CHAPTER 11 #3
Ava goes still beside me.
Coach says nothing.
I keep going because stopping now would make it worse. “Rotation caught it. Pain spiked. It’s settling, but it’s not nothing.”
There.
The words are out.
Not nothing.
The field does not collapse.
My armband does not dissolve.
Ava does not look disappointed.
Coach Ramirez’s face softens by exactly no visible degrees, but something in her shoulders eases.
“Good,” she says.
I frown. “Good?”
“Truth is useful.”
“Rude, but fine.”
She glances toward the assistant coach. “Emily out of contact reps. Ava stays in. We adjust the second-ball pattern.”
“I can finish the block.”
“You are finishing practice,” Coach says. “Not the block.”
“That feels like a technicality.”
“It is a coaching decision.”
“I dislike it.”
“I noticed.”
Ava presses her lips together.
Coach turns back to me. “Then we manage it like captains, not martyrs.”
The words land in front of the whole back line.
Not loud.
Loud enough.
My jaw tightens.
Not from anger.
From the annoying sensation of being seen accurately in front of people I respect.
I nod once.
Coach accepts it and turns to the group. “Reset. Emily talks the next two reps from the line. Ava, you run the cover.”
Ava’s eyes widen. “Me?”
“Yes. You.”
She looks at me.
For half a second, she is twenty-two again. Young. Talented. Terrified of being handed the space.
I point to the left channel. “Read the runner first.”
Her face changes.
Not into confidence.
Into responsibility.
Better.
“Yes, Captain,” she says.
I walk to the side of the grid.
Walk.
Not limp.
Fine, almost not limp.
Coach Ramirez gives me a look that says she is filing the difference for later.
The drill restarts.
I stand outside the cones with one hand on my hip and one hand clenched around the whistle Coach has handed me, which is either trust or punishment.
Ava lines up.
The ball moves.
I see the danger forming.
So does she.
“Wait,” I call.
She waits.
The winger cuts.
The runner goes early.
“Now,” I say.
Ava steps across and kills the pass clean.
The whole back line claps.
Ava looks at me.
I nod once.
Not soft.
Not overly proud.
Exactly enough.
Again.
The next rep is messier. She opens half a step too soon, recovers late, and has to stretch to poke the ball out. Still useful. Still alive.
“Reset your hips before the switch,” I call. “You’re trying to solve the pass before it exists.”
Ava nods hard, breathing through her mouth.
Third rep.
Better.
Fourth.
Cleaner.
By the fifth, she is moving like she believes the lane belongs to her.
Good.
That is the work.
Not never hurting.
Not never needing.
Not pretending leadership means covering every blade of grass yourself.
Trusting the person beside you to handle the space that is hers.
I hate when my own advice becomes relevant.
Practice wraps with a short cooldown and a tactical huddle. I stay on the edge of the group while Coach reviews tomorrow’s match plan. Ava stands beside me, sweat running down her temple, eyes bright.
Not with fear this time.
With something sharper.
She earned something in that grid.
I am proud enough that it makes my ribs ache in a new direction.
When Coach dismisses us, Ava stays beside me.
“You told the truth,” she says.
I uncap my bottle. “In limited quantities.”
“You said not nothing.”
“Don’t make a commemorative poster.”
“I might.”
“I will deny approval.”
“You also let me handle the lane.”
I look at her.
She is trying to sound casual.
She fails.
Good.
“You handled it,” I say.
Her mouth opens, then closes.
She nods once.
I take a drink of water. It tastes warm and metallic from the bottle.
Ava looks toward the far side of the facility.
I already know what she sees.
Nathan is still there.
Not close.
Not approaching.
Morgan says something to him. Colton gestures toward the building. Darius claps him once on the shoulder. Nathan’s eyes remain on the field.
On me.
No.
On my face.
Even from here, I can tell.
Ava’s voice drops. “He didn’t come over.”
“No.”
“Did you want him to?”
The bottle pauses halfway to my mouth.
I could tell her not to ask personal questions in training gear.
I could threaten conditioning.
I could say no.
Instead, I look across the grass at Nathan Bellows standing exactly where he is not invited and not crossing the line.
“I wanted him not to decide for me,” I say.
Ava is quiet for a second.
“And he didn’t.”
“No.”
The word sits between us.
Small.
Inconvenient.
Coach Ramirez calls my name from the sideline.
“Treatment room in ten.”
“Of course.”
“And Emily?”
I turn back.
Coach taps her tablet once. “That was the correct answer.”
Not the movement.
Not the play.
The truth.
I nod.
Across the field, Nathan still has not moved.
For once, his restraint doesn't feel like absence.
It feels like pressure held in two open hands.
I do not trust it yet.
Not fully.
Maybe not even halfway.
But as I walk toward the treatment room with Ava beside me and my side aching honestly under the wrap, I have to admit the thing I do not want to admit.
Care can stand still.
And somehow, that might be the most dangerous version of all.
***