CHAPTER 8
NATHAN
“Terrific chemistry on camera.”
The coordinator says it behind us, bright and pleased and completely unaware she has just tossed a lit match into a hallway full of old fuel.
Emily keeps walking.
So do I.
That is my first victory of the morning, which is pathetic enough that I don't plan to mention it to anyone.
The film room door clicks shut behind us. Staff voices spill through the gap before it closes. Someone laughs. A cable case rattles over the floor. The hallway smells like burnt coffee, cold rubber mats, and camera equipment that has worked too hard.
Emily walks at my left side with her notebook tucked under one arm.
Not close.
Not far.
Professional distance.
Tournament distance.
The kind of distance that says cameras are nearby and neither of us has lost our mind.
My hands want something to do. They find nothing useful, so they hang at my sides like they have also been accused of chemistry.
I look at the corridor signs instead of her.
TEAM CANADA RECOVERY ←KINGS MEDIA →
Helpful. Cruel. Very efficient.
Emily’s pace stays even. Her face stays forward. The red of her jacket catches under the overhead lights every few steps.
The left side looks clean.
Almost.
My eyes start to drop.
I stop them before they get there.
Bare minimum, Bellows.
The coordinator is still talking in the room behind us, voice muffled now. “Natural energy. Great defender language. Fans are going to love this.”
Natural.
Dangerous word.
Natural is Emily finishing my thought about recovery lanes without looking at me. Natural is both of us seeing the weak-side runner before the footage proves it. Natural is terrible coffee becoming a joke in under three seconds.
Natural is the problem.
Emily stops at the split in the hallway.
Team Canada left.
Kings right.
For one second, neither of us moves.
I should say something safe.
Good session. Nice work. See you at the next professionally scheduled emotional hazard.
My mouth does not open.
Emily shifts her notebook from one arm to the other. Smooth. Controlled. Almost perfect.
I keep my eyes on her face.
She notices.
Of course she notices.
Her expression doesn't change, but something in her shoulders lowers by half a breath.
“Thanks for the redirect,” she says.
Four words. Flat. Professional. Small enough to fit under a locked door.
They still hit like a full volley.
“You’re welcome.”
That’s all.
Good.
Stop there.
I stop there.
My entire body objects.
I want to explain that I was not trying to manage her. I want to tell her I understood why that footage scared her. I want to say I saw the hitch and hated every second of not fixing it.
No.
Not fixing.
Wrong word.
Wrong instinct.
Emily’s eyes narrow slightly, like she can hear the bad sentence forming before I do.
“Don’t strain yourself being mature,” she says.
I almost smile. “I’ll stretch first.”
Her mouth threatens movement.
Not a smile.
A threat of a smile.
Then she turns toward Team Canada recovery.
I let her go.
One step.
Two.
Three.
She doesn't look back.
The hallway takes her around the corner, red jacket disappearing into the cooler light of the recovery wing.
I stand still.
Not because I have nothing to do.
Because every old part of me wants to follow.
I make it four steps before Morgan appears from a side hallway with her tablet under one arm and the expression of a woman who has watched men lie to themselves professionally and recreationally.
“Did you follow her?” she asks.
“No.”
The pride in my voice is unfortunate.
Morgan hears it.
Her eyebrows rise. “Congratulations on basic hallway behaviour.”
“Thank you. I’ve been training hard.”
“Nathan.”
“What? I didn’t follow her.”
“Not following someone who didn’t invite you to follow them is not an Olympic event.”
“It felt athletic.”
“That’s because you’re dramatic.”
“I play defence. Drama is built into the job.”
Morgan shifts the tablet against her hip. She is wearing her Kings trainer gear, hair pulled back, face composed, but the crease between her brows has nothing to do with Colton’s hamstring and everything to do with me making her job emotionally annoying.
“You look like you want applause for not making it worse,” she says.
“I did redirect the footage.”
“I know.”
“And I didn’t mention her side.”
“I know.”
“And I didn’t follow her.”
“Yes. We have established you successfully cleared the lowest possible bar.”
I look down the hall where Emily disappeared.
The corridor is empty now.
That makes something in my chest drop, which is stupid because she is not gone. She is thirty seconds away in a recovery area I have no right to enter.
“Did she seem okay to you?” I ask.
Morgan’s expression changes.
There it is.
A step toward the line before I realize my foot has moved.
I lift one hand. “I’m asking as a general human, not as a man trying to storm Team Canada recovery.”
“Those humans sound very similar when you’re worried.”
