CHAPTER 15
EMILY
I tie my left boot twice.
Not because the knot is wrong.
Because my hands need something useful to do.
The locker room is too bright, too loud, too quiet. All three at once. Tape tears. Bottles crackle. Boots thud against tile. Someone laughs too sharply near the far wall, and someone else tells her to save it for kickoff.
The air smells like muscle rub, clean jerseys, deodorant, turf, and pressure.
Mostly pressure.
My red kit hangs from the hook in front of me, already waiting in the shape of a person who knows what she is doing. White number. Canada crest. Captain’s armband folded on the bench beside my thigh.
I look at the armband.
Then at the laces in my hand.
Then back at the armband.
Do not think about the glass walkway.
Obviously, I think about the glass walkway.
Rain sliding down the windows.
Nathan in his navy suit, hands at his sides.
His voice when he finally said the real thing.
I took your choice away.
My fingers pull the lace too tight.
The knot bites.
Good.
Physical discomfort is easier to organize.
I loosen it and start again.
The kiss arrives next, because apparently my brain has no respect for match preparation. Nathan not moving until I moved. His hand at my elbow, careful enough to make my chest ache. The way he tasted like lemon tart and rain air and apology that did not ask for forgiveness.
Rude.
Very rude.
I’m about to play a deciding group match. My body is negotiating a managed plan. My captaincy is under enough light to grow tomatoes. This is not the time for remembering the exact sound he made when I kissed him.
A cleat drops beside me.
I look up.
Ava stands there in full kit, hair braided tight, expression suspiciously calm for a young defender who is absolutely not calm.
“You’re murdering your boot,” she says.
“I have concerns about its commitment.”
“It looks scared.”
“It should be.”
She sits beside me and starts tying her own boots.
For a few seconds, neither of us speaks.
The quiet between us is better than the room quiet. Less staged. More useful.
Ava clears her throat. “If you hold, I’ll cover.”
I look at her.
She keeps her eyes on her laces. “Just saying.”
The words land in the exact place Coach Ramirez has been trying to build all week.
Not pity.
Not panic.
Not captain, are you okay?
A tactical promise.
The best kind.
I reach over and still her bouncing knee with one hand.
She freezes.
“If I hold,” I say, “you read the runner first.”
“I know.”
“If I tell you to drop, you drop.”
“I know.”
“If you start watching me instead of the play, I’ll make you regret having feelings.”
Her mouth twitches. “Inspirational as always.”
“You’re welcome.”
She finishes one lace, then looks at me. “I mean it.”
“I know.”
Her eyebrow lifts.
Apparently I’m not the only one who has noticed how often Nathan says that.
I correct myself. “I trust you.”
That does it.
Her face changes before she can stop it. Pride first. Then fear. Then the effort to look like neither has happened.
Good.
She is learning.
Coach Ramirez stops in front of us before Ava can reply.
She has her tablet under one arm and her match face on. The one that says she has already seen sixteen ways this game can go wrong and is willing to ruin all of them.
“Same plan,” she says.
I nod.
Her gaze stays on mine. “Say it.”
Of course.
Coaches enjoy making elite athletes recite things like schoolchildren with sore ribs.
“Managed load,” I say. “No unnecessary recovery sprints into dead space. Ava covers the weak-side lane when called. Earlier communication from the midfield screen. I signal if the pain changes category.”
Coach Ramirez waits.
I exhale through my nose. “And if it crosses the agreed threshold, I come out.”
Ava’s hands still on her boot.
The words sit on the bench between us.
I hate them.
I also know they are mine.
That makes the hate less useful.
Coach Ramirez nods once. “Good.”
“It didn’t feel good.”
“It doesn’t have to.”
“Motivational.”
“Accurate.”
She crouches slightly, lowering her voice so only Ava and I can hear. “Emily, I need you captaining the plan, not fighting it.”
That lands harder than I want it to.
I look at the armband again.
Captain the plan.
Fine.
Fine.
“I will,” I say.
Coach Ramirez’s eyes soften for half a second.
Then the coach face returns. “Good. Because they’re going to target your channel.”
Ava’s jaw tightens.
Mine does not.
I expected this.
Replays are out there. Match clips. Late-contact sequences. Little public half-seconds of my body telling the truth.
Any decent opponent will test the captain.
Any decent defender would be offended if they didn’t.
“Let them,” I say.
Coach Ramirez’s mouth almost smiles. “Smart version.”
“Yes, Coach.”
“I mean it.”
“So do I.”
She stands and points toward the tactical board. “Three minutes.”
Ava exhales when Coach walks away.
“You okay?” I ask.
She looks at me.
I lift one finger. “That question is allowed in limited tactical contexts.”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
“Better answer.”
