a question held in the tilt of his body.
Do you want space?
I hate that I understand it.
I hate more that he waits.
The kids shuffle around us, shoulder to shoulder, cleats digging into the grass. A small defender with blue braces beams up at me. Ava stands near the back of the group, pretending not to watch Nathan and me with the interest of someone who has absolutely not dropped any subject.
Fine.
Professionalism is not a feeling. It is an action.
I step half an inch closer.
Nathan matches the movement without crowding me.
Our sleeves almost touch.
The almost is worse than touching.
“Perfect,” the photographer says.
Incorrect.
Camera shutters click in bursts.
I smile because I know how to smile when the situation requires it. Captain smile. Media smile. Nothing to see here except community outreach, youth development, and two elite defenders who definitely do not share a history with teeth.
The kids smell like grass, sunscreen, and popsicles from the snack tent. Somewhere behind the camera, Coach Miller sniffles again.
“Coach,” I say without dropping my smile.
“Allergies,” he calls.
“It’s still August.”
“Persistent allergies.”
Nathan makes a sound low in his throat, not quite a laugh.
My shoulder almost brushes his.
I keep my smile in place through another round of photos. Youth players. Sponsors. Tournament staff. One with Coach Miller, who places himself between Nathan and me like that makes everything less emotionally suspicious. It does not, but it is kind.
The strange thing is that the clinic should have made staying angry easier.
Nathan was Nathan, after all. Too charming. Too comfortable with kids. Too quick to make them laugh. Too easy to like when he is not ruining years of your emotional stability with a text message about your left side.
But he did not expose me.
That’s what keeps catching.
During the recovery-run demo, he saw the hitch. I know he saw it. My body knows he saw it. My pride filed three separate complaints.
And he did not stop the drill.
He did not ask if I was okay in front of twenty kids.
He did not turn me into a problem.
He made a joke, stepped in, and gave me ten seconds to reset without anyone else noticing.
It was care.
Worse, it was careful.
That makes it much harder to hate cleanly.
“Emily,” a reporter says, stepping closer as the photo group breaks apart. She is local, I think. Not national tournament media. Her lanyard says Briarwood Community Sports.
I turn with my professional smile still attached. “Yes?”
“Quick question. A few people mentioned you and Nathan both came through regional development programs connected to Briarwood years ago. Does that shared history make a day like this more meaningful?”
There it is.
Not cruel.
Not invasive, exactly.
Still a trap.
Beside me, Nathan goes still. Not stepping in. Not answering. Not rescuing. Just present, and I can feel him leaving the space for me.
That should not matter.
It does.
The microphone is too close to my chin. The late sun makes the reporter squint. Behind her, kids chase each other around a cone grid we just finished resetting.
I choose my answer like I choose a pass under pressure.
Careful weight. Clean line. Nothing loose enough to intercept.
“We both learned early that defenders don’t get much room for mistakes,” I say. “Today was about giving these kids better tools than we had.”
The reporter’s face brightens.
She loves it.
Of course she does. It sounds warm. Reflective. Usable.
It also says almost nothing I don’t want public.
“Beautiful,” she says. “Thank you.”
I nod and turn before she can ask whether Nathan and I keep in touch, which would force me to either lie or laugh in a way that might alarm children.
Nathan is still beside me.
He heard everything I did not say.
I know because he says nothing.
That, unfortunately, is becoming more effective.
Ava appears with two water bottles and hands me one. “Nice answer.”
“Hydration and flattery. Excellent assistant captain behaviour.”
“I’m not assistant captain.”
“Not with that attitude.”
She grins. “You were good with the kids today.”
“They were easy.”
“They were feral.”
“They were easy compared to press conferences.”
Ava uncaps her bottle and glances toward Nathan, who has been intercepted by Coach Miller and a group of kids asking for signatures. “He was good with them too.”
I take a long drink. “Many people can be good with children for ninety minutes.”
“You make that sound ominous.”
“I’m a defender. Ominous is part of the job.”
Ava studies me.
I hate when people study me. I especially hate when young defenders I am trying to mentor start developing field vision off the pitch.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
“Ava.”
She lifts both hands. “I’m just saying, when he covered that demo for you, that was...”
I lower the bottle.
She stops talking.
Good survival instincts after all.
“It was a clinic,” I say.
“Right.”
“We were both coaching.”
“Right.”
“Do not make right sound like wrong.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She smiles into her water bottle. “Noted.”
By the time the event wraps, my left side has moved from occasional warning to active argument.
I hold myself together through the final thank-yous, through Coach Miller’s damp-eyed farewell, through a group of Briarwood kids asking me to sign a Canada jersey, through one little girl telling me she wants to be a defender “because defenders seem like the bossy smart ones.”
“That is exactly right,” I tell her, and mean it.
I hold together on the shuttle back to the hotel.
I hold together in the lobby, nodding to staff and teammates.
I hold together in the elevator while two midfielders debate whether Colton Myers is funny on purpose or by accident.
The elevator doors close behind me on my floor.
I make it three steps.
Then I let myself limp.
Just once.
The relief is so sharp I hate it.
Inside my room, I drop my kit bag by the dresser and brace both hands on the edge of the furniture. The polished wood is cool under my palms. My breath comes out slow and controlled because apparently I am now the sort of person who has to negotiate with her own ribs after a youth clinic.
Rude.
Very rude.
The hotel room is too cold. Air conditioning hums from the wall unit. My gear smells like turf and sweat and summer heat trapped in fabric. Outside the window, traffic hisses along the road below, ordinary and unconcerned.
I unzip my jacket, then peel my shirt up enough to check the support wrap.
No visible disaster.