“I’m working on that.”
“I know.” Morgan softens by half a degree. “That’s why I’m standing here instead of throwing your phone into an ice bath.”
“Appreciated.”
“Do not make me regret generosity.”
A staffer wheels past with a laundry cart, leaving the smell of warm towels behind. Morgan waits until the cart turns the corner.
Then she says, “She may be hiding something. She may also be calculating risk. Those are not automatically the same thing.”
“If she’s hurt, hiding it is risky.”
“Yes.”
“So we agree.”
“No. We agree injury matters. We do not agree that your fear gets to outrank her authority.”
Authority.
That is the word that hits.
Not just her body. Not just her pain. Not just the left side I keep forcing myself not to study. Her role. Her captaincy. The way younger players look at her before they look anywhere else. The way the film room turned to her voice when she explained trust.
If I expose the wrong thing at the wrong time, even kindly, I don't only embarrass her.
I change the shape of the room around her.
The thought makes my stomach twist.
“I wouldn’t do that,” I say.
Morgan’s face goes patient in a way that makes me want to argue with furniture.
“Nathan.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You already did once.”
The hallway seems to lose sound.
Morgan does not flinch from her own words. She is not cruel. That would be easier to reject. She is just my sister, reminding me that history doesn't become irrelevant because I feel bad about it.
My voice comes lower. “That’s not the same.”
“No,” she says. “But the instinct is related.”
I look away.
Through the facility windows, I can see a slice of training pitch under afternoon light. Players move across the far field, bright shirts and quick feet, everyone trying to look loose while the tournament tightens around them.
“If I see the hit coming and don’t step in,” I say, “what am I even good for?”
The words come out before I can sand them down.
Morgan’s expression softens.
I hate that too.
Protection has always been clean in my head. If someone is in danger, you close the space. If there is a loose runner, you track. If Morgan looks too tired, you take the extra errand. If Mom needs a drive, you cancel. If Emily is headed toward something that could hurt her, you move.
Simple.
Useful.
Then everyone started using words like control and authority and invite, and apparently the entire moral structure of my life needed renovations.
Morgan steps closer.
“You’re good for more than stepping in front of things,” she says.
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
I do not answer.
Another unfair question.
Another fair one.
She taps one finger against my chest, right over the Kings logo.
“Here’s the rule,” she says.
“Of course there’s a rule.”
“If you’re about to help, ask yourself whether she invited you into the problem.”
I stare at her.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“What if she’s obviously hurt?”
“Did she invite you?”
“What if I can fix something without making a scene?”
“Did she invite you?”
“What if waiting makes it worse?”
“Then you can ask. Once. And accept the answer.”
I hate this rule because it sounds simple. Simple things should be easy. This feels like being asked to stand in front of an open goal and not clear the ball because someone else has the angle.
Morgan sees my face and sighs.
“Consent applies to care too,” she says.
That one shuts me up.
Not because I have a clever answer.
Because I do not.
For years, I thought love was the amount of damage you were willing to absorb before someone else had to feel it. I thought leaving Emily outside my family mess was proof I cared enough not to pull her under. I thought silence was cleaner than saying I want you while my life is falling apart.
I decided.
I decided and decided and decided.
Then acted surprised when the person I cut out did not feel protected.
Morgan pats my shoulder once. “Hold the rule. You’ll need it.”
“Encouraging.”
“I’m not here to encourage you. I’m here to prevent stupidity.”
“Also affection?”
“Secondary benefit.”
She starts down the hall, then stops and looks back.
“And Nathan?”
“Yeah?”
“If she lets you near the problem, remember that it’s not an invitation to take over.”
Then she disappears into the recovery corridor like she has not just dismantled my entire personality with one practical rule.
I stand there for another moment, breathing through the urge to follow everyone.
Emily.
Morgan.
The problem.
Any problem.
Instead, I go to Kings media.
I sit through a fifteen-minute champion feature where Colton refers to my eighty-sixth-minute block as “very rude to goal lovers,” Darius answers three questions with captain-level grace, and I say something about team shape that may or may not make sense.
The media staff seem pleased. That is either a good sign or proof they stopped listening.
After that, we have a short training block outside.
Nothing heavy. Recovery movement, passing patterns, sponsor-friendly footage, and the kind of light tactical session that still makes everyone sweat because August doesn't care about media schedules.
I do the work.
I joke with Colton.
I nod at Darius.
I stay out of Team Canada’s lane.
Mostly.
There are glimpses.