CHAPTER 12 #2
Hair damp, training bag over one shoulder, face tired in the way young players look tired when they have learned something important and inconvenient. She sees me and stops for half a second.
Then Emily steps out behind her.
Team Canada jacket zipped. Hair pulled back, but looser now, small pieces curling near her face. Training bag at her side. Her gait is almost clean.
Almost.
My body notices.
My feet don't move.
Emily’s eyes find mine.
This time, she does not look surprised.
Ava glances between us, then suddenly becomes fascinated by something on her phone.
Subtle as Colton with confetti.
Emily says something to her. Ava nods and heads toward the shuttle doors with a final look over her shoulder that promises future questions.
Emily walks toward me.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Every step gives her time to change her mind.
I keep my hands loose at my sides.
Darius shifts away, giving us space without abandoning the field entirely. Very captain. Very annoying.
Emily stops three feet in front of me.
“Bellows.”
“Captain Smith.”
Her gaze flicks once to Darius.
Darius gives her a small nod. “Emily.”
“Darius.”
Then he steps toward the coffee station, apparently trusting me not to implode for sixty seconds.
Dangerous choice.
Emily looks back at me.
The lobby hums around us. Wheels on tile. Low voices. Shuttle engines outside. A coffee grinder starting and stopping behind the counter.
I don't ask if she is okay.
The question burns my tongue.
I let it burn.
“Company or space?” I ask.
Emily’s face changes.
Not much.
Enough.
The question is different in this lobby than it was in my head. Smaller. Harder. No explanation attached.
She studies me like she is checking for the trapdoor underneath it.
“Company,” she says.
My chest loosens.
Then she lifts one finger. “With conditions.”
“Name them.”
“No asking how bad it is.”
“Done.”
“No medical suggestions.”
“Done.”
“No looking like a golden retriever in a thunderstorm.”
I blink. “That may be outside my control.”
“Try.”
“I’ll attempt emotional breed discipline.”
Her mouth almost moves.
Almost.
“No inspirational speeches,” she adds.
“I left all twelve in my other pants.”
“Good.”
“And if you change your mind and want space, I leave.”
Her gaze holds mine.
That one matters.
“I know,” she says.
Then her eyebrow lifts slightly, like she has heard herself.
I do not smile.
Heroic restraint.
We walk toward the shuttle doors.
Not side by side at first. She sets the pace. I match it half a step behind until we clear the lobby crowd. Only then does she slow enough for me to come beside her.
The late-afternoon air outside is hot and damp. The shuttle lane smells like exhaust, sun-warmed pavement, and cut grass drifting from the practice fields. A security guard checks badges near the curb. Team Canada staff are loading bags into the first shuttle.
Emily stops near the low wall beside the exit, out of the main flow but not hidden.
A choice place.
I notice.
I do not comment.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
She adjusts the strap of her bag.
I look at the shuttle.
Not her side.
The shuttle.
Very interesting vehicle. Four wheels. Doors. Excellent subject.
Emily says, “You’re staring at transportation with unusual commitment.”
I breathe out a laugh. “It’s an important topic.”
“That line has a shelf life.”
“I’m discovering that.”
Her fingers relax slightly on the bag strap.
Good.
Maybe.
No, not good. Do not make this a scoreboard.
I choose the safest useful truth.
“Ava was excellent in the last three reps.”
Emily’s face turns toward me.
Not guarded.
Interested despite herself.
“She was late on the second one,” she says.
“She was,” I say. “But she knew why before you corrected it.”
Emily studies me. “You saw that?”
“I watched the hips.”
“Of course you did.”
“And the way she reset after. The fourth rep was cleaner. Fifth one, she trusted the space.”
Emily looks toward the shuttle, but her expression has changed.
Pride.
There it is.
She tries to hide it too late.
“She’s getting there,” she says.
“She’s already there sometimes. That’s usually how getting there starts.”
Emily glances at me.
I shrug. “That sounded better in my head.”
“It was almost useful.”
“My best work.”
A staffer walks past with a crate of water bottles. Emily steps slightly aside. The movement pulls at her side. I see the catch in her breath.
My jaw tightens.
I look at the shuttle doors.
Still fascinating.
She sees me not look.
Of course she does.
“You can breathe,” she says.
“I am.”
“Barely.”
“I’m trying to keep all my thoughts inside my face.”
“Try harder.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“It remains good advice.”
The private practice field sits beyond the lot, green and bright under the low sun. From here, I can still see the privacy screens. The place where Emily went down is hidden now by distance, but my body remembers the angle.
Her hand on the grass.
Ava stepping in front.
Coach Ramirez asking for truth.
Emily giving it.
“I saw you tell Coach,” I say.
Emily’s shoulders still.
Wrong.
Maybe wrong.
I keep my voice steady. “Not what. Just that you did.”
Her gaze returns slowly.
I hold both hands low and open. “That was not pity.”
“What was it?”
“Respect.”
The word sits there.
Plain. Risky. Better than anything polished.
Emily looks away first.
The shuttle engine rumbles at the curb.
“Truth is useful,” she says.
“Sounds like Coach Ramirez.”
“It was.”
“Smart woman.”
“Very annoying.”
“Those often travel together.”
Her mouth almost curves.
Then fades.
“I didn’t want to say it,” she says.
The admission is quiet enough that I nearly miss it under the shuttle noise.
But I don’t.
I stay still.
“I know,” I say.
Her eyes cut to mine.
Right.
Other words.
“I mean,” I correct, “that looked hard.”
“It was.”
“Harder than the collision?”
She breathes out once, sharp and almost amused. “Different injury.”
That lands somewhere deep.
Silence follows.
Not empty.
Not easy.
The kind with weight.
Team Canada staff finish loading the first shuttle. Ava climbs aboard, then pauses on the step and looks back through the glass.
Emily points at her.
Ava disappears immediately.