CHAPTER 7 #2
There I am, on the practice pitch. Ava to my right. An attacker driving into the channel. I recognize the rep immediately.
Too late.
The clip rolls.
On screen, I step, win the ball, and turn out.
The hitch is bigger in the footage than it felt in my body.
Not obvious to a casual viewer. Maybe not obvious to the producer. But to defenders? To coaches? To anyone who knows how clean my movement usually is?
Obvious enough.
My pulse climbs into my throat.
The camera is still rolling.
Nathan is beside me.
The producer is watching the screen with the easy expression of someone who thinks she has found a useful teaching clip.
“And here,” she says, “we can maybe talk about Ava’s support angle after Emily’s clearance?”
I keep my face still.
My hand tightens around the remote.
I should say something. Move the clip forward. Turn it into a general answer. Make my body uninteresting through the sheer force of captaincy.
Before I can, Nathan speaks.
“This is actually a great Ava clip.”
I do not look at him.
On screen, he pauses the footage two seconds after the hitch, when Ava has shifted behind me.
“See her here?” Nathan says, pointing to Ava’s position. “She recognizes Emily has killed the first threat, but the second ball could still come central. She doesn’t admire the tackle. She gets into the cover lane. That’s a young defender doing mature work.”
The producer leans forward. “Good. Yes. That’s great.”
The camera operator adjusts focus.
Nathan continues, calm and easy. “A lot of players switch off when the senior player wins the first action. Ava doesn’t. She stays connected to the next danger.”
The producer nods. “Emily, do you want to add to that?”
I breathe once.
Normally.
Almost.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s exactly right. The first action only matters if the line is ready for the second.”
My voice sounds like mine.
Good.
The clip plays again, this time with the room looking at Ava.
Not my left side.
Not the tiny catch in my turn.
Ava.
Again, Nathan doesn't look at me.
Not once.
He simply gives the room somewhere else to look and lets me choose whether to follow.
It's care.
Not control.
This is becoming a serious problem.
The producer gets several more minutes out of the Ava discussion. I praise Ava’s recovery position, her patience, her ability to reset after an earlier error. That part is easy because it is true, and because talking about Ava gives my pulse time to stop trying to leave my body.
Eventually, the cameras cut.
“Great,” the producer says, smiling at both of us. “That was excellent. Really smart. This is exactly the tone we wanted.”
The camera operators begin packing up. Cables drag softly across the floor. The production assistant peels tape from one spot and repositions it near a case. The media coordinator steps into the hall to take a call.
Nathan and I remain seated in front of the paused screen.
My coffee is cold now.
The image on the screen is still Ava in cover position, the moment after the hitch.
My hand rests on the table.
Nathan’s hand rests near his cup.
There's an entire table between us, and somehow it doesn't feel like enough.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” I ask.
Nathan turns his head slowly.
His expression is careful, but not polished.
“Because it wasn’t mine to say.”
The answer is too good.
I hate that too.
A worse answer would have been easier. I could have attacked a worse answer. I had several prepared.
You were just trying to look noble.
You noticed anyway.
You don’t get credit for not being awful in public.
But he sits there with that quiet, infuriating sentence between us, and for once, the anger doesn't know where to place its feet.
I look back at the screen. “You redirected fast.”
“I know film rooms.”
“That wasn’t film-room instinct.”
“No,” he says.
I wait.
He takes a breath. “It was me trying not to make your problem mine.”
My throat tightens.
I do not like the word problem.
I like even less that he corrects himself before I can.
“Not problem,” he says. “Your information. Your call.”
The room is emptying around us. The crew’s voices fade into the hall. The projector fan whirs above the screen. I can smell coffee, dry-erase marker, and the faint electric warmth of the lights.
“Did Morgan give you a script?” I ask.
His mouth shifts. “A rule.”
“Of course she did.”
“She’s very bossy.”
“She’s a trainer.”
“She says that like it explains everything.”
“It does.”
His almost smile appears.
The smallest one.
It should not reach me.
It does.
The media coordinator returns before I can decide whether to leave or say something dangerously honest.
She is practically glowing.
“That was fantastic,” she says.
Nathan sits straighter.
I do too, because glowing coordinators are never good. They are the human form of extra obligations.
The coordinator checks her tablet. “The producer already sent a few clips to the tournament content team, and the initial response is very strong. Smart, warm, great chemistry, very accessible for fans and youth players.”
The word chemistry lands on the table like a ball neither of us wants to touch.
I say nothing.
Nathan says nothing.
The coordinator does not notice. “So we’d love to expand this into a short Ocean Cup feature series.”
No.
“Feature series?” I ask.
“Nothing too heavy. A few short segments across the week. You two coaching youth defenders, breaking down plays, maybe some fan festival content, plus the Briarwood development connection. It fits beautifully with the Global Cup champions supporting Ocean Cup programming.”
Nathan’s stillness changes beside me.
I do not look at him.
If I look at him, I will see the same calculation on his face that is currently happening inside my own head.
Publicly paired.
Repeatedly.
With cameras.
Children.
Soccer.
Old history in every frame.
“I’m in active tournament competition,” I say.
“Absolutely,” the coordinator says quickly. “We’ll work around Team Canada’s schedule and Coach Ramirez’s availability. Nothing that interferes with performance. We already cleared the general concept with both media teams as optional, pending athlete approval.”
Athlete approval.
How generous of them to hand me a choice with no good professional reason to refuse.
This is excellent content for the Ocean Cup.
Excellent for youth development.
Excellent for Team Canada visibility.
Excellent for the Kings’ champion community narrative.
Excellent, apparently, for everyone except the woman trying very hard not to remember what Nathan Bellows’s hand felt like brushing hers over an orange cone.
“I’ll need to confirm with Coach Ramirez,” I say.
“Of course.”
“And Team Canada media.”
“Already looped in.”
Of course they are.
The coordinator turns to Nathan. “Kings media is enthusiastic too.”
Nathan’s jaw moves once. “I’m sure they are.”
The coordinator beams. “Wonderful. I’ll send the updated brief. Honestly, you two have terrific chemistry on camera.”
There it is again.
Terrific chemistry.
On camera.
As if cameras invented it.
As if the problem is new.
As if it did not exist in muddy development fields, bad coffee, shared sideline jokes, half-finished almosts, and years of silence that still somehow know my name.
The coordinator leaves, still smiling.
The door shuts behind her.
The projector screen hums.
Ava remains frozen behind us in the paused clip, standing exactly where she needed to be.
Nathan looks at the screen.
Then at me.
I look at him.
Neither of us denies it.
***