She laughs once, then sobers. “They’re really going to come at us.”
“Yes.”
“Because of you.”
“Because they think the door is there.”
Her eyes flick to my left side.
Then away.
I let it happen.
That is new.
“Is it?” she asks.
“The door?”
She nods.
I reach for the armband and slide it up my sleeve.
The elastic grips.
Not too tight.
Enough.
“No,” I say. “It’s a hallway with a defender in it.”
Ava grins.
Good.
I stand.
My left side pulls under the wrap.
I breathe through it.
Not secretly.
Not dramatically.
Just in front of her.
Ava sees.
She does not flinch.
Even better.
The tunnel is a long throat of concrete, noise, and heat.
We line up behind the officials with the opponent ahead in blue. Their captain glances back once. Her eyes move to my face, then my side, then away.
Subtle.
Not subtle enough.
I smile.
Not friendly.
Ava stands behind me, close enough that I can feel her nervous energy like static.
“Remember,” I say without turning. “First five minutes, they’ll try to prove the scouting report.”
Ava’s voice comes from behind me. “Then we make the report useless.”
I glance back.
She looks terrified.
Good.
Only fools are not terrified.
“That’s the one,” I say.
The stadium opens in front of us.
Sound hits first.
A wall of it.
Chants, drums, whistles, the metallic clatter of seats, the deep roll of thousands of people deciding the evening matters. The lights are white and hard enough to flatten every shadow on the grass.
The pitch smells wet.
Good.
Wet grass gives the ball honesty.
We walk out.
I do not look toward the stands.
Not during the first step.
Not during the lineup.
Not during the handshake.
Then, during the final warm-up reset, when I am checking spacing, cameras, midfield shape, and all the other sensible things, my eyes betray me.
Nathan is in the stands.
Of course I find him.
He’s not near the tunnel. Not near staff. Not standing somewhere he can insert himself into anything. He’s in the public section with Morgan, Colton, Darius, and Sienna. Coach Miller is two rows over with a Briarwood scarf and what looks suspiciously like a napkin already in one hand.
Nathan sees me.
He doesn’t wave.
He doesn’t gesture.
He only taps two fingers once against his chest.
The motion is small.
Private.
I see you.
My throat tightens.
I look away immediately.
Professionalism.
Also self-preservation.
Ava appears beside me. “You good?”
“Limited tactical context?”
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
She takes her position.
The whistle blows.
The first attack comes in the second minute.
Naturally.
Their right winger receives wide and drives at our channel like she has been personally promised a reward for testing my left side. Our fullback shades too narrow. Their central runner starts early, curving between Ava and me.
I see the pattern before the crowd understands why it matters.
“Hold,” I call.
Ava checks her shoulder.
The winger drops one shoulder, sells the inside cut, and waits for me to bite.
I do not.
The ball skips on the wet grass.
My left side tightens before I even move, anticipating the turn.
Rude body.
Excellent timing.
I angle my run instead of stepping big. Let her think the outside lane is open. Let her take one extra touch. Let her believe the door exists.
Then I close it.
My foot hooks the ball toward our fullback, and the winger’s momentum carries her out of bounds.
The crowd cheers.
I jog back into shape.
No sprint.
No proof.
Just the correct choice.
Ava claps once. “Good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I sound supportive.”
“You sound like someone who enjoys conditioning runs.”
She grins and resets.
They come again.
And again.
For fifteen minutes, the match is less a game than a question repeated in different accents.
Can we break you here?
No.
Here?
No.
What about now?
Still no.
I organize the line earlier than usual. Keep Ava half a step closer. Shift the midfield screen before the pass leaves the boot. I let the fullback take one recovery lane I would normally claim. I hate that part.
Then it works.
So I hate it less.
The ball comes central in the twenty-second minute. Their striker spins off my shoulder, searching for the through ball. I feel the old urge to drop and track her body. Instead, I read the passer.
Hip open.
Touch too far.
Eyes already apologizing to the ball.
I step up.
The flag goes up as the pass leaves.
Offside.
The striker throws both arms wide.
I jog past her.
She mutters something I cannot hear.
I don’t need to.
Ava laughs under her breath. “She’s mad.”
“She’s early.”
“Can I say both?”
“Efficient.”
The next ten minutes are ugly, which is often where defenders earn their pay. The ball sticks in damp patches. Tackles come late. The crowd groans every time a forward falls within ten yards of the box. Our midfield works hard but not cleanly.
Then, in the thirty-sixth minute, they find the gap.
A quick switch.
A cutback.
Their midfielder receives just outside the box with time to set.
Too much time.
The striker in front of me shapes for a near-post run, but it is bait. The real danger is the late runner slicing between Ava and the penalty spot.
I see it.
So does Ava.
Almost.