Good.
No bruising worth naming.
Good.
Tenderness along the left side when I press carefully under the ribs.
Less good.
The pain has a shape now. Not just a sting. A line. It starts high, under the ribs, then tugs low toward the hip when I rotate. It is the sort of pain that speaks fluent tournament schedule.
I can manage this.
Probably.
The word hangs there.
Probably is a traitor in athletic clothing.
My phone buzzes from the dresser.
I reach for it, expecting Coach Ramirez.
Ava.
How was my footwork by the end? Be honest but not emotionally devastating.
A smile slips through before I can stop it.
I type back.
Better. Your first step got smaller, which made your second step smarter. Keep your hips patient. Also, emotionally devastating honesty builds character.
Her reply comes fast.
You are very scary and weirdly comforting.
I’ll take it.
I set the phone down.
It buzzes again.
This time, Nathan’s name appears.
My pulse reacts before I do.
Annoying.
I stare at the screen.
The message is short.
You handled that reporter well.
That is all.
Not, Are you okay?
Not, I saw you favouring your side again.
Not, You should get checked.
Just a compliment with no hook attached.
I dislike it immediately.
Mostly because I like it.
I pick up the phone and type.
That’s because I’m good at my job.
I expect a joke. Something easy. Something that will let me roll my eyes and shut the door.
His reply comes almost immediately.
I know.
Two words.
Terrible words.
Accurate words.
Words with no pressure in them, which somehow gives them more.
I sit on the edge of the bed.
The room smells faintly of hotel soap and the menthol rub I have not yet admitted I need. My thumb hovers over the screen, but I do not type back.
I know.
He used to say that differently.
Years ago, when we were still muddy and impossible and full of plans we never admitted were plans, Nathan once watched me stay late after a development scrimmage because I had missed one clearance.
One.
It had been raining. Not hard enough to cancel training. Hard enough to make every ball slick, every sock heavy, every bad touch feel like an accusation. I had collected cones after everyone else left because I did not trust myself to stop moving.
Nathan found me by the far sideline with two balls under one arm and rain dripping from his hair.
“You know,” he said, “national programs rarely file formal complaints over one missed clearance.”
“I’m setting standards.”
“You’re collecting pneumonia.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re terrifying.”
I remember his hoodie around my shoulders even though I told him I did not need it. I remember the vending-machine hot chocolate he bought me after, too watery and too sweet. I remember him saying I was going to go farther than all of them.
I thought it was praise.
Later, when he stopped answering, I wondered if it had actually been goodbye.
That is the part people would expect me to forgive too easily.
The family responsibility. The younger sister who needed him. The mother whose health turned everyone’s life sideways. The hometown that pulled on him with both hands. I understood those things, even when I was young. Maybe not fully, but enough.
I do not hate Nathan because life got hard.
I hate that he decided silence was cleaner than truth.
I hate that he made me feel like the easiest thing to cut.
I toss the phone onto the bed beside me like it has personally misbehaved.
Then I stand.
Too quickly.
Pain bites.
I freeze, one hand against my side.
Fine.
If my body wants a conversation, we will have one privately.
I step into the open space between the bed and the dresser. Slowly. No drama. No audience. No cameras. No Nathan Bellows looking at my weight shift like he still knows the language of me.
Lateral step right.
Fine.
Lateral step left.
A thin pull under the ribs.
Again.
Step. Plant. Rotate.
The pull sharpens and travels low toward the hip. I stop before it becomes a full flare.
“Rude,” I mutter.
The room offers no apology.
I try balance next. Single-leg load on the left side. Controlled. Short. The first second is fine. The second is tolerable. The third sends heat up my side.
I step down.
My breath sounds too loud.
I know enough from years of elite sport to understand what this suggests. I also know enough to bargain with it.
Modified load. Extra treatment. No unnecessary twisting. Better communication with Ava. Watch the recovery runs. Manage minutes if needed.
All very reasonable.
All deeply offensive.
I press two fingers into the sore point beneath the wrap and feel panic rise at the back of my throat.
Not because I think I cannot play.
Because I probably can.
That is the problem. Probably can is where stubborn athletes make foolish choices and then call them courage.
I lower my shirt and stare at myself in the mirror above the dresser.
The woman looking back has flushed cheeks, damp hair curling at the temples, and a captain’s armband lying on the bed behind her like evidence. She looks tired.
Not weak.
Tired.
There’s a difference.
I’m still explaining that difference to myself when someone knocks.
Not Ava’s knock. Ava knocks like she is apologizing to the door.
This knock is firmer.
Coach Ramirez.
Of course.
I grab my track pants from the chair and pull them properly over my hip before crossing the room. The movement catches just enough to make my jaw clench.
I smooth my face before opening the door.
Coach Ramirez stands in the hallway with her tablet tucked under one arm. She’s in team travel gear, hair pulled back, expression calm in the way coaches are calm when they have already noticed something and are deciding how much to let you lie.
The hallway smells like room-service fries and carpet cleaner. Somewhere down the corridor, players laugh too loudly near the elevators.
“Captain,” she says.
“Coach.”
“Got a minute?”
“Of course.”
The words come out easy.
Too easy.
Her gaze flicks over my face, my posture, the hand I’m not letting drift toward my side. She says nothing about any of it.
Worse, she doesn’t need to.
“We need to talk about tomorrow’s load,” she says.
My phone buzzes from the bed behind me.
Once.
The sound cuts through the doorway, small and sharp.
I don’t look.
I already know.
Nathan’s name is probably lighting up the dark screen again.
I smile at Coach Ramirez like nothing hurts.
“Of course,” I say.
And step back to let her in.